Tales From The Myst Update: Touching Grass

Claude Rene Duplantier Guidry, or just Guidry as his friends and exes usually called him, grimaced as his alarm went off. Floating over to the ancient mantle clock, he silenced the tinkle of the little brass bell, and crossed his arms in thought.

He knew he should honor his obligation and attend the meeting with George Albert. He just wasn't sure he wanted to do so. Guidry didn't know why his friend had invited him over, but he had heard rumors. Sometimes, he thought, it's best to not rock the boat. After all, he was an expert. Guidry had rocked enough boats in his life to know you could eventually go down with one.

For years Guidry happily made his living (with living being the operative word) on the willow draped banks of the river that ran through the aptly named Willow Creek. Plying his trade crewing a river boat with a nice little "paranormal investigator" gig on the side, he had managed to live a comfortable, if not necessarily elaborate, lifestyle. He was able to meet his needs and even enjoyed some of life's finer pleasures. And Guidry did love the finer things in life. Art. Good food. The ladies. Especially the ladies.

A shudder rolled through him at the thought of one particular paramour. Yes, some boats were best left un-rocked. The fateful combination of a woman scorned and an allegedly malfunctioning Murphy bed had embarrassingly proved to be Guidry's final undoing.

And, as fate would have it, there was also a problem with being a "paranormal investigator" in life. It makes you distinctly unpopular with your peers in death. And yet, the affable and ever resourceful Guidry had managed to make even that work for him by guiding paranormal hobbyists interested in making contact with the "other side." All still very satisfying until The Second Purge. Suddenly the hobbyists became serious ghost exterminators and Guidry quickly found himself a target of those he had trained. Realizing his boat was in danger of capsizing, he immediately began applying for relocation to the newly created Myst.

Still deep in thought, Guidry wandered into the bathroom to take a shower. Not that it matters when you're dead, but Guidry found that maintaining some semblance of living helped him to cope with the fact that he wasn't. So he showered, ate a bowl of cereal he couldn't taste, then headed out to his meeting.

George Albert was one of the first friends Guidry made when he relocated to Mooncrest. In life, he had been a jovial man, running his own fishing business in Brindleton Bay and living a successful life with his lovely wife and two children. Tragically, the whole family was killed in a house fire. They relocated during the purge and were now dwelling on the outskirts of town in the local cemetery. Most relocations to The Myst wound up in Mooncrest, which proved to be a delightfully modern and supernaturally diverse city. There were numerous housing choices for spirits, mostly fixer uppers like Guidry's, so George's decision to drop his family into a stereotypically haunted graveyard baffled his friend. Guidry always suspected the manner of their demise had something to do with it.

"Hey there, Bub!" George called, his Brindleton accent sneaking through as he drifted through the tombstones.

"George! How's the wife?" Guidry politely responded, as they shook hands.

George's eyes shifted to Guidry's almost perpetual flirty pink aura. "Like I'd tell you," he laughed.

“Means nothing!" Guidry exclaimed, as he waved a dismissive hand. Darned aura. You can't hide anything when you're dead.

The two friends exchanged small talk for a few minutes in the autumn chill before retiring to the Albert living quarters located below the cemetery chapel. After politely offering some unnecessary refreshments, George settled down to business.

"So, how do you stand on Spirit Rights, Guidry?"

"Excuse me. What?" Guidry was being deliberately obtuse.

"Spirit Rights. It's a movement."

"Movement? Where? We just got here a few years ago."

"Not where... what. It's advocacy, Guidry. Some of us feel we need better representation in the assembly."

Ah yes. The Mystic Assembly. The institutional apparatus that allowed the citizens of The Myst to represent themselves in a governing body. Delegates from each region are appointed to vote in the assembly with the Council of All Magic presiding over the proceedings.

"Aren't we already represented by the Mooncrest delegates?" Guidry asked.

"Sure. And the Island Spirits are represented by the Sulani delegates. But the needs of the non corporeal are different from the needs of the living. We need specialized representation."

"For what?"

"Votes, Guidry! Votes! Dead people should have a vote!"

Guidry chuckled. "Eh. They've been doing that in Willow Creek for centuries. So I'm told."

George was becoming exasperated. "I'm not talking about ballot stuffing, here. I'm talking about real votes! Why wasn't The Myst open to spirits from the very start? Why is your house a fixer-upper? Why didn't you get one of those nice, new apartments on Magnolia? You know why? Cause you're dead, and dead don't count."

Guidry's brow furrowed in thought as he munched on the tasteless potato chips. George had a point. Spirit beings were definitely not the top priority in The Myst, any more than they had been a priority anywhere else. It did seem odd in a place that owed its existence to persecution of the unknown. Not that anyone was actively persecuted, here. But still. On arriving at The Myst, Guidry had uncharacteristically accepted his place in the scheme of things and never really thought about the possibility it could be changed. You know. Boats and all.

"So. What are you suggesting?" he asked.

That was all the encouragement George needed. With a flourish he produced a notebook in which were recorded some of his thoughts on how the Spirit Coalition, as he called their "movement," could become a functioning voting block in the assembly. As Guidry poured over the handwritten outline, an unexpected feeling began to rise up inside. For the first time since coming to The Myst, he felt as though his existence could have a purpose other than just pretending to live.

Guidry and George eagerly spent the whole night refining and revising the outline. They took it apart and put it back together. They debated the pros and **bleep** of every concept and parsed phrases for every nuance. Guidry's inspiration grew and even when George's attractive wife returned home with the children, the usually flirtatious ghost remained inspired and undistracted, without even a tinge of pink in his aura. As dawn began to break, the two friends leaned back in their chairs, finally satisfied. The Guidry-Albert proposal was ready to present to the assembly.

"You'll have to select the right time to present it," Guidry said, as he rose to leave and the two began making their way to the surface.

"Me? I'm not presenting it."

Guidry stopped and turned to face his friend. "Who is?"

George chuckled. "Well, Guidry. There's a reason the coalition wanted you on board. Most people like you."

Guidry was stupified. "Yeah. People like me. Former people, not so much."

George shook his head. "Nope. If there's one thing that Claude Rene Duplantier Guidry has in spades, it's charisma. And we need someone representing us that the living like. Anyone else who holds a grudge over that whole "paranormal investigator" thing will just have to keep holding on to it, because it's not getting any traction here."

Guidry was nonplussed. Helping to draft the proposal was one thing. Putting his name on it was a huge other thing. But, actually being the one to present it to the assembly? Well, that seemed like a boat issue to Guidry.

"And, if I say 'no'?"

George shrugged. "Someone less well liked will present it. People will be less open to it. It'll be a dead issue. Just like us."

Guidry sighed as he glanced around the graveyard. The sunrise was filtering through the trees, the light playing little patterns on the granite tombstone markers of lives gone before. Some of those beings were now aimlessly wandering The Myst. Others had already crossed. Some, like Guidry, were hoping for more from their current existence. From the chapel, he heard the tinkling laughter of George's children at play and realized his friend was right. They did deserve a better place in the world.

Guidry's glance caught George's. With a nod of assent, he held out his hand. As George handed him the notebook, he studied his friend's expression. 

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

Guidry carefully tucked the notebook into his coat, and putting on his most charming smile, dispelled his friend's concern with a jaunty tip of his hat.

"Frankly? A little seasick, my friend. Just a little seasick.”