She stared at the book of shadows for a long, long time. Eye of newt? Toe of frog? Wool of bat? Tongue of dog? For real? Jesus. Small wonder they burnt you back then if they could find you; today, the threat would come more from PETA than the neighborhood priest. ‘Maybe Buddhism is more my thing,’ she said to herself, closing the cover.
At some point, lifelong goths begin to wear their black INSIDE and are thus free to wear pink or ThinkGeek t-shirts if they like. This is not because they’ve grown out of any particular phase; it is simply that they no longer need fashion to proclaim their aesthetic. It is important to note that, after this point is reached, any costuming that happens is really over-the-top and splendid. We’re a glamorous tribe.
(Cartoon by the dark genius of Natalie Dee.)
Land was a complete moron; Water knew this, but she had pined for so long … brushing up against him when she could, being mysterious, being dramatic. Sometimes, there was a little rush of fascination but, overall, nothing. Then he took up with Fire and that was the last bloody straw. She would come ashore and show those bastards once and for all who called the shots over 2/3 of the earth.
“Mr. Mayhew?” she asked. “Uh, no, actually – it’s ‘Mayhem’.” “I see. And you’re in an investigative partnership with Terrance Merder?” “Yes, ma’am; that’s correct.” The registrar looked at him coldly over her glasses. “Merder and Mayhem, Private Detectives”? “Can’t fight Fate,” he said with a broad grin. Too broad, she casually noted.
Why is the South so scary? I have no idea, but it bloody well is. Treat yourself to some terrific stories out by the side of The Moonlit Road.
I watched “Burn, Witch, Burn” via Netflix the other day – solely because the witch in question is named ‘Tansy’. (There aren’t a lot of us, so you can imagine my excitement.) I had low expectations, but was pleasantly surprised by this 1962 occult thriller, which delivered its fair share of mystery, chills, paranoia, voodoo and actual witchcraft without making too much of a hot mess out of it. To my sister Tansy, I say: ”Dump the professor; he’s holding you back. You’ve got real potential for a career in the dark arts.”
Tracy’s guardian angel smiled. “Typically, people are impressed when I appear before them.” She shut her calculus book. “I’m sorry; it’s nothing personal. I’m just freaking out about this test. You could be a stress-induced hallucination for all I know.” Again, that smile. “What if I told you that I used to be a math teacher?” Her eyes grew wide; “Hallelujah,” she whispered.
I’m always delighted when a person falls in love with a piece of my microfiction; it’s wonderful hearing that it chilled them, moved them or made them laugh. It’s often hard to confess that there’s nothing else to read – it exists only as its 420-character self; it isn’t the trailer to a longer story or proper book. I do pay attention to those original bits that I’m really fascinated by and others seem to enjoy also; these go on a list of themes to be explored later on.