Contemporary Writer
I am infected with an alien.
My body has become a treacherous landscape of nope. Within mere weeks the alien has taken command and turned all my senses traitor. My memories of food are full of pot holes and landslides and precarious roads that lead to a rather strong gag reflex unlike anything I’ve so far experienced.
Seventeen years old and here I am, sitting at a small, corner coffee table, glaring at the menu and praying that the waitress waiting to take my order doesn’t notice the unshed tears I’m fruitlessly trying to blink into submission.
I am not going to cry. I’m not. I’m seventeen for Gods sake. Not five. Not lost and alone without any means of communicating. No. This place is familiar. This place is safe. This menu I know like the back of my hand. Have read it a thousand times. Can recite in my sleep for crying out loud.
He kissed her. Not because he liked her, not even because he’d really wanted to, but because a demon had once told him to try.
There is a moment of silence – brief and overshadowed – a hush that falls just before the rumble of noise begins.
A feeling grows in the momentary quiet (which is not quite silence but rather anticipation). There is a noise to anticipation. A hum. A buzz that starts in your feet and builds to your chest, igniting in your soul.
Lights go up, the sound check crackles and a voice cat calls. A single, solitary call. But not for long.
Dear Reader, I like to keep records of things that connect with me on some deeper level than just enjoyment. You’ve seen me mention Big Magic already, and you’ll no doubt see me mention...
I suggest several options: either return it yourself, take it up with God, or consult your local witch council – whichever you prefer.
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