It’s okay

That some things

Are meant

To be temporary

Just as an intricate snowflake

On the sidewalk

Melts by the morning sun

The smear of dust

Across a chalkboard

Anticipates being written on

Once again

So, it waits

There is a delicate

In-between

The universe holds

A pause in the matrix

An interstellar binding

Tainted with limits

Promised with smiles

Hopes of forever

With intention

Of permanence

Helpless anticipation

Our longings since

Are lost

The possibility of forgiveness

A solitude of safety

Comfort to the past

Who yearned for this

An inscription

For a better future

Silence for today

Bloodied knuckles

Into the pavement

Cursing the world

To help me remember

Who I was

Before I found this place

These places

Don’t always make sense

They are rumbles of thunder

Echoes from wind

The feeling of longing

A house into home

Remembering

The importance

Of impermanence

Infatuation with growth

The metamorphosis

Between the newly recycled

Paradox of expectation

A lunar cycle

Of a fluorescent ocean

Expelling resiliency

And cursing declaration

That some things

May end

And That’s Okay

The sun is unknown to the moon

As they pass by in the pastel skies 

It is a peculiar thought 

To describe a dandelion 

Her bright face unknown to the meadows that consume her body

Just as the bones are unknown to the heart

One is foundation, the other love

Never quite understanding the other

Is it the misfit, alone in the shadows?

A name called unknown to the silence

For quiet could never exist in the presence of them

One cannot exist without the other

Yet, somehow we forget

It's the unknown earthy smell 

Dancing from the tea cup

Outside an atmosphere that could swallow the aroma whole

But union, despite the sudden tragedies 

Is what gives a thought a home

An unknown experience a worth while

A complementary, unfathomable twist

Of being both unknown, and belonging 

Simultaneously  

The photographs

I still have of you

Are burnt in the back of my mind

The ink imprinted on my soul

A vanishing etching on a wall

I still think of you

When the moon anoints the heavens

The stars a delicate beading

On an onyx fabric sky

The tender rapping

Of the house settling

In the stillness of night

Still whispers your name

As if professing the sounds

Of what I can’t replicate

But so badly, wish to learn how

I still hear you

When the warmth of day

Seeps into my bones

Windows down

In the chorus of a song

I thought lyrics belonged to everyone

But have since realized

I was wrong

Still I look at him

And he will look at her

In a puzzled frivolous waltz

He will polish his trophies

Putting the right ones out to display

This time around

Her eyes an ember honey

Mine an olive green

I wonder if they ever melt

Back into the forest of unseen

My mind carries me to a place much similar to my room. The walls a stark white, my decorations appearing to be a montaged blur of familiarity. Glancing around, at first, nothing catches my eye. The grumbling of dull, heavy footsteps compile around my doors space. I cannot determine the source of the noise, so I lull in a paralyzed curiosity, like a dog who has just heard a noise that is uncensored through human ears. While it looks as though the lights are on in my room, the lighting is dim; giving the room a heavy, stormy hue. I focus on the shadows of the silhouettes of furniture casting off the dim light, listening intently for the footsteps. I wonder if they ever existed, as the room has grown silent; it feels like white noise has begun to invade my headspace. I breathe sharply, suddenly noticing the shadows beginning to grow and devour my surroundings, painting the walls with masked, black figurines. I feel as though I am in a funhouse, watching unusual shapes take form and change around me constantly. I notice I cannot see my shadow amongst them. Swallowing hard, I attempt to blink away the events swarming me. I feel as though I am surrounded, the shadows exceedingly protruding around me in a condescending manner.

Whatever they are, they are meant to intimidate me. Without warning, tall figures in a uniform manner trudge through the door. There is no indication of the door opening, as they filed in without a single sound. They are smiling, tiptoeing around in what appear to be white nightgowns, frayed at the seams. All of their faces tipped towards their chests, the five of them look as if they are hiding something sinister beneath their chins. Their dark masses of hair loom before their eyes, gentle and pale. I feel almost embarrassed; like I would be shunned if I made direct eye contact with their intense grimaces. While they appear to all be female and similar in stature and appearance, one of them stands out to me as a redhead.

