my 300 word entry to the UCLA summer film program
So the prompt is: Please submit one creative writing piece of no more than 300 words. Please write in English. Creativity and originality count. Write a piece that contains the line: "There were no ghosts . . ." and I can't enter until Jan 15 so I'm getting a head start on it now so idk if you could read this and tell me if you like it or not, it would be much appreciated. it's only 299 words so it's not very long so help is really appreciated :) Constructive criticism is also SO ENCOURAGED omg.
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There were no ghosts…
There were no ghosts except for when there were and Olga’s not a superstitious woman by any means and she might not necessarily believe everything but still - Olga knows ghosts when she sees them.
Or doesn’t, rather.
She never sees them. She never sees all of them. Just parts of them. It’s her senses that tell her what they are.
The curve of an elegant heel rounding the corner. Previously locked doors opened. The hint of perfume that lingers in the sitting room sometimes, and Olga only wears unscented lotion and plain soap. The sound of children’s feet pattering up and down the halls when she puts the bread in the oven at supper time. There are whispers in the night, two voices, both lower pitched women’s voices, voices she hasn’t heard until they started when she moved in.
Staying in this crumbling house might not be entirely wise but where else is she expected to go? Besides, she inherited the house and it’s her birthright and the view of the cliffs and the sea is beautiful, especially at dawn and the air feels cleaner here than it did at home, smells sharper, saltier and she feels healthy when she breathes it deeply.
But still, there is the issue of the ghosts. It’s not that she’s afraid, but it’s a bit disconcerting when she gets right down to it and of course, her therapist is no help, telling her that with her anxiety and depression and everything else, she’s just imaging things. “You’re adjusting,” he says and hands her a prescription for some kind of prescription cocktail that she crumples in her hand and throws away.
It’s six and she lights a cigarette, puts the bread in the oven. The footsteps start up like clockwork.