After 7, when Gettysburg is dark except for the lights of a few convenience stores and cars heading home for the night, the streets fall into the jurisdiction of the ghost tours.
The night is soothing, a little chilly but perfect for a quick walk before bed. Tomorrow is the presidential inauguration–we’d be up and on the road by 2am, heading toward Washington DC.
Just a few hours earlier, the group and I had the opportunity to explore the museum at Gettysburg National Military Park, awestruck by the relicts and struggles of Americans who fought in the Civil War. All along the streets of Gettysburg are stores and touring agencies that preserve that past.
While walking down Steinwehr Ave, I hear voices echo from an alleyway. There’s a soft, wavering glow at the feet of a handful of shadowy figures. The hairs on my neck bristle; my pace lags.
They turn and look at me, the tour guide in Civil War-era garb slowing his “spooky” spiel. For a second, I imagine that I’m just as ghostly to them as they were to me. The hair on my neck relaxes. The tour guide turns away. I walk on.
I've been writing stories since I was 5. My first book was "Turtle Salad"--I wrote and illustrated it. I was horrified because Sally the Turtle ate a fish.
When I was 8, I wrote to JK Rowling to offer some ideas for the Harry Potter series. Her assistant wrote me back, saying that Rowling only hopes to inspire young readers, not to take their ideas. While I totally understand now, I was pissed then. I vowed to become a better writer than JK Rowling. I've been working toward it ever since.
Now, I'm a 21-year-old sometimes-poet studying writing and French at the University of Mount Union. My work has appeared in the University of Mount Union's Agora and Calliope, Hiram College's Echo, the University of Miami's Mangrove, the Lala, Popular Culture Studies Journal, and the Cleveland Magazine.