The air moves around them coolly, like they are influencing the energy flow to behave in a manner of their desire. They wrap around me, like a children’s game of tether ball, appearing to size me up. My breathes are barely coherent, as I stand frozen monitoring their actions by the millisecond. Their eyes are dark, like stone, and they continue to move through the air in a robotic, stiff fashion. I remind myself that this isn’t real; they can’t do me any harm. I say it out loud, as convincing as the lies I had spewed earlier. The redhead begins first, shouting an incoherent, oddly pitched sound into the air. The four others slowly raise their faces, raven hair separating to show their ivory skin and cadaveric like cheekbones. They too, begin to match the tone of the redhead, in their own unique fashion. The sound is so curdling, it raddles my skull as their vibrations radiate and melt into my own. The redhead moves in a gawky, heavy manner, raising her arms and encouraging the others to mimic her as if she is their ringleader. The high pitched “ahh” continues.

They are chanting, and the noises become louder, and more severe as the moments pass. Louder. They begin to circle, abruptly interfering with my space, and pushing me around the room with great intent and bliss. They join hands, forcing themselves onto me. I am now lost in their current. Louder. I find myself beginning to chant with them, as if I lost control of my ability to fight the pitch any longer. It is as if they were following an internal pounding of a drum, the striking becoming more powerful in pursuit of a climax. I swirl around my room, chanting, barely carrying my own feet in lieu of the electrical current that was brought into fruition. Time is lost. I am in a trance like state, becoming one with the sharks that pleaded for me to congregate amongst them. The shadows collectively grow and shrink on the walls, like music notes grafted on a sheet of music. They are harmonious, dramatically shifting on the walls as if they were observing a conductor. I pay no attention to how my body is maintaining their pace. I barely notice the sounds becoming quieter, and that I too, had subliminally followed their lead. At last, the redhead ceases; the others seeming to have been anticipating her command. I hit what feels like a brick wall; chilled and stiff, the one next to me brings me to a halt.

They all rise to their empress, empty eyes gawking at the redhead. Nervously, I look forward and briefly examine the cult before me. They are bowing, cautiously peering their eyes beyond their graved hairs and opaque skin. There is no sign of flesh within their cheeks. I observe the redhead as the only one who appears to seem human, battered and flushed, with wide and gregarious eyes. She almost looked to have been enjoying this, twinkling in an unusual amusement. She too, seems to be lost in a trance, smirking in a disheartening satisfaction across the circle. The white noise begins to fill my head again, buzzing in a monotone manner and replacing the shrieking exposure of the chant that seemingly indented my conscious.

Suddenly, I catch the redhead’s attention, and the smile is wiped from her face. I look down, as though to repent my mistakes. It was too late. As though her head operated on an axel, it swivels towards me. Although I am not looking up and trying to contain my composure, I can feel her eyes piercing through me. Before gathering the courage to match her, I slide my eyes across the wall to focus on the clock; as though the familiar face would bring me back to reality. It seems to be the only content I can easily make out, and read in detail. The clock reads 11: 14, and the seconds hand is frozen in an icy daze. It was as though the time was at a standstill, the atmosphere unaware of physics in a certain hellish dimension. Wary, I tilt my head forward; gathering the courage to meet her. She is standing inches from my face, glaring into it with wide eyes and a broken smile. Her red hair tangles and falls below her shoulders, softly curled and iridescent in the shadowy atmosphere. Her eyes are an unsteady green, flecked with the color of an unripe banana. She is so close, that I can feel her breathe on my lips. Unmoving, she peers into my eyes, as if she is attempting to converse with my soul. The astounding silence continues, her factitiously construed pleasantness masking a threatening scowl. Unannounced, her pupils swallow her eyes, as if she had just unveiled a shocking discovery. In a hypnotic, shock like state, I watch as her lips part to release a sound.

Jodie.

This is currently just a short excerpt from the manuscript that I am working on, titled The Obsession. It would mean a lot if you, as readers, would be willing to give me some helpful feedback, or even advice in finishing a manuscript- if you are published or currently working on your own piece.

This piece will carry some Exorcist vibes, with a paranormal, romantic twist. I will also be looking for people who would enjoy an ARC in exchange for a review at some point in these upcoming months....

(if you read to this point, thank you).

P. S.

This was inspired by an actual nightmare of mine...

#horror #paranormal #manuscript

My mind carries me to a place much similar to my room. The walls a stark white, my decorations appearing to be a montaged blur of familiarity. Glancing around, at first, nothing catches my eye. The grumbling of dull, heavy footsteps compile around my doors space. I cannot determine the source of the noise, so I lull in a paralyzed curiosity, like a dog who has just heard a noise that is uncensored through human ears. While it looks as though the lights are on in my room, the lighting is dim; giving the room a heavy, stormy hue. I focus on the shadows of the silhouettes of furniture casting off the dim light, listening intently for the footsteps. I wonder if they ever existed, as the room has grown silent; it feels like white noise has begun to invade my headspace. I breathe sharply, suddenly noticing the shadows beginning to grow and devour my surroundings, painting the walls with masked, black figurines. I feel as though I am in a funhouse, watching unusual shapes take form and change around me constantly. I notice I cannot see my shadow amongst them. Swallowing hard, I attempt to blink away the events swarming me. I feel as though I am surrounded, the shadows exceedingly protruding around me in a condescending manner.

