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Releases Nov. 16th, on the ten year anniversary of receiving my first publishing contract.
This story was written as a challenge, part of cover artist, Jinger Bruton’s, Written Art Project. She created the cover, and I wrote a story inspired by it. What I ended up with was a psychological story, a paranormal tale of a witch falling apart in her grief, that includes every tiny detail of the cover somewhere in the story from the broken window to her glowing eyes.
Blurb:
Amara, a powerful witch, loses the love of her life in a horrible accident. A month later, she’s finds herself still living in their 'fixer-upper house,' Kyle hadn’t gotten around to fixing up much before he died. While it had looked haunted before, now it truly is.
Her grief giving rise to something just short of insanity, Amara is hell bent on resurrecting her soulmate. She plans a mix of many spells, intent on achieving her goal, despite the echoes of her elders in her ears about how he will come back different, something sinister and dark. The ghost of her boyfriend protests the loudest among the voices swirling about her, pushing her even farther over the edge.
How far will she go? What lines she will cross, or not, remains to be seen as she is literally playing with magic.
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“Stop reading those damn books!”
Kyle’s voice roared through her head louder than the rush of it emitting lightly through the room. A shiver crawled down her back as the presence before her materialized, turning a milkier shade of white, showing the definition of his body in a brilliant, yet translucent light.
“No, I won’t. I’m running out of time,” she cried out, though her voice came out nothing more than a trembling whisper.
Having a crushing, 'the more you learn, the more you realize you don’t know' moment, she looked over her mounds of books. Most of them were open, at least a dozen or more, tossed on top of one another to form an asymmetrical mountain of smelly, aging texts. Yet, she had them arranged to show certain highlighted passages, with the aid of strategically placed post-it notes rather than writing in such books. This way, she could look over them in unison, with the hope of drawing some parallel, a conclusion of sorts, that would work out her current looming problem, literally and figuratively, via magick.
A few other texts that had wasted her time, proven useless, had been tossed as far as her aching arm would allow, in various directions in frustration. Apparently her love of the written word and vow to preserve the books they were in didn’t completely apply in her current state of nervous energy fraught with rapid heartbeats, spontaneous outbursts of grumbling, and unexplainable streams of tears. The notebook she had in front of her, in which she was trying to concoct and pen her own spell, no longer appeared to be even written in an intelligible language. Her scribbles here and there, in the margins, between the lines, made it a mess of letters and lines with arrows, quite appropriate symbolically to the mess of thoughts in her head.
They had to come together soon. She needed this spell done yesterday, and failure wasn’t an option lest she hyperventilate into a puddle of stress on the floor, stiff, unable to move her hand or head. Her body buzzed with both magick and anticipation until her head spun at times, and she gripped her mountain of books for support and to ground her. She stopped a moment, avoiding looking at him, letting the words swim before her eyes as they watered. She tried to regulate her breathing, to stop the burning in her lungs. The butterflies in her stomach did an upbeat dance around the solid brick of sickness residing there.
“You’re running out of time for what? Halloween?” Kyle vented, his ghostly voice as deep as she’d heard it so far. “You are going to turn me into some kind of hideous monster, or worse... Who the hell knows what half dead, half alive, not even me thing, possibly. Neither of us even knows what will happen for sure if you go through with this scheme of yours. Stop reading the stupid books!”
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