 Potions & Margaritas is set in a magic bar although Cal, the bartender, doesn't know it at the beginning of the story. And as the bartender, Cal needs a signature drink. I chose lavender margarita which is nicknamed "Midnight Moon" because it had spooky feels that were suitable for a magical bar, but also the aspirations of being liked by thousands. With her magic powers, Cal creates it in such a way that will sooth any temper as all her drinks. If you're ever near Eclipse, give it a try. On the house! https://www.thepurplepumpkinblog.co.uk/lavender-margarita-purple-cocktail-for-halloween You can find Maria's book here -books2read.com/margaritas
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 Ancestor and Deity Offerings Made Easy Not that long ago, I found everything about offerings really confusing. It wasn’t so much what to offer—that seemed easy enough—but how long to leave offerings for and how to dispose of them once their time is up. Naturally, the information I found online was contradictory with different people saying different things. How are you supposed to figure out the right way to make offerings when everyone tells you something else? Well, fortunately for you, here’s yet another post weighing in on the subject… though hopefully this one will clarify things rather than raise more questions. What are offerings? If you’re only familiar with offerings in a church context, where a collection goes around and everyone offers money, don’t worry—deities and ancestors generally don’t care about cash, though exceptions exist. If you’re more comfortable offering a few coins every day/week/month, you can do that, but please don’t feel you have to (especially if money is tight). To put it simply, you might make an offering to a deity, an ancestor, or another spirit in exchange for a favour. They give you the strength to get through a difficult situation, you share a slice of your favourite cake in return. It’s really no different to when a friend does you a favour and you want to do something nice for them to show your gratitude! You might also compare it to having a job: you work all day and in return, you’re paid. In a way, offerings are a simple exchange. Having said that, I much prefer to think of them as an exchange between friends, or something you do because you want to without expecting anything in return. It’s okay to make an offering just to make an offering. In fact, I recommend this. We’ve all known someone who only talked to us when they wanted something, and it probably didn’t make any of us feel very valued. I’ll be the first to admit that I probably lack reverence, but my personal take is that, if you see deity or ancestor work more like a friendship than worship, you’re off to a good start. Think of offerings as presents. Just as you might give a little gift to a friend to show that you’re thinking of them and appreciate them being in your life, you can make offerings to deities or ancestors (and whatever else feels right to you - if you want to make an offering to Nature in a more general sense, don’t let anyone stop you). That’s really all they are: gifts to show you care. Offerings don’t need to be expensive, but it’s always good practice to not gift something the recipient hates. If your best friend’s birthday is coming up and you know they’re allergic to flowers, you’re not going to gift them a bouquet. If you’re unsure what the recipient likes, you can’t go wrong going with your instinct. As with all gifts, it’s the thought that counts as long as you mean well. In most cases, you can also do some research to figure it out, but more on that below. Naturally, you will never find your offerings have disappeared overnight because an ancestor or deity has spirited it away while you slept. Think of them instead of spiritual offerings. The recipient enjoys the essence of your offering. If you leave your ancestor’s favourite fruit on their grave and it’s gone the next day, it’s because a wild animal has sniffed it out and eaten it (with gratitude, I’m sure). Your ancestor probably won’t be angry about this unless they really hated wild animals, and it saves you the question of when and how to remove the offering, too, so it’s not a problem. Who are offerings for? Usually (read: in my experience), when witches speak about making offerings, we make them to our deities or our ancestors. However, not all witches work with deities or honour their ancestors, so if that’s not for you, don’t worry. Maybe you’ve always felt drawn to bodies of water and want to show your love to a nearby river or lake? That’s fine. Perhaps you’ve always considered nature to be your happy place and want to leave an offering to all of nature in a general sense? No problem. Maybe you’d like to work with this ancestor or that deity, but you don’t know how to begin? An offering is a lovely start. (It’s also more polite to not start that kind of relationship by saying, ‘Hello, I know we’ve never talked but I need a favour now.’) Just like offerings can be a nice way to start working with any type of spirit, they can be a nice way to end a relationship. Whatever your reason may be for no longer wanting to work with a deity or an ancestor, making one last offering and showing your gratitude for your time spent together ends it respectfully. Imagine working with someone for however long, and then one day they just disappear on you! No one likes that kind of uncertainty. Nicer to let them know what’s happening and why. What to offer But WHAT do you offer? Does it have to be valuable, like money? Does it have to be incense? Well, that’s entirely up to you. Making an offering to an ancestor can be the easier place to start, especially if you knew that person when they were alive. For example, if your ancestor loved a glass of whiskey every Friday night, you can offer them a glass of whiskey