Whatever they are, they are meant to intimidate me. Without warning, tall figures in a uniform manner trudge through the door. There is no indication of the door opening, as they filed in without a single sound. They are smiling, tiptoeing around in what appear to be white nightgowns, frayed at the seams. All of their faces tipped towards their chests, the five of them look as if they are hiding something sinister beneath their chins. Their dark masses of hair loom before their eyes, gentle and pale. I feel almost embarrassed; like I would be shunned if I made direct eye contact with their intense grimaces. While they appear to all be female and similar in stature and appearance, one of them stands out to me as a redhead.

The air moves around them coolly, like they are influencing the energy flow to behave in a manner of their desire. They wrap around me, like a children’s game of tether ball, appearing to size me up. My breathes are barely coherent, as I stand frozen monitoring their actions by the millisecond. Their eyes are dark, like stone, and they continue to move through the air in a robotic, stiff fashion. I remind myself that this isn’t real; they can’t do me any harm. I say it out loud, as convincing as the lies I had spewed earlier. The redhead begins first, shouting an incoherent, oddly pitched sound into the air. The four others slowly raise their faces, raven hair separating to show their ivory skin and cadaveric like cheekbones. They too, begin to match the tone of the redhead, in their own unique fashion. The sound is so curdling, it raddles my skull as their vibrations radiate and melt into my own. The redhead moves in a gawky, heavy manner, raising her arms and encouraging the others to mimic her as if she is their ringleader. The high pitched “ahh” continues.

They are chanting, and the noises become louder, and more severe as the moments pass. Louder. They begin to circle, abruptly interfering with my space, and pushing me around the room with great intent and bliss. They join hands, forcing themselves onto me. I am now lost in their current. Louder. I find myself beginning to chant with them, as if I lost control of my ability to fight the pitch any longer. It is as if they were following an internal pounding of a drum, the striking becoming more powerful in pursuit of a climax. I swirl around my room, chanting, barely carrying my own feet in lieu of the electrical current that was brought into fruition. Time is lost. I am in a trance like state, becoming one with the sharks that pleaded for me to congregate amongst them. The shadows collectively grow and shrink on the walls, like music notes grafted on a sheet of music. They are harmonious, dramatically shifting on the walls as if they were observing a conductor. I pay no attention to how my body is maintaining their pace. I barely notice the sounds becoming quieter, and that I too, had subliminally followed their lead. At last, the redhead ceases; the others seeming to have been anticipating her command. I hit what feels like a brick wall; chilled and stiff, the one next to me brings me to a halt.

They all rise to their empress, empty eyes gawking at the redhead. Nervously, I look forward and briefly examine the cult before me. They are bowing, cautiously peering their eyes beyond their graved hairs and opaque skin. There is no sign of flesh within their cheeks. I observe the redhead as the only one who appears to seem human, battered and flushed, with wide and gregarious eyes. She almost looked to have been enjoying this, twinkling in an unusual amusement. She too, seems to be lost in a trance, smirking in a disheartening satisfaction across the circle. The white noise begins to fill my head again, buzzing in a monotone manner and replacing the shrieking exposure of the chant that seemingly indented my conscious.

Suddenly, I catch the redhead’s attention, and the smile is wiped from her face. I look down, as though to repent my mistakes. It was too late. As though her head operated on an axel, it swivels towards me. Although I am not looking up and trying to contain my composure, I can feel her eyes piercing through me. Before gathering the courage to match her, I slide my eyes across the wall to focus on the clock; as though the familiar face would bring me back to reality. It seems to be the only content I can easily make out, and read in detail. The clock reads 11: 14, and the seconds hand is frozen in an icy daze. It was as though the time was at a standstill, the atmosphere unaware of physics in a certain hellish dimension. Wary, I tilt my head forward; gathering the courage to meet her. She is standing inches from my face, glaring into it with wide eyes and a broken smile. Her red hair tangles and falls below her shoulders, softly curled and iridescent in the shadowy atmosphere. Her eyes are an unsteady green, flecked with the color of an unripe banana. She is so close, that I can feel her breathe on my lips. Unmoving, she peers into my eyes, as if she is attempting to converse with my soul. The astounding silence continues, her factitiously construed pleasantness masking a threatening scowl. Unannounced, her pupils swallow her eyes, as if she had just unveiled a shocking discovery. In a hypnotic, shock like state, I watch as her lips part to release a sound.

