…today looks like mine.
The #500wordsaday group is still going strong; myself and the story, not so much. To give myself the kick-in-the-butt it appears I need, I’ve joined another writing group. This one has weekly assignments, is small enough to keep up with, and is quirky enough to make me laugh.
This week’s assignment is to write a character description. We’re not told what to do with the character, just to describe him/her. We are promised mayhem and challenges in future assignments using said character.
Because of this uncertainty I didn’t want to use any of my current characters, even though it would be fairly easy to describe them. I was stymied until I came up with a name – Ghost. Now, it is easy to jump to conclusions and assume that Ghost is male, some kind of street thug or killer for hire and has some tragic back story. I’ll admit I was struggling with Ghost as a male. It wasn’t until I was sitting at my favorite cafe in town that I figured it out. He was a she and while a street kid, most definitely not a thug and she had no back story. And her name was Chloe.
Here’s what I wrote:
Case #113 J.G. Cooper, PI
Subject: Female of unknown origin/race
Age: Appears 19 yrs
Name/Street: Chloe (no last name)/Ghost
Description: Worn jeans, lanky thin, dark hair, long-sleeved t-shirt, old leather bomber jacket, blue eyes. See report below.
December 21, 2019
The following is taken from Detective Smith’s personal records.
“If you see her you think she’s a street kid – too old for an urchin, too young for a person. She has that look; not beaten down by life, but wary. Long thin limbs, dark worn clothes, she’s pretty ordinary for someone who keeps to the shadows. Her prize possession is a family heirloom, a 1940’s bomber jacket worn constantly. But she won’t tell you that; she doesn’t talk. She can, or so I’ve heard; she just doesn’t.
Dark hair gleams with hints of cinnamon and just brushes the tops of her shoulders. You won’t ever see that cinnamon unless you catch her dancing along the shoreline at sunrise. They also say it’s the only time you hear her sing – happy, quiet bursts of melody offered to the morning.
When she smiles, her pale blue eyes light up her face and for that moment everything seems cleaner. The smell of warm, fresh rain follows in her wake.
If you need her, wait by the noisiest babble of the stream, the center of the largest treed park, or the porch of your favorite tea house. She’ll appear, like magic, only it’s not – just your inattention. Give her a small stone from your yard or house and your request. If she takes it, you’ll get your wish. If she doesn’t, you’ll never see her again.
All of this is rumor – whispers on the street. No one will answer your questions. I’ve yet to meet her myself.”