every Friday night. If your ancestor loved roses, you could offer them freshly cut roses, petals, or even a spray of rose perfume—and it doesn’t matter if they’re shop-bought or home-grown. It doesn’t have to be anything physical, either. If your ancestor loved a particular piece of music, for example, you could play them that song. Personally, I love making tea for my friends when they come to visit, so my go-to first offering is a cup of tea. For me, it’s easier to get to know someone over a shared cuppa (provided they aren’t a complete stranger and I actually want to get to know them)! Making an offering to a deity doesn’t have to be difficult, either. You’ve likely got your reasons for wanting to work with that particular deity, so making a related offering is a great start. If you want to make an offering to a particular deity or an entire pantheon but don’t know where to start, there’s plenty of information online and in books. It’s good practice to research the person/people you’d like to work with at least a little. You can get creative, too! For example, if you’re thinking about working with a deity related to animals, perhaps you can adopt that animal in their name, volunteer at a shelter, or, if you already have that pet in your life, you could offer their shed fur. How to leave your offering This also depends on your preference. Some people have an altar where they can leave their offerings - this works whether you’re working with a deity or an ancestor. Leaving an offering to an ancestor on their grave is also a great option; however, when you’re leaving anything in nature, always make sure it’s biodegradable and not harmful to any animals who might be around. If you can’t have an altar (or just can’t be bothered - I don’t judge), there’s nothing wrong with subtlety. You can light a candle for a deity, and if someone asks you why you’re burning that candle, you can just say it’s because you like it. (Don’t leave burning candles unattended; that’s a fire risk.) Most people won’t question something as common as this, however. I assure you no deity is going to be offended if you do what you can - as I said above, it’s the thought that counts. An honest offering is always better than one you don’t really care about. (Think gifting a friend something small you put a lot of thought into compared to giving them the first socks you found because you had to give them something.) When is the offering… done? This and the adjacent question of ‘… and what do you do with it?’ were my biggest hangups. Using a cup of tea as an offering sounds easy enough, but how long do you leave it out for? An hour? Until you’ve finished your own? Until it’s gone off? And once the offering has served its purpose, what do you do with it? Throw it out? Drink the tea yourself? These questions are also where I found the bulk of the conflicting information. Some will tell you that you can safely throw the remains in the bin, others that this is the most disrespectful way to dispose of an offering. Some will say you must bury offerings, but what if your offering isn’t perishable? Crickets. Some will tell you it’s best to consume the offering yourself, others that you must never do this because it was meant for someone else, not for you. There are different schools of thought on this, and the best answer - like so often - is to do what feels right to you. If you’re not comfortable consuming an offering once it’s done its thing, you can throw it out or maybe bury it if it’s biodegradable. If you have a compost bin or heap, that’s an option (but do your research - not all food is fine to go in the compost). If you feel that the offering is now done and exhausted, you can throw it out. Another option is to consume the offering yourself, the thinking being that it is infused with the deity’s or ancestor’s energy, so by consuming it yourself you’re taking some of that energy into yourself. This is what I do, too. I hate wasting food or drink, and I’m not about to wash a perfectly good (if now cold) cup of tea down the drain. When you’re leaving food, you don’t want it to go off (would you be thrilled to receive rotting food?), so leaving it for a day or even just an hour is perfectly fine. It’s common in some traditions to invite your ancestors or deities to dinner, so cleaning up their plate when you clean up yours makes perfect sense. The important thing is that you do whatever you decide with respect. You can likely find out what the commonly done thing was for the deity or pantheon you want to follow. It’s fine to adopt the original tradition into your practice, and I would argue that it’s another way of being respectful. How long to leave the offering for in the first place depends. You can simply leave smaller candles and incense until they’re burnt out. Larger candles you can snuff out and light again another time, and scented candles can be a great way to share a scent you love with your ancestor or your deity - especially if you know your ancestor loved the same scent! Whatever you decide, you can always thank the offering for its now-ended service when you remove it. That way, you remove it on a physical as well as on a spiritual level. If you make an offering and know you can’t leave it for long, you can clarify this when you leave it. Don’t overthink it As with everything, be honest in your approach, be yourself, be genuine, and I’m sure your ancestor or deity will appreciate no matter what you do. *** To learn more about Sarina and her books, visit her website at sarinalanger.com.  About the Author