Jodie.

This is currently just a short excerpt from the manuscript that I am working on, titled The Obsession. It would mean a lot if you, as readers, would be willing to give me some helpful feedback, or even advice in finishing a manuscript- if you are published or currently working on your own piece.

This piece will carry some Exorcist vibes, with a paranormal, romantic twist. I will also be looking for people who would enjoy an ARC in exchange for a review at some point in these upcoming months....

(if you read to this point, thank you).

P. S.

This was inspired by an actual nightmare of mine...

#horror #paranormal #manuscript

Carrying a bag of cheap thread filled with an alarming amount of clothes, I dwindle my way into the small, confined laundry room. Colleges are strange like that; they fund their designs into useless needs, such as a tacky bronzed mascot figure or scattered, poorly done beds of flowers sorted throughout campus. The laundy room was soaked with humidity, the machines raging against their struggle and plea for replacement. The door to the room opens into a narrow entrapment; often times hitting those who are already inside. While loading my laundry, the door scoots open like a bursting balloon; startling me.

"I'm sorry," I utter, knowing that it was not my doing. It was one of those strange enounters that implies one of the parties to acknowledge the dreary context.

Beaty, black eyes on a thin, wormy face scorch back at me. They were wide, yet still true to size. Small, yet flustered like a peacock's feathers. It was as though I had alarmed him for being in there. In an attempt to make room, I shift my belongings and body over from the door way. Nothing. The door slams, and pale limbs scoot past the door crack as it slams. Strange, but not unfathomable. Perhaps it was social anxiety.

Gathering my things, I collect myself and make the short journey down the hall to my room. To my surprise, adjacent to mine; I see this looming, weak sillouhette shadowing a cracked door. He was waiting for me to be done, and watching me return to my room. His beaty eyes stalk me like a hawk, waiting for the precise timing to maneuver his descent onto his pray. As my eyes met his, he became startled, shoving his weight into the door.

A couple weeks pass, not seeing this said laundry man I had told my friends about.

It was not until aThursday morning, where I pass him on my trek to class. It was a brisk morning, and I had not dressed well for it. In attempt to fight the cold, I half skipped around campus, keeping my body confined to the little heat it was generating. This time it was not his eyes that stuck to me, but his face. His dark hair shagged dirtily on his forehead, acne pulsating out of his porcelein skin. His pants too short for his abnormally long legs for his height (he was shorter than me); his adolescent appearing stature seeming to turn and shadow my body. Did he remember me?

Just so.

Not much happened over these weeks of not encountering him. Part of me believes that he never left his room quite at all.

It wasn't until three days later, when I found him scavenging through his laundry in the dryer, like a falcon picking about a corpse of a highway. I tried my best to smile, to show that he was okay and that I meant no harm. The boy pinned his shoulders shockingly against the wall, seeming to twitch at the sight of me being so close. I slowly left my task, and decided to allow him to finish until he was done. My clothes had five minutes remaining in the dryer anyways. I was willing to risk the shrinkage of my favorite jeans to escape the scrutiny he felt towards me.

I became sidetracked, and an hour later I went to retrieve my laundry. As usual, I scooped up my clothes, and used my bed as a platform for folding. Clinging to a dryer sheet, I find a greasy, burgandy substance. It appeared to be a sort of oil, and at first I do not direct much of my attention to it. It wasn't until I found a twisted, long, textured object tangled in my t-shirts. Upon examination of the object, as peculiar as it first was; the curiousity turned to horror. This wasn't an object at all. Fatty, slender, and greasy to the touch; this was a fresh human bone. To my knowledge- part of a finger. My mind raced through thousands of wild explanations, but I could only keep one. The laundry man.

Maybe it wasn't human at all? Maybe it was part of a project, or perhaps even the scraps of food? My gut twisted, my intuition rampaging, exclaiming my danger. I decide not to call the police, for fear that I was overthinking the situation. I decided on simply reporting him to the RA.

Leaving my clothes unfinished, and my sinister findings behind, I slip out my room trying not to pay any attention to his lair. I soon find this to be impossible. His door abruptly cracks open, and my pace slows down to the equivalent of a slug's. His piercing, beaty eyes locked into mine. I turn my head, but a rather high, ghastly congested, nasily voice pitches out.

