Cinnamon Twigs by Darren Freebury-Jones Page A

women chanting your name?’
                  ‘Um, no…’ I grinned.
                  ‘Is it because you’re vain and you want to see your face in magazines every day?’
                  ‘Nah. That’s just superficial. I want people to remember me long after I’m gone. I want my name to stand out. I think that’s our purpose in life: to be remembered.’
                  ‘How are you gonna manage all that?’ She kissed me on both corners of my lips.
                  ‘By making the most of life,’ I said. ‘And letting life make the most of me.’
                  ‘That’s very philosophical of you. Now let’s talk about tits and arses again.’
     
    CHAPTER ELEVEN
    Kryptonite
     
    Stories, stories and more stories. I wrote thrillers, fantasies, gothic horrors, domestic romances, domestic tragedies, comedies and science fiction, transporting myself to other worlds while bashing away at the keyboard like a frenzied Internet porn addict.
                  Caught in the floating bubble of youth, it seemed nothing could go wrong. People liked the stuff I wrote and I’d even had a book published. I also had a gorgeous girlfriend and the best mate a guy could ask for. Not bad for a naïve college student.
                  I wrote a short story called The Rocking Chair , which had been inspired by a story my mother once told me. She claimed to have seen her deceased grandmother’s rocking chair slide across her bedroom. Her childhood days had been haunted by this chair and the presence of a ghost named Mister Brockway, who spent time with my great grandmother’s spirit, sipping tea and munching digestive biscuits when they weren’t going about their poltergeist activities I imagine. I’d been terrified by my mother’s tales of Mister Brockway wandering through the dim corridors, or my great grandmother whispering in the darkness on lonely nights. My mother had never quite grasped the concept of bedtime stories.
                  I suggested to the editor of the college newspaper that it would be a good idea to print a couple of chapters from The Rocking Chair each week, as a temporary alternative to the poetry section. The story gave my friends the creeps, and many of its images and themes would make their way into a movie I’d make, many years later, called X .
                  ‘I had nightmares last night.’ Lisa held my hand as we strolled across the turf outside college.
                  ‘What about?’ I asked.
                  ‘Your story in The College Column !’
                  I chuckled.
                  ‘You just love scaring people, don’t you?’ She gave my hand a squeeze.
                  ‘I think I’m good at it.’
                  ‘Yeah, you used to give Elliott nightmares when we were kids.’
                  ‘Well, he deserved them.’ I grinned.
                  ‘The story scared the shit out of me, and I’ve seen a real ghost.’
                  ‘Have you really?’
                  ‘Yeah. I was just sitting in the living room one evening, the only person home, and I saw a figure dressed in white cross through the kitchen and go upstairs.’
                  ‘Did you check who it was?’
                  ‘No. I knew it was a ghost.’
                  ‘Did you shit yourself?’
                  ‘Not at all.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I felt calm. It just felt natural. Not all ghosts are nasty, you know.’
                  I enjoyed scaring people, but I also liked to make them laugh. So I leapt at the chance when my Drama teacher asked me to write a short comedy play. The play would feature as part of a variety show involving singing, dancing and all that theatrical jazz. I