Sarina Langer is a dark fantasy author of both epic and urban paranormal novels from the delightfully cloudy South of England. She is as obsessed with books and stationery now as she was as a child, when she drowned her box of colour pencils in water so they wouldn’t die and scribbled her first stories on corridor walls. (‘A first sign of things to come’, according to her mother. ‘Normal toddler behaviour’, according to Sarina.) In her free time, she has a weakness for books, pretty words, and spends what’s probably too much time playing video games. She believes that the best books are those where every ray of light casts a shadow  Growing up, I did not come from a religious family. We learned about religion in school - only one - and it was made to seem that it was the only one that mattered. As a pre-teen I had a hard time with it because people always seemed to fight over it, rather than try to follow it. It didn't speak to me and as I got older, I started reading about other religions. I cannot remember what age I was, but I do remember thinking to myself if other religions think that they are the 'right' one then who is right? Everyone? No one? Rather than being a scary thing, it actually felt quite freeing because I came to the realization that beliefs were just that - our own personal beliefs. If the ones I had been taught didn't speak to me, then maybe another would. I kept reading and I learned about Wicca - it was around the same time that Charmed came to TV and while I knew that was fantasy, it does have elements of Wicca in it. I loved the subject and it spoke to me in a way that other religions didn't.
I started practising at 13 and I have now been practising for 25 years! Wicca works for me because I have always had a deep respect for nature. I love that it works with nature and shows us how we are all connected. There is an emphasis on not harming others, but other than that you are free to take your own path. I find it empowering to be able to perform a ritual (for example) that can help you in a job interview. Rather than hoping or praying that you get the job (as no doubt the other candidates are doing too) the ritual works to bring out the best in you, to help you project your best self in the interview. It also teaches you that if you do not get the job, then it is not meant to be. There is no blame and something better will come along soon. I read many books over the years and researched online. I do keep my own Book of Shadows which I had specially made about a decade ago. There are many elements of Paganism in our current holiday already and it is not too hard to incorporate certain rituals into your year. If you are interested, there are so many great resources available, but don't stress too much about having all the supplies or space to work, as I see this quite frequently. It is about intention and enjoyment. Work with what you have and have fun.  Creating a Spell – Kill the Procrastination and Complete my Projects Before writing my novella Justice for an anthology I researched spell craft. Writers really do want to get it right when plotting their stories and sharing characters who might be from diverse cultures, careers or ways of life. I was intrigued by the process. I think we’ve all been exposed to ways of focusing on improving our lives in some way. Most have heard of The Secret or words like affirmations. There are a ton of self-help books to help improve how you feel about yourself and your world around you. Even James Clear’s book Atomic Habits teaches an approach to improve the results you get by creating strong habits. How do you bring about change in your life? Set goals and make a list of action items to get there? This is, in a way, announcing your intentions. Focusing on what you want and what steps you need to take to get there. In spell craft they use the word manifesting. Manifest what you want to have, or not have, in your life. Then they also build a ritual of sorts to define what they want to come about and announce it to themselves and the universe. This is commonly known as ‘casting a spell.’ There’s lots of lingo and obviously there’s whole books written about the subject. I don’t want to leave the impression that dancing in the woods, naked at midnight is what gives the spells their power. There are tools you can use when you cast your spell and even the timing of when you perform your spell. But the paramount ingredient for a spell’s success is the intention of the person casting it. The power comes from within. The witch is where the energy originates from and focuses to achieve the spell’s results. One of the ways I understood this was that we all breath. In and out, through our nose or mouth, sometimes we’re conscious of what we are doing like when we are doing yoga or meditating, but other times we aren’t even thinking about the fact that we are breathing. We just naturally know how to breathe and don’t have to focus. We all have this manifesting energy in each of us. But think about when we blow out a birthday candle. We direct our breath and force to the candle. We pucker up and basically point our breath to the base of the flame. This is how the tools and timing come into play. The tools, herbs, timing, crystals all just add a little ump by helping the practitioner to pucker their lips and direct their energy to a certain goal. The color green is associated with money in the USA. Thus, a spell for abundance could take advantage of this symbolism and utilize a green candle. Pink has an association with fertility and forgiveness. Blue is used for healing. Timing can also add umph to your spells. The waxing moon phase helps you to take action and manifest something into your life. The waning moon phase is more about decreasing, removing, or stopping something. Even days of the week are associated with certain themes. Success is associated with Sundays, waxing moon, or blue moons. The best time for healing is Thursday or Sunday, a full moon or blue moon. I was having trouble working on a particular project. Now, I’m a grown woman. I know perfectly well that I’m not going to get this multi-step goal met if I don’t even