"Looking for these?"

I whip my head around, anticipating to see some sort of skeleton, weapon, or god knows what. Instead, he is gripping a pair of lace underwear; shaking his clammy paws inches outside his door like he is holding bait. They were mine, and no way in hell I needed those back.

"Oh. No, that's okay," I weakly and embarassingly say. He laughs, which sounds much more like a gurgle, following by repulsive snorts. He slyly pulls out my ID card. Like an idiot, I start patting my pockets, hands, and examining the floor to ensure that I really did lose it. In order to use the elevators and stairwells, you must swipe your ID card. It is part of a new campus security feature. Ha.

He is still wagging my ID card and underwear outside his door; his animalistic eyes concealed onto the rest of his figure. His skin is so sickly and thin, you can see the purple veins bulging out of his forearm and hand from his intense grip. The boy stands shorter than I, and has a frail stature. I decide to place my bets and grab my belongings; immediately running for the closest elevator or open door on my floor.

I swipe with great intensity, latching onto my belongings. I am shaking with the unknown possibilities, almost long enough to distract me from the intense pain my forearm is encountering. Crimson flows from my skin and starts to dribble onto the carpet flooring, almost instantaneously. The blood begins to collect at my intense grip, staining the green lanyard my ID is on. I quickly try and deflect his weapon with my free hand; but am struck with a force that is both terrifying and bold. I'm probably crying, screaming; hopefully doing something to get anyones attention, but it happens so quick... I am forced into the slender opening to meet his underestimating, humiliating body, immediately met with a distinct smell so atrocious, vomit accumulates in the back of my throat.

I turn to fight the door and I....

suppose the rest is just dirty laundry.

Walking home from school one afternoon, something caught my attention in a new town store’s display window. I didn’t know anything about the “metaphysical”. I guessed that it had something to do with aliens or the paranormal, and I figure I was right in a way. I hadn’t paid much attention to the store prior to now. The newly painted sign loomed over the foyer entrance of this tightly packed, petite, strip store; swaying in the breezy, dismal sky.

The sign read “The Shoppe of The Metaphysical”, in a white, starkly constructed cursive upon its matte black counterpart. Laid on a velvet, swamp green backdrop was a square, black and white box that read Ouija. Surrounding the board game impressionistic box, were a bunch of brightly colored, iridescent crystals, animal bones, and an array of different books pertaining to nature, witchcraft, and dream interpretations. There was a black and white message board tying the decorative display together, just above the Ouija box that read an untasteful, yet intriguing, “Can You Talk To The Dead?”

I know that in a less intensive, normal mindset, I would smirk to myself and continue walking. There was something pulling me to go inside the shop, even just for a moment. The thought of walking away without trying to talk to Bradley again made my stomach twist in agony. So, into the store I went. Initially, I was greeted with a musty, robust scent of floral incent and herb based sages that made my lungs tighten and my other senses heighten. I didn’t know what to expect, or what I was doing. Casually stalking the overflowing, disorganized array of books, I was approached by a silver haired woman wearing a wine colored dress and an assortment of crystal oriented jewelry.

“Can I help you find something?” She just about croaked, clearing her throat in readiness for the conversation.

“Uh, yeah. I wanted to check out the Ouija board, over there,” my eyes darting to the display case at the front of the store and back to this wrinkled, seemingly helpful woman.

Her deep set, dark eyes sharpened, as if to analyze me.

“Oh yeah, sure. Have you ever used one before, dear?”

You could tell she made an effort to soften her voice, and her facial muscles seemed to relax a bit.

“Er… Not really, but I’m sure I could figure it out,” I pause, my anxiety invoking a racing heart and sweaty palms. I didn’t know what I was doing, or saying.

“Oh sure, sure,” she began trailing off, angling her body away from me in apprehension.

It was as if she began a thought process, and was interrupted in a frozen trance. She looked up at the ceiling briefly, and then started walking towards the front of the store as if to fulfill my request. Picking up the board, she immediately drops it as if she had scorched her hand on a bag of hot coal.

“Empty. You know, thieves and what not. I’ll go check and see if we have one in the back,” she proclaimed in a huff, swiftly traveling to the back of the store. I wondered if it were expensive. Thieves?

