Ghostwriter

Inspired by true events.

"Every scribe here wants a pencil on earth."
It was 1916, a lazy spring night on Hannibal.
Twelve flirting women being nescient.
Ouija's just a board, not mysterious or magical.
Yet there he was, Twain, at the seance...
Not taking to the 12, but to one he had met.
There was no doubt in her mind, Emily knew it was her.
He could not leave this earth, with so much still to write.
A ghostwriter he sought, and Emily he got.
A celebrated writer on her own,
A national writer, who liked gossip and good life.

Days turned to months, and those to years,
Leaving everything behind, embracing the board's affair
On her writing desk, watching the planchette
Placing the tip of her fingers on it, it moved, "by itself".
Letter by letter, Emily wrote without despair
Transcribing Twain's novel through the Ouija board.
No news, no articles, no gossip to record.
Just her eyes piercing the faint gas light
Fixated on the slightest move to cite.
At last the book complete would it reward?
Foolish hope, taken as a joke, it was ignored.

Unshaken by the failure, she kept on writing
One letter at a time, in solitude, no sound, no muse
A slave of the board, self imprisoned, her curse.
Years piled on, grey hair began thinning
The letters on the board you could barely read
From years of being road of the planchette.
She fell into oblivion, no one remembered or cared.
Once glamour woman, object of envy, now flesh and bone
Still with her fingers on it, waiting for the next word.
Thousands of papers, piled like haunting towers
Images of a tormented, imprisoned soul, devoured.

One last night, one last breath, her time near the end
Pencil still at hand, waiting for Lazy Sam's last word
All these years, his loyal writer, there had to be one more
The board became alive, no one touching the planchette
I, the first letter, bringing her weak heart to a frenzy.
D, the second one, she could not hold it much more.
I, her hand barely able to hold the pencil
O, her heart staggered trying to hold on
T, she wrote it, and all was empty.

With her last few gasps she looked at the board,
For most of her life it had been her master
Looking for a meaning where there seemed none.
Yet from the board, there was nothing more to capture
Then saw the last word given to her, Idiot
Was that Twain's last word to her?
One more time, she looked at the old faded board
She watched as the board crumbled onto paper dust.
Then she looked at that last word as her soul followed dusk
Her once beautiful face morphed with death, becoming hideous
The last word she ever wrote and read was Idiot...

Reviews

[Jwakefield]

I really love this. The meter and the technical proficiency are fantastic.