Unlooted: Gifts From A Ghost
I write random tables as a warm-up every day. You can suggest a prompt here.
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Things A Ghost Leaves By Your Bedside While You’re Sleeping
- An antique straight razor with a bone handle, carved with a name you don’t recognise.
- A small photo album containing the chronicle of a life, from birth to death. Once the owner is old enough to hold a camera, they never appear in any of the photos themselves.
- Twigs of birch and stalks of yarrow, bound together with a worn strip of leather. At the centre of the bundle is a tarnished copper coin with a hole drilled through the middle that the leather passes through several times.
- Tickets for a train that crashed a century ago, unused.
- Lightbulbs, taken from around your house and crushed into pieces.
- Seven grey pebbles streaked with yellow and purple. They have been worn smooth by water and time and are arranged in ascending order of size.
- The heart of a doe, wrapped in barbed wire and thorns. It is still warm.
- A hand mirror, the frame and handle made from deep mahogany. The glass is misted over and won’t come clean.
- A knitted pair of gloves. The little finger has been cut off both hands and the hole sewn shut.
- An old farmer’s almanac with long-range weather forecasts, full moon dates and times, and notes about significant astronomical events. The page that shares today’s date has been marked and annotated, and the weather forecast matches what you see despite being from 50 years ago.
- A letter to an estranged lover, stamped but never posted.
- A cassette tape in a clear plastic box with no insert. It has been wound back to the beginning but the writing on the label has been scribbled out.
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I write random tables as a warm-up every day. You can suggest a prompt here.