Examining the store, I observed the hundreds of books, rainbow collections of crystals, displays of card decks, jewelry, plants, and odd ends of animal remains. Different bottles, salts, herbs, and incent burners ornamented the small building in a clutter, and I wondered how anyone could possibly find what they were looking for. There was a general heavy vibe to the building, like the concrete was holding its breathe for a burst of fresh air. Finally, she protruded through the cheaply designed curtains separating the main store from the back, box in hand.

“Alright dear, this is the last one- you must’ve gotten lucky!” She beamed, showing her yellow-gray, stained teeth.

I didn’t consider myself lucky at all, so I just scrunched my noise and tried to energize a smile. It probably looked more like a snarl. She must’ve noticed this, because the grin fell flat from her face.

“Did you need help finding anything else? Perhaps a book to read, so you can learn as you go?”

Her sales pitch seemed to mock me, and I disliked it so harshly, I shrugged my shoulders.

“Alright, suit yourself. You should know, that this is a sacred piece of divination, and its use should not be taken lightly or for amusement,” she warned in a spiteful tone, accenting “amusement” in the foulest of ways.

I redirected my eyes back to her, who was behind the outdated cash register, waiting to cash me out. I didn’t even know the price of the thing. Without thinking, I abruptly sliced the air with my under-thought question.

“So, I can communicate with the dead? Like, anyone who is dead. Right?” I cringed at my immature, informal sounding question, clenching my teeth, guarding my mouth from anymore words from spilling out.

My attention was caught by an all-black cat, with a teal collar lavishing its neck. I learned that her name was “Marcee” from her warn, stainless steel tag. Following my eyes down from her plump, sleek coated body, was a sign on the barrel she was perched on that read, “PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH THE CAT” in a faded, purple marker. Her stern, sunset yellow eyes stalked me, as if giving me a warning sign. I wasn’t going to touch her.

The woman seemed to click her swollen knuckles on the register for an eternity and a half. Finally, she looked up, rearranging her spilled hair back over her shoulder. Her eyes solemn as stone, she reaches across the counter for my hand. Her coarse, flaking skin sent bugs down my spine and into my throat. I remained frozen, my hand in her grip. She closed her eyes, as if to focus. In her meditative state, she is awakened as if by surprise, eyes wide and informative.

“Girl, you mustn’t be naïve,” she warned, reluctantly printing out the receipt and completing the transaction by swiping the cash out of my fingers and allowing my hand free.

“There are dark things upon you,” she whispered, as if the words would be destructive to the air.

Her eyes locked into my soul, taunting it with the fears of the unknown realm I was about to explore. With that, she jumped a bit in her heavy-set body, seemingly full of jitters. She said nothing more, swiftly moving to the back of the store like a mole back into the ground, dress trailing behind her motion.

We had the kind of love that seemed to be infinite; the holding hands through the park, soft kisses in the rain, never say goodbye, type of love. The day that I was forced to say goodbye, I went through a lot of doubt, grief, and denial. My therapist explained that it was normal, that denial was one of the primary stages of grieving over losing a loved-one. She told me that it would get easier; that somehow, someway, I would grow and move apart from our relationship, and the shattered heart of mine would be miraculously replaced with reinforcements. You ever hear of those saddening stories of people with mental illness, and how they take drugs to soften the pain? The idea of self-medication was a necessary evil; and sometimes the only barricade to feeding a broken heart. Mine didn’t require the use of drugs or alcohol. I had a much darker antidote.

The first snowfall of the season had stricken the town, leaving it a messy, white, illusionary snow globe. It was right before lunch period, and a lot of students had decided to skip out on school because they weren’t used to driving in inclimate weather with their newly found licenses. Most parents didn’t mind this easy attempt at playing (and winning) hooky, but Bradley’s parents did. The school’s attendance policy was to call the parents’ of the students’ who did not show up for morning class without calling in sick. When his parents’ received the phone call, Bradley bitterly swept on a clean pair of clothes, terminating his self-made snow day. The accident was a fleeting slaughter of future; quick, destructive, and fatal. I was just sitting down with my plastic, unstable lunch tray filled with a cardboard imitation of pizza, watered diced pineapple, and a carton of chocolate milk. Waiting in our usual meeting spot, I patiently glared at my food as if it were to grow eyes and stare back. I knew it didn’t take long for Bradley to drive to school, as I usually drove with him. He lived just a few blocks away. I wondered if his parents let him off the hook after all. In social settings, it is interesting to see just how quickly messages can travel. This one was as deadly and torturous as an epidemic. When it finally reached me, I was in fact, infected.

It was Sara who first arrived to my table, in a panic.

“Jodie, did you hear?” She breathed.

