My coffee shop was crowded, but of course it was a Friday night. Several of my coworkers came over to chat with me, and I could sense that some of them were feeling sorry for me: Poor Persephone, she must not have a date, and isn’t it sad she’s visiting her work on her day off?
My waitress was Kellie—the one who hates me because John never so much as looked twice at her, and chose to date me instead of her—who slammed my cappuccino down on my sticky little table, causing the coffee to spill. I just smiled at her
The smile seemed to infuriate Kellie even more. It was strange to be hated by someone who didn’t even really know me; I could feel the hatred baking off of her in waves. As I sipped my coffee, briefly wondering if she had spit in it, I noticed she walked over to another waitress, whispering to her and simultaneously looking over at me.
They were talking about me. Suddenly I realized something; Kellie had overestimated herself, and underestimated me. She had simply assumed that since she had always gotten what she wanted, she could just as easily get John, as if he were an expensive purse on sale or something.
I knew that since many of the girls who worked with us liked John, that had made him all the more of a prize to Kellie--she wanted John like a trophy to rub in all the other girls' faces; she would relish the jealousy and attention she would get from everyone. I also realized two other things: She wanted John even more since we had started dating, and that she truly hated me becuase she felt I had somehow stolen him from her.
Kelly was going to be trouble, I could feel it. Unfortunately, I had other things to contend with right now. I was on the lookout for some witches.
I turned my attention to the people in the coffee shop. I spotted a small group of girls sitting across the room; there were three of them, crowded into a booth. They all three had dyed black hair, fish-pale skin, and numerous tattoos and body piercings.
The lone skinny girl of the three sat facing me, across from her two chubby friends. I was certain she was their leader; it was in the way they seemed to defer to her in every manner, and she was the more attractive of the two--which wasn't saying much believe you me.
She was thin, and her dyed black hair had been professionally colored. She had not colored it herself with a box of Clairol from the drugstore.
And her clothes--long black skirt, black silk top, black combat boots, and expensive distressed leather coat--were high-end designer clothes, although I was willing to bet she told people she shopped at thrift stores.
They were all three smoking clove cigarettes, and sipping cup after cup of coffee. It was possible they were only Goth girls out for a night on the town, but I had a sense they were more than some suburban poseurs out for a wide-eyed thrill or two.
The skinny one particularly gave off a menacing vibe. I felt strongly that these girls would lead me to at least someone who would know where some real-deal witches were.
I rummaged through my big purse and pulled out a paperback book, and began to read, keeping one eye on the Goth girls.
After about twenty minutes, the Goths paid their check, and they all three scooted out of the booth to leave. I slammed some money on the table, only leaving that bitch Kellie a fifty-cent tip, and followed them out. Kelly gave me a scowl and hateful glance as I left.
I transferred my bottle of mace to one jean pocket, and slid my razor-sharp pocket knife in my back pocket. I didn't know where they were going or what I was about to walk into, so better to be as safe as possible. Plus, I have other special weapons of my own, just in case.
I joined the flow of light foot traffic, staying an adequate distance behind the Goths. After a few blocks, we were near the river. The girls turned down a dark lonely street, and as I looked up at the place where the girls were going, I gasped.
Then all hell broke loose.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Digging in the Garden District
I went to visit my great Aunt a few days ago. She lives in the Garden District, and that's one of the reasons I cherish going to visit with her.
She has a stately home--one of the more modest townhouses of the District, which boasts some of the most beautiful and graceful mansions in the world--it would have been called a mansion 100 years ago, but by today's standards it would be called a big house.
Let me tell you, it's so beautiful. A big Queen Anne style house, painted white and cream, with a large porch, delicate lace curtains, polished wooden floors, and dainty furniture. it's been photographed for some magazines before,too.
My great Aunt Drusilla married her wealthy husband Corbin, a smart and debonair gentleman who doted on my aunt his whole life, who died ten years ago. But like I said, he was wealthy and a keen handler of their finances, so Drusilla was left with a lot of money, which is how she is able to live so comfortably.
But she deserves it, and she is one of the most sweet and generous people I know. She's such a doll, too: a Southern Belle to the core. Her hair is shoulder length and dyed a pretty shade of sandy blond (she refuses to go gray!), she is 70 years old but looks 60, and she has a darling figure and beautiful hazel eyes. I've always been close to her, and I try to visit her at least twice a year. Now that I'm done with school, I can drive to New Orleans, hop on the streetcar, and visit her more often.
During our visit, I brought up the subject of the distant relative who had been killed. Drusilla didn't know much about her, but she was able to tell me a few things. We sat on the porch, eating dainty sandwiches and drinking iced tea, watching the early-evening pedestrians and the old streetcar clang and rattle by.
My great Aunt's still-pretty face, with her expensive tasteful makeup, became grim and thoughtful. She patted her mouth with a crisp linen napkin, not spilling any crumbs on her smart linen suit. "I remember hearing some distressing rumors about her over the years," she said, shaking her head. I asked what she had heard.
"Oh, her mother told me once that the poor girl was into black magic...devil worship that sort of nonsense, and I believed her, because she was so worried and upset about her daughter."
I kept quiet, wanting her to continue.