start it. Or if I do one thing and then avoid the project for two or three weeks, I’m not going to get anywhere fast. To top it off, I knew very much when I was procrastinating. I felt it was time to try to build or craft my own spell for this situation. Now one of the first things is that you have to really zero in on what you want to happen, what results are you shooting for. More importantly, why. What outcome do you really want? This is serious stuff, spells gone wrong make up many stories. Spending a day or two kicking around thoughts before you even start pulling the words and items together is worth the effort. How was I procrastinating? That was easy to identify. I was spending too much time either watching TV or on Facebook. The harder question was why was I doing this? For the writers out there, are you seeing some parallels? Outlining before you start writing helps to see if there’s enough conflict, spice and moving parts. Is this complex enough to be a whole novel? Or is it a short story? One thing I pulled inspiration from was a quote attributed to Benjamin Franklin. “Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.” I wasn’t under a strict deadline on the project. It was a self-assigned type of thing. But at the end of a day when I hadn’t made any progress on it, and only wasted time on Facebook I felt I had really let myself down. I mentally beat myself up for not being productive. This wasn’t being kind to myself either. “To fall in love with yourself is the first secret to happiness.” – Robert Marley Another thing I grasped upon was from Glennon Doyle “The secret is to not allow the fact that you can’t do everything keep you from doing something. Something, then rest.” This was similar to a Mark Twain thought… “Continuous improvement is better than delayed perfection.” I was getting down to the nitty gritty now of what approach I wanted to take. Rhyming is another of those things that increases your bang for your buck. I’m not particularly good with poetry. But I cobbled a little bit together looking at some other spells and also writing some starting sentences and then looking up words that rhyme with _____ using Google. You always want to personalize your spells to you and your situation. I wanted to start with gratitude. Working on a higher frequency is when manifestation happens. I’m grateful I have the resources to write this book. Should I need to improve my craft, I know where to look. Steady progress with the ease of water gently flowing. I witness my words on the page and progress growing. Release doubt and unease from my mind, My slow state I leave behind. Procrastination, I command you to leave me today. Magic of night, magic of day banishes all roadblocks away. Empty now all negativity And leave only action and clarity. I work with speed upon my deed. With only the highest good and harm to none This is my will, let it be done. This is tricky spell as it is doing two things simultaneously. I’m directing gaining productivity but also sending away the procrastination. In witchcraft if you want something done quick, you use fire. I will be utilizing two candles. A blue one as this color represents stimulated thinking, clarity, and concentration. This candle I will anoint with cinnamon and use sandalwood to cleanse it. Cinnamon for concentration and Sandalwood for productivity. These can be small, even birthday candles or tealights can work here. But do practice safe use. You may not have a cauldron. But a safe container such as a metal bowl or large candle holder will work. Ashtrays are also appropriate here. I will use a black candle to banish procrastination. It will be anointed with banishing oil. Pepper, salt, rosemary, and clove are the main ingredients here. I will also take a small piece of paper to represent the things I want coming and going. For procrastination I will draw a TV screen and Facebook logo. This doesn’t have to be illustrated level art. Just something that represents the thing to you. For the progress angle, I’ll draw a picture of a computer monitor as I type my novels with a computer. I will also draw a picture of a book – showing the completion. For the ritual portion I will light the candles thinking about what they represent and what future I want to come about. Freedom from self-recrimination and pride in my actions resulting in progress. I’ll recite my spell three times. When speaking the lines about the progress I will focus my attention on the blue candle. When banishing procrastination, I’ll focus on the black one. Then I will pick up the respective paper representations and light them from the appropriate candle and place them in the fire safe container and watch them burn to ash. I will reflect on the freedom I will feel when the problem is gone, and I can create a product that makes me feel proud.  About The Author
Felita Daniels is an emerging mystery author. She grew up reading all the classics. Her flagship series is The Anthony Group novels. The Case of the Sad Sons and the The Case of the Cheated Charity. She’s already working on The Case of the Bankrupt Bar due out in 2025. Writing Rachel and Artemis’s novella Justice has been a treat, and she has more up her sleeve for these two. Find out more about her writing at https://www.facebook.com/authorFelitaDaniels Hello, I'm Lyra and I was born in the north of England. My mother practiced witchcraft as I was growing up so my sisters and I were taught from an early age to connect with the earth, make altars from outside elements, use natural herbs to heal and to honour our creativity. Practices I'm passing on now to my children. I've always felt drawn to the moon, the divine feminine and stories of witches so incorporate these loves into my art, along with the passing of each season. My hope is that people see themselves and their magical path in my paintings.