“Um” I responded, having no words. There wasn’t much of a reaction at first, I didn’t even

know what she was talking about. She knew the truth was, I didn’t want to.

I started in a pottery class shortly after Bradley died in the accident. I wasn’t very artistic, but it gave me something productive to do. My therapist recommended it, and sometimes that was much easier than facing school. In a way, I became an artist; using my hands to shape my emotions into physical form. Pottery class reminded me of Bradley and I’s relationship. My first project required a lot of time and effort, molding and beating the clay with intricate finger strokes and pressure. Over time, I realized that the pot was becoming smoother, connected, and more like concrete. I spent weeks learning how to operate and successfully mold the clay into the piece that I envisioned. Of course, it wasn’t perfect at first. But finally, when I learned to create, art was formed.

After the piece was fired, I remember holding my glass like, fragile; yet sturdy piece in my palms. I ran my fingers over each bump, crack, and imperfection that it held, and realized how perfect it really was. I spent another week glazing it, painting carefully and correcting it. It had turned into a masterpiece, stronger than ever and promising an eternity. It was the first time I felt an accomplishment or joy since he passed. The numbness would return shortly, but it was feeling alive for a second that was worth it. My therapist thought I was progressing, but the medicine didn’t help. Neither did talking. In fact, I didn’t talk much at all week to week. In a way, I guess we are like ceramic.

Bradley was to join the military after senior year had ended. As high school sweethearts, we had our plans of kicking our shoes off and diving into the ocean of life together. I knew I wouldn’t mind being a military spouse, because the arrival since his departure would be worth it each time. He wouldn’t become a pilot, nor would he arrive home with a bouquet of flowers and a bright- crooked smile through our front door. We wouldn’t have our picture-perfect first dance at our wedding, we wouldn’t shop for decorations for our first home, or experience the giggle of our first child. Death is a thief in the night, stealing our hopes and dreams while burdening us with the chilling memory of fate. I had a really difficult time coming to terms with it. I’d like to think he did too.

I knew what I was thinking, 24/7 every day. The sadness of my thoughts plagued my mind and raced in a frazzled derby each morning to the night. The thing was, I guess I desired to know what he was thinking as well. In a relationship, you almost constantly experience an influx of shared emotions. If there was a past life, I wondered if he was feeling the same; if he were happy, was it heaven? Would he come back? Would I see him again? All of these unanswered questions left for his answer. When the depression became too much, I’d break down and cry. I’d repent my questions and come up with catastrophic answers, time after time. I just needed to hear from him, even if for one last time.

The pot came to a lethargic, steaming brew. I straightened in my stance, shoulders tall and broad; mimicking the signs of a powerful creator. The night of initiation was both intense and troublesome for all of us. The night rolled in steadily, with its potent, iced air and iridescent stars. Annually, the meetings are held at the highest peak of a full, patient moon; monitoring its prodigies from an intimidating standpoint. Looking around, you can see all of us shuffling in our dark cloaks and oversized hoods. Many of the other applicants’ faces could be seen not without the sparks in the fire, as if they wore nighttime as a mask. I wanted to inch closer to the heat source to absorb the most warmth offered, but I decide it is not a time to appear weak. Our faces solemn with focus, each of us reciting our rites silently in the back of our minds. Although much of us were born to try and continue the bloodline and be initiated into the cult; it was not handed to us, regardless of heritage. The toasted, rotten smell of the created recipe proclaiming the night of initiation had begun filled my nose; toying with my repulsed senses. I wonder if this group of young women knew what this night would entail; I had a brief overview from my sisters and cousins of my maternal side. They would speak about this night in a sing-song voice and sinister whispers; careful to not let out the secrets of the darkness. At the conclusion of the night; I hoped I would be able to, too.

The catch is, we all won’t make it through tonight. If Hell permits the way it promises, we may not even see to tomorrow.

Each aspiring witch is allowed to bring one tool to the congregation, as a secretive weapon of protection. My grandmother, a patriarchal witch; had provided me with a small pouch of some sort of beneficial spice, saying that it would be "purposeful enough." The spirits are high, our souls running deeply in tune with our ancestors' shadows to guide us along through the evening as it evolves into Samhaim. This is our traditional name for The Day of the Dead; or Halloween, respectively. My attention is caught as the mist from the cauldron is pulled high into the air, almost reaching the decaying, autumn trees that are showing their preparation for rebirth. Each of the girls’ faces light up in apprehension, both doubting and hoping to succeed their potential. We have been training for this, I remind myself. As the trees began to dance in an orchestrated, accumulating motion we began to feel the spiritual energy around us, feeding off of us like incapacitating leeches. It was hungry, ready to devour us from the elusive, obscure forest surrounding us. The vibrations peaked, the older women grinning inaudibly at their creation. I thought for a second that I had heard one murmur that, “this would be the best one yet.”

