Unlucky

By Jen P

 

On my daily trek down Main Street, I realize that Halloween has finally arrived. For weeks, the shop owners have been decorating for the occasion with their banners, orange flowers, and pumpkin carvings—my favorite of the three. I recognize my own likeness on one, so I give it a lick as I pass by. Hmm. That one’s been sitting out too long. But today must be the actual day they’ve been preparing for, as the humans themselves are dressed as witches, vampires and the like. The smaller ones carry buckets and sacks full of sweet smelling treats; while many of the larger ones drink warm cups of apple mead. If I’m lucky, I may catch some of the leavings.

I weave between the legs of the hairless giants, especially careful not to get stepped on by one of the females—as their paw-covers are sharper than those of the males. The few humans who notice me, jump back. Some turn and walk the other way. But mostly, I’m invisible.

I slip into my favorite alley unscathed, then leap into the dumpster behind the seafood restaurant. Looks like their whitefish spoiled. Pity for them. Dinner for me.

Finished with my meal, I hop from the dumpster to the damp alley ground. I then slip back onto the street and continue towards the suburbs. I’m full, but I never stop looking for food. Sometimes my meals have to last me a few days.

As I round a corner, a sharp shoe rams into my shoulder, sending me flying. The female attached to it merely stumbles.

My immediate reaction is to hiss. The female takes two steps back, clutching her heart, and shouts, “Cursed Little Wretch!” before removing the offending shoe. I’m no dummy, so I run. The shoe lands in the spot I just vacated, and the female’s curses follow me as I bolt through a thick patch of bushes at the back of the building. I imagine myself as little more than a black streak to the passing eye as I cover a distance in five minutes that usually takes me fifteen.

Once I make it to Pine Street, I settle back into a slow prowl.

Cursed Little Wretch. That’s a new one. Continue reading

The Witch

TRIGGER WARNING:  This story includes a description of violence against a woman within the context of sexual activity.

 

by T. Mack

Miranda Hemlock woke up with her throat burning, her neck aching, her head throbbing, and her body rocking. Her adrenaline was spiked and her brain was panicked. She felt herself in full fight or flight mode. For a single moment, she couldn’t remember why. Then it all came back to her.  Continue reading

Quotable

The Witch Quote - Magic 2

 

Spooktacular original stories return this Friday with “The Witch” by T. Mack. The story features a character you may remember from T. Mack’s creepy 2017 tale, “The Demon.” New stories are coming this month from all the Sister Geeks. Stay tuned for fun scares all month long. 

 

Original Works: The Dream Keeper, by Jen P

On a warm spring evening, I trot along the invisible barrier between reality and dreams. A darkling fox with green glowing eyes sniffs the air, then whips right, away from me and deeper into the nightmare realm. Though I’ve cloaked myself in shadow, the creatures still sense my presence.

As I near a creek, the chorus of frogs grows silent. I dip my head for a drink and watch them balance upon the dancing reeds. Their tiny black eyes look but do not see.

With my belly sated with fluids, I whinny loudly, delighting in the splashes that follow.

Mine is a solitary existence. It has been this way for centuries and must remain so, so I make time to find joy in the little things.

The frogs resume their chorus long after I’m gone.

I don’t know why I come here every night to pace the border. If I were somehow to be seen by human eyes, my life would be forfeit. Not only would the humans try to dissect me, but my own kind would hunt me down and trample me to death me for exposing us.

But I am restless.

Tending the dreams of the living makes me feel dead inside. We were meant for more than this—though no one will tell me what it is we used to do. It must have been important for us to have so much magic. Though apparently, it was not so important we’d risk our extinction. But centuries of repressed instinct have done nothing to curb my need to find something… more. Continue reading

The Ghost of a Friend

by Taylor

I wonder what you will say here at my funeral considering you were the one who killed me. Lord knows you’ll be asked to speak. Will you say, “Here lies the girl who trusted me with everything, even her life. So much so that I decided to just take it because I thought she no longer deserved to live?” Or will you say, “Today we bury the one person who thought I was better than this, better than my past, but she was wrong. Now let’s put this bitch six feet under so I can go smoke?” Honestly, the options are endless. But I know you will get up there in front of that microphone, in front of my family and real friends, and even in front of God, and you will lie your ass off. You will say all the things expected of poor grieving you. You will lie, lie, lie. What a best friend you are. You’ll be sure to get a seat in the front row. Though you and no one else will be able to see me, I’m glad you’ll be there up front. I want to watch you grit your teeth through fake tears and clinch the sides of the podium because this is all just “too much” for you. You think you’ve gotten away with it all. Soon I will be buried and forgotten. You’re so wrapped up in the almost euphoric high of committing a crime and not getting caught that you’ve gotten cocky and complacent. But you have no idea. Your nights of sleep and peace are over. The past is about to come back to haunt you.

Continue reading