Lyra's beautiful artwork is available through the link below.  Witchcraft has always been popular in movies and books. Some examples are Practical Magic, The Craft and Hocus Pocus. I'm sure many of us grew up watching these movies and wishing we had magical powers too.
Witchcraft has been growing in popularity for the last few decades. In a study in America in 1990, it was estimated that around 8000 people were students of witchcraft. In 2018, a census revealed that number had jumped to 342,000! At a time when many people are turning away from traditional religions, many are exploring witchcraft and the many paths to it - Paganism, Wicca, etc. Witchcraft is an empowering practice that offers practitioners the opportunity to take control of their lives and to live in harmony with nature. The cardinal rule is - An It Harm None, Do What Ye Will. Words we can all live by. Being respectful of nature, given the issues we currently face, teaches people to look after the world around them. We are connected to nature and it is vital that we try to limit the damage we cause to it. Witchcraft comes in many forms. Green witches are great with plants and flowers. A kitchen witch may be great at cooking up home remedies. A hedge witch prefers to work alone as opposed to with a group. But each of these types of witches try to help with their abilities. There are many books on witchcraft and if you are interested in the subject, I would suggest reading as much as possible on it. Witchcraft isn't for everyone, but it can be a very positive and empowering practice. It, like all religions and spiritualities, should be respected.  Welcome to the Not So Wicked Witch Event. For November and December, we will be featuring everything witches on our blog. We will have guest posts from authors who are interested in the craft and they will share their own personal stories.
This will run alongside our book promo on Bookfunnel. Feel free to comment on the posts if you would like to know more. Enjoy the event!  Copyright © 2019 Kat Gracey All Rights Reserved Prologue Anger courses through my veins, as I’m roused from my slumber by a knock at the door. How dare they wake me early. I rise from my bed, checking the illuminated dial of the clock on the wall. I am supposed to sleep for at least three more days. They will pay for waking me. Without the proper time to rest, I’m left in a weakened state. It is a ritual I abhor. Thankfully, it only happens once every few decades. The room is in darkness, soundproofed against outside noise. Whoever is knocking must be knocking hard enough to be heard. Not bothering to dress, I wrench open the door to find a lackey on the other side. He is trembling, his eyes cast at the floor. “The building had better be on fire,” I roar at him. He shrinks back. “No, sire. I was told to summon you at once. It’s urgent.” “By whom?” “The old woman. She says it can’t wait.” If she’s here, then it must be serious. I retrieve a shirt and pants and dress quickly. The lackey stands obediently in the hallway, still looking at the floor. As I pass him, I lash out. My fist strikes him in the face with enough force to snap his head back. It strikes the wall behind and he crumples to the floor. I pass another lackey on the way. “Clean that mess up, will you.” She is waiting for me in the study. Seated on the love seat, her face is hidden behind a long, black veil. Over the decades, she has had many names, most long forgotten. Now she is simply known as the ‘old woman’. A seer by trade, I usually summoned her when I needed her services. The fact that she had come here by herself suggested that I wasn’t going to like what she had to say. “What an unexpected surprise,” I say, not bothering to hide the anger in my voice. “You’d do well to curb that tongue of yours. Especially since I am here to offer you something that you have always wanted,” she says. Her voice is a rasp, showing her age. “And what is that?” “A way home.” I smile and lower myself into the chair opposite her. “I’m listening.” One “Skank bitch,” I muttered, as I picked the lock on Lauren Jenkins’ locker. I was going to teach her a lesson for that little stunt she pulled today. Most people know that Riley Teague shouldn’t be messed with. I have a habit of taking nasty revenge on those that do. But Lauren obviously hadn’t gotten the memo. The lock popped and I opened the door to reveal Lauren’s homecoming dress, hanging inside. I watched her hang it there