Each of us would be called to the challenge. It was simple; if thou could not match thy masters’ creation, thou would be excreted from the cult. In many surrounding organizations, that was the epitome of the worst outcome. In my family’s, the foulest outcome was death.

Suddenly, the flames drew high, with an intense and infuriating force. The fire spilled from the sides of the metallic cauldron, engulfing it whole. The creation was feeding off of the most powerful, advantageous source; the fire itself. In stories, I have only heard of creations encompassing the elements of air, water or earth. Fire was a recognizable assurance of the darkest of artistries. The witches frolicked in their cloaks, intricate and multi-colored. As initiators, we wore black; the infinite color of the universe, symbolizing ultimate protection on our endeavors. They squawked and cackled, amused at their work as they glided under the cover of the thick confinement of the forest.

Without warning, the creation immerged from the flames with an unrecognizable force that shook the ground from most of our feet. Through the intense heat of the enraged, spitting fire, at first we were physically blinded by the invigorating emphasis on what it had produced. Gasps shook the crowd, incapable to unbind what they had released into the atmosphere. A monstrous silhouette towered over our helpless beings, looking for what the witches had offered it. A few of the girls threw their bits of protection into the air, doing little to impress the beast. I hadn’t looked into dark magik much; but it didn’t take much knowledge to know this was a malignant force. The figure reached out over the flames, feeding on those deemed fearful and weak wihin the group. You could see their flesh being mutatlated as their skin was raped with flames. Their eyes hallow and petrfied, skin melting like plastic around their inverting muscles. The creations's blistering, red eyes injected its horror into our souls; shocking many to stone. I pulled my hood over my eyes, shielding myself from its fury.

As the demonic energy increased, its might flourished into atrocity. The witches could not contain their creation; many had fled into the nurturement of the woods. Those courageous enough to stay, were shouting memorized rites ritualistically to ward off evil. This did little to entertain or withdrawal the prospering creation; in fact, it became enraged. The dark mass shape shifted into a being from the depths of Hell itself, rummaging the air with these treacherous claws and grabbing the girls one by one. I remain frozen, plastered to the Earth and pleading for resistance. The witches who had remained in the little confidence they withheld were the cult leaders, calling the positive forces from the complex corners of the universe in attempt to ward their creation away. Chanting rites from the cults’ indigenous book of shadows, they plummeted in at the feet of their own fashion. Hearing their séances was something eerily satisfying; as I knew it was something they would never do in the presence of inductees.

Suddenly, the ferocious being struck again; this time clutching my arm with one devastating latch. I could feel the heat of the flames it held, penetrating my arm and branding my flesh like cowhide. My frail body skidded across the dirt, ready to be fed to the underworld. Pulling at my pocket, I rapidly reveal its contents. I knew that my time was drawing near. I briefly thought of the disappointment that my family would feel within these seconds of ultimate possession; disregarding the immense danger I was in. With one glance, I realize that my grandmother had provided me with a small pouch of Valerian. I cursed her efforts, shooting the spice into the flames with one final throw of a free hand. The herb was of a romantic descent; it would do nothing to ward this demonic force off.

Thrashing at its power, suddenly I am released; pivoting to the ground as if I had fallen a thousand feet.

Valerian was provided as a mechanism to attract romantic energy. It also has the power to ward off evil, malevolent, forces. The creation screeched, moaning recollections of what sounded like Latin, in a shamble of agonizing pain as the spice repelled it. I am dizzy with pain; hazily whitnessing the figure dissipate into the tamed flames of the fire. Finally, the couldron dissolved to a simmer; the sky regurgitating a heavy blanket of smoke and spiritual energy.

The cult was in shambles, weakened and lacking numbers. The leaders dropped their hoods in a honorable manner, faces plagued with exhaustion and relief. We had lost many of the inductees to the underworld; many of the witches who conjured much a force would be condemned to join them on behalf of the witches' creed.

Today, I am inductee 4,871. I am one with the cult. To the present, I show the aspiring women the shiny, opaque scar remaining on my forearm. They say that I had been touched with Hell itself; the gift of treacherous magik stuck to my soul indefinitely. One day, I will join my lost, fellow witches because of it.