All the stories in this area were co-written by myself and Rhonda Jackson. We are currently working on a novel series based on Alexis Aggravation. Click on the title of the story to read it.
The wind blustered its way around the house as Delores Castro dug in her jacket for the house key. She took her glove off and dug further into her pocket until the cold keys stung her hand. She shivered as she found the right key and pushed it into the lock, opening the front door.
The little black beads shimmered in the fluted dish settled in a bed of crushed ice in another, larger fluted dish on a mahogany table. A tall, green bottle stood beside the dish along with two bulbous glasses. Behind the table, small doors were open and little bottles of amber liquid stood at the ready along with a bucket of ice, complete with silver scoop.
The crowd milled and murmured impatiently outside the Riff-Raff Thrift store while the manager unlocked the inner doors, then slid back the ornate gates. He stood back quickly as the crowd surged forward and swarmed into the store. It was the annual “Rush for Furniture” sale. Pushing and shoving their way into the store, the intrepid shoppers ran to the pieces of furniture that caught their eye. The first customer to touch the furniture won the right to buy …….
This story actually started out as a fiction character description (you can see it here: Visiting Granny). Rhonda and I turned it into this story for the 2014 Spring NYC Short Fiction Contest:
“Tell Miss Louisa to smash this bottle and stomp on the ship. What she desires will come to be.” The Voodooiene exchanged a burlap wrapped package for Benjamin’s small bag of silver coins. “This is a powerful spell, be careful with it.”
Well, there he was dead on the floor of my bar. I’ve seen dead bodies. I know what they look like all right. The guy just keeled over with a sample bottle of Harry’s Best Irish in his hand. And probably down his throat as well. Nice looking corpse. Youngish, handsome…
Hank Williams sat behind the casino glass waiting for the woman to pass him her chips. She had the big payoff for the night. He dropped the chips in the slot and listened as the rattled down through the counter. Fifty thousand dollars. He could use 50 thou . . . .
“John, what are you doing here?” Abigail Winston, lead singer in a quartet whose performances preceded the plays here at Ford’s Theater, as she entered the back stage area. . .
A fog hung over the airfield, thick and fat like down pillows. A black stretch limo pulled up to a private cargo jet, small and sleek like the woman standing beside it. She was blond and built,. . . . .
It was sunny in Georgia when I left. The trees were just burdened with fruit, almost ripe; a bumper crop waiting to be gathered. So I picked some and jumped the next train through with a whole bag just waiting to ripen.