"We both know our side of the family is...you know...different," she said, "but your poor cousin was never strong like we are, and she always tried to be something she wasn't."
Yes, I thought. She was like a child, trying to play with something that was dangerous and powerful and evil.
Drusilla looked at her slim gold watch. "Darlin', I've got to run," she said. She had a meeting, one of her many charity luncheons or meetings to preserve the parks or gardens or historical homes. She made me promise to have dinner with her next week; I told her I would and kissed her goodbye.
I walked through the quiet tree-lined cobbled streets, thinking about my poor third cousin. I was pretty certain I might know where to start digging for information. I knew about a few groups in New Orleans, wannabe witches who toyed with black magic and other nonsense.
I sighed; it's people like them who give real witches a bad name. Supposedly, they held rituals that centered around human sacrifices and demonic conjuring for their own personal gain. I had seen a few in the coffee shop from time to time: pasty girls (and boys) with bad complexions and multiple facial and body piercings, layers of thick black eye makeup, head-to-toe black clothing, and dour, leering expressions. Most of them were harmless, pitiable kids, but I had seen a few who gave off evil vibes, and I could tell those people were really bad news.
So, I decide to head to my coffee shop, which I could walk to from here. I could ask some fellow employees about the ersatz witches, and do some snooping around. I looked up at the sky: it was twilight, and the sky was violet and purple and gold. I relished the walk.
I needed to call John to tell him I would be over later tonight, but he would protest and worry about me getting into all this, but in the end, I would get my way. Sometimes I scare myself when I witness how easy it is to exert my will on people, and I never tried that with John, but if he tried to stop me, I would have to make him see it would be alright, and to trust me.
Hey, it's witch power...
She has a stately home--one of the more modest townhouses of the District, which boasts some of the most beautiful and graceful mansions in the world--it would have been called a mansion 100 years ago, but by today's standards it would be called a big house.
Let me tell you, it's so beautiful. A big Queen Anne style house, painted white and cream, with a large porch, delicate lace curtains, polished wooden floors, and dainty furniture. it's been photographed for some magazines before,too.
My great Aunt Drusilla married her wealthy husband Corbin, a smart and debonair gentleman who doted on my aunt his whole life, who died ten years ago. But like I said, he was wealthy and a keen handler of their finances, so Drusilla was left with a lot of money, which is how she is able to live so comfortably.
But she deserves it, and she is one of the most sweet and generous people I know. She's such a doll, too: a Southern Belle to the core. Her hair is shoulder length and dyed a pretty shade of sandy blond (she refuses to go gray!), she is 70 years old but looks 60, and she has a darling figure and beautiful hazel eyes. I've always been close to her, and I try to visit her at least twice a year. Now that I'm done with school, I can drive to New Orleans, hop on the streetcar, and visit her more often.
During our visit, I brought up the subject of the distant relative who had been killed. Drusilla didn't know much about her, but she was able to tell me a few things. We sat on the porch, eating dainty sandwiches and drinking iced tea, watching the early-evening pedestrians and the old streetcar clang and rattle by.
My great Aunt's still-pretty face, with her expensive tasteful makeup, became grim and thoughtful. She patted her mouth with a crisp linen napkin, not spilling any crumbs on her smart linen suit. "I remember hearing some distressing rumors about her over the years," she said, shaking her head. I asked what she had heard.
"Oh, her mother told me once that the poor girl was into black magic...devil worship that sort of nonsense, and I believed her, because she was so worried and upset about her daughter."
I kept quiet, wanting her to continue.
"We both know our side of the family is...you know...different," she said, "but your poor cousin was never strong like we are, and she always tried to be something she wasn't."
Yes, I thought. She was like a child, trying to play with something that was dangerous and powerful and evil.
Drusilla looked at her slim gold watch. "Darlin', I've got to run," she said. She had a meeting, one of her many charity luncheons or meetings to preserve the parks or gardens or historical homes. She made me promise to have dinner with her next week; I told her I would and kissed her goodbye.
I walked through the quiet tree-lined cobbled streets, thinking about my poor third cousin. I was pretty certain I might know where to start digging for information. I knew about a few groups in New Orleans, wannabe witches who toyed with black magic and other nonsense.
I sighed; it's people like them who give real witches a bad name. Supposedly, they held rituals that centered around human sacrifices and demonic conjuring for their own personal gain. I had seen a few in the coffee shop from time to time: pasty girls (and boys) with bad complexions and multiple facial and body piercings, layers of thick black eye makeup, head-to-toe black clothing, and dour, leering expressions. Most of them were harmless, pitiable kids, but I had seen a few who gave off evil vibes, and I could tell those people were really bad news.
So, I decide to head to my coffee shop, which I could walk to from here. I could ask some fellow employees about the ersatz witches, and do some snooping around. I looked up at the sky: it was twilight, and the sky was violet and purple and gold. I relished the walk.
I needed to call John to tell him I would be over later tonight, but he would protest and worry about me getting into all this, but in the end, I would get my way. Sometimes I scare myself when I witness how easy it is to exert my will on people, and I never tried that with John, but if he tried to stop me, I would have to make him see it would be alright, and to trust me.
Hey, it's witch power...
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