Seamless clouds of dark grey filled the sky from horizon to horizon. Rain poured in torrents, hitting the ground with hard angry smacks. It lent a whole new meaning to 'rivers of waters in the streets.' The earth was soaked and flooded. It came so fast, there wasn't a chance for anything to drain off. Bolts of lightning struck every two or three minutes in random crazy streaks, tearing the ominous sky in sunder, while in between, the heavens were lit up as bright as day with great sheets of it. Between lightning it was so dark you couldn't see to read a book, even at noon. Streams of water ran into your eyes. It was impossible to see two feet ahead.
Impossible that is, unless you're a ghost writer. They call it literary licence. Because of it, the storm parts a little and you can vaguely begin to see a two-lane road. It runs straight as a dart across great plains of dripping, bent grain. As the storm continues to give way to your laser-like, literary-licenced eyes, you see a car. Not just any car either. You can tell that at a glance by its mud-flecked posh appearance. It could be compared to a celebrity turned tramp who has obviously seen better days.
The owner of the car was clearly not granted your own blessed eyesight. He was a model of caution and drove at not more than 10 mph down a slight, long, sloping grade. He also had his hazard lights on so that the (non-existent) cars behind could see him. As you zoom in with your marvelous eyes, you see that his windshield is a constant waterfall and that his wipers might as well be pitched for all the good they were doing.
As you watch, the car drunkenly skids into the ditch with tires screeching. You quickly advance towards the scene. Upon your arrival at the accident, the decrepit automobile was found to have been unoccupied at the time of the collision, and very likely for some time beforehand.
After some deliberation, you apparently decided that the luxurious Porsche now sitting empty before after its gentle decent into the ditch was now in need of a good owner. After some slight effort, the car was out of the ditch and cruising along at seventy miles an hour on what had now become a busy road despite the rain that brought the visibility, for everyone else, down to almost zero.
You rejoice with exceeding great joy at this procurement of a more gravity-bound vehicle. Floating around the world in a misty, vapory existence for seven years can be tiring. As you come at last to a city and zoom undeterred through a traffic light, you become aware of a strange thing.The car begins to groan and the engine cover ripples and bulges. At first, you think it is only the wind, which beats your car this way and that, but then the cover pops open and you realize for the first time that the car's owner was a ghost like yourself, (though not a ghost writer, but rather a ghost mechanic).
Apparently, Mr. Mechanic had left the car running at a slow speed while he flitted around to fix a knock in the engine. The wind had blown the cover down and trapped him inside.
Mr. Mechanic was hopping mad. You don't know if you've ever seen a mad ghost, but you don't fancy pursuing the matter. Rather than duking it out, you choose to leave the car.
Relegated once again to the terrible weather, you watch a human out in his garden attempting to place tarpaulins over his more delicate plants. You wonder afresh at the futility of man and become suddenly grateful that you no longer have to deal with such things. With a sigh you flit away, up, and up, into the nothingness beyond the storm.
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