Oct 17 Minor Background Story

The fog had finally lifted and the plane was able to depart Albany Airport. On board the jet sat Micah Andrzejewski. Just 18, he’s on his way to Los Angeles, to meet with a publisher, on his way to discuss his collected works.

Over the past three years, Micah had been writing and telling stories at local hospitals, sharing them with patients and staff alike. Last summer, his older sister Maria took several of his stories – sword and sorcery stories he wrote for and told to the children at two local hospitals – and typed them. She submitted three to different fiction magazines. Surprising, all three were accepted. When given the acceptance letters, Micah expressed shock, not by his sister’s actions, but that someone would like to purchase his stories. Subsequent correspondence with the magazines found them wanting more and more of his fiction. Because of this, Micah had spending money as a high school senior.

When the pilot announced they were free to remove their seat belts, Micah did so and reached down to his feet. He picked up his backpack. He reached inside and removed a leather-bound journal, a present from his grandfather. Micah opened it to the last page of entries and read where he left off in his notes.

“Oh, are you a writer?” the older woman seated next to him asked.

He smiled without looking at her. “That’s what we’re going to find out. I’m on my way to L.A. to meet with people that could decide my future. ”

She patted him on the leg. “I think it will all work out, young man.”

He stifled a chuckle. “Thank you, ma’am,” he answered.

She squeezed his thigh. “Believe in yourself, and it will come true.”

“Before leaving, my grandmother said the same thing.”

The woman released his leg and looked directly into his eyes. “I’m an English teacher. I’ve had several students over the years who’ve dreamed of being writers, but lacked the passion for it. You’re traveling but you bring a journal of story ideas and notes with you. It shows you have a commitment to it.”

Micah sat silently, his stare at the seat back in front of him. He grinned and nodded. “I guess I do.”

She patted him on the shoulder. Leaning in, she asked, “What are you working on now?”

He looked at his notes and proudly answered. “I’ve been invited to meet with some publishers. They want to print a collection of short stories I wrote over the years. I have a ton of ideas and thoughts for stories.”

“And the ideas won’t take off time while you fly, won’t they?”

Micah shook his head. “They never take time off. I can’t even dream now without an idea coming from it.”

She laughed. “Good luck on your meeting.”

He thanked her and excused himself as he quickly wrote notes before he forgot them.

Moments later, Micah realized that he hadn’t introduced himself to her. He turned and opened his mouth to say something. He quickly closed his mouth. He realized no one was there, and it appeared that no one had been. He called for a flight attendant.

“Where did the older woman sitting next to me go?” he asked.

The attendant, a middle-aged and well-tanned woman, lost all color in her face. She leaned in and whispered her description to him.

“That’s her.”

“Sir, no one is scheduled to sit next to you until the Chicago connection.”

“That’s impossible.” He described her further, including how she smelled.

The woman shook her head. “Sir, you’re lucky. You’ve been introduced to our ghost.”

A chill raced through his body. He believed in ghosts: his great-grandmother told her village ghost stories to him, his siblings, and cousins all the time. “Why am I lucky?”

“The legends say that whomever she visits on the flight will have a dream fulfilled within a month of her visit.” She looked and saw his journal. “Are you a writer?”

“I’m flying out to L.A. to see if I am or not.”

She smiled broadly. “We call our ghost Victoria, sounds so much like victory we couldn’t resist. Her appearance to you means that you’re going to be a writer.”

He shook his head. He didn’t want to disagree, and for the first time, he didn’t doubt someone telling him that he’ll be a writer. “Thank you,” was all he could say.”