Ghostly Glimmers II – Promotion Thursday

Hilo! Yes, today is promotion Thursday again and I am bringing you Ghostly Glimmers II, which is another collection of short stories. When I started to learn the fiction form, I wrote short stories and then flash fiction (or micro fiction, if you prefer).

I knew that the fiction form used character, plot, dialog, and all the other elements. I also read about and studied those elements. I found that when I used those particular elements, it made my non-fiction memoir writing come alive. Also, when I was earning my English degree, I took a creative writing class. It was all about smell this, look at this, and don’t turn your story to the lowest common denominator. It was a good course for when you are already writing, but as a beginning fiction writing course? Not so good.

So when I first tried to write a short story (I was an avid reader too so I could feel around for the light switch) I had all these disparate elements and I didn’t know how to put it together. I was puzzled and it was a puzzle.

Soon I found that I didn’t have all the pieces.

I wrote short fiction to find the pieces and for the joy of writing.

d9d9b-ghostlyglimmersiicoverGhostly Glimmers II:

Ghostly Glimmers II contains five ghost stories that Cyn Bagley has written over the years. “A Death of a Friend” is written in a memoir-style. The other four stories are classic ghost and murder stories.

Cyn Bagley has lived in several different countries when she was in the US Navy. One of her hobbies was to listen to ghost stories around the world. In her opinion, the scariest ones are from Japan. You can use Dropbox with this site.


Death of a Friend

I looked out the window this morning watching the mist, contouring to the ground and houses. The cold moist mist reminds me of the death of my school bus-driver Monroe. At eleven years old, I would sit on his lap, the steering wheel of the bus braced against my stomach, and guide the bus through the bumpy hills near my home. My sisters and I were the last children to get off the bus, so driving the bus was our little secret.

That day when I realized death was real, I stood in the viewing room of the funeral home, looking at his body. The room, only meant for twenty-five people, held fifty. We shuffled to the coffin, arms held stiffly at our sides, trying not to bump into our neighbors; all trying to view Monroe’s body.

“He looks just like he fell asleep,” was the comment I heard over and over. The breathless awe touched each voice as they whispered, “He really is dead.” The life spark was gone. I had heard that he walked into the bathroom that day, the day his life ended, preparing to shave. When the pain hit, he fell in his small bathroom, the life slowly leaking away. His adult son found him there when he didn’t show up for work. One school bus had not made it to school.

Monroe had been alone for a long time. His wife had died of cancer many years before; his son was raising his own family; and Monroe’s family was the children he drove to school every day.


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