Some witches use wands to cast spells.
Others use potions and herbs.
But I knew of a witch who uses her body as a spellbook.
Tattoos across her limbs, dancing casts the enchantments.
She wears a deep black cloak from head to foot, but sometimes you can see her hand, snakes coiled around each finger.
Singing. Turning. Swaying.
One day, in the middle of casting a spell, she stopped.
And her cloak fell to the ground in a pile.
She’d always worried of a scar or a blemish on her skin disrupting a spell.
Powerful forces had consumed her whole.
Tag: tragedy
Eight Weddings And A Funeral
Elizabeth Taylor’s publicist announced that the Academy Award-winning actress died at the age of 79.
What does she do now?
No, not Elizabeth. Her job’s done.
Sure, there will be endorsements, licensing, and re-releases of her movies until the end of time, but that’s for her estate to do. The woman has a funeral or two to attend, and that’s it.
I’m thinking about the publicist. Unless she’s got other clients, her gig’s done.
Some folks are praying for the soul of Elizabeth Taylor.
Me, I’m praying for the publicist. I hope they get work soon in this awful economy.
Descent
As I stood by the grave, there was a loud bang and the coffin’s descent halted.
The motorized winch had shorted out again.
We’ve been needing a new one for a while, but the boss is cheap.
And a drunk.
“Hand crank it,” I say to the crew, and head to the office.
“Motor blew again,” I say.
“Use the backup one,” he shouts, and he knocks over the empty bottle off of his desk. “Aw dammit.”
“This is the backup one,” I say, and, trembling, I smash in his skull with it.
No winch for him.
He’ll be cremated.
The Drunk
Casey slurred his words like a drunk, but the man didn’t drink. He’d suffered a stroke a few years ago and never quite got his speech all the way back.
He wanted to hang out with us at the bar, though, and we figured he’d make a good designated driver, being sober and all.
We drank ourselves blind stinking drunk, and handed Casey the keys.
Fifteen mailboxes and trash cans later, my truck got wrapped around a lightpost.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” I growled at Casey.
“I don’t drink,” he slurred. “Or drive. I don’t have a drivers license.”
Spinning
I remember when Suzie would go into my study and spin the antique globe, watching the world rush by in a blur.
She’d close her eyes, stab at the globe with a finger, and shout “STOP!”
Opening her eyes, she’d ask me if I’ve ever been to that place.
“Why, yes, I have,” I start, spinning an epic tale of adventure and romance and danger and treasure.
The kidnappers sent us her shoe, took the money, and vanished without a trace.
I spin the globe one last time, shout “STOP!” and imagine Suzie there.
I can feel the poison spread.
The Tyrant
The Old Tyrant yells “Load the carriage faster! I need to escape before-”
Shouting! Beyond the gate!
A mob from the city, surrounding his castle.
“Guards! Protect me!” he yells.
The guards run out through the gate to meet the crowd.
And then, they rush back, closing the gate and blocking it.
From the outside.
“They won’t let you leave,” said his assistant. “They want you to stay on as ruler.”
“But I’m tired of running this country!” the Tyrant whined. “Don’t they want democracy? Freedom?”
“No. They want prosperity. Stability. You provide that.”
The exhausted tyrant wept and screamed.
Third Thumb
I once heard of a psychic claiming they had a “third eye.”
Well, then I must have a “third thumb.”
You see, I’m a movie critic. The Celluloid Spy.
And I’m afraid of the dark.
Yeah, I hire mailroom interns to stand in for me at movie screenings.
My trademark trenchcoat, fedora, and fake beard make sense now, right?
So, when you wonder if the critic saw the same movie did, you’re right: I didn’t.
But here’s the creepy thing. I’ve been accurate in my plot synopses and ratings.
Stupid kid, getting hit by that truck.
Never saw that coming.
Drumming Out
The first man to be drummed out of the Army was forced to march from one end of the camp to the other to the sound of drums. (His jacket was turned inside-out, too, but that was already in practice among the dishonorable.)
In the Civil War, soldiers had their heads shaved and rank insignia torn from their jackets. Officers told the troops not to touch the drummed-out soldiers, but more than one was found dead after the ceremony.
These days, the Army’s much more civil.
But the Mafia sticks guys in oil drums and tosses them into the harbor.
Everything is a circle
Everything is a circle.
The table is a circle.
The table’s chairs are in a circle.
The cake is a circle.
The glass of milk is a circle.
Your eyes open wide. Like circles.
Your mouth is a circle, silent.
As you choke on the cake, your hands rise to your throat, and your face goes blue.
The lenses on my glasses are circles.
I watch you die.
I dig a hole in the back yard… another circle.
I push you in, fill up the hole.
I eat the rest of the cake, drink the milk, and go to sleep.
Cherubacide
Downtown. Valentine’s Day.
We found the body of a baby with wings in the alley.
There were three pink-shafted arrows in its chest, valentine in its hand.
“Suicide note,” grunts my partner, barely looking up from his coffee “Nothing to see here.”
“Nothing to see, Joe?” I asked. “Suicide shot himself three times in the chest, did he? A freak baby with wings, nothing to see?”
Joe stared deep into my eyes. “When love dies, you don’t want to know. Too much pain.”
Poor Joe. Guy’s hit bottom.
I guess I’ll give him the flowers and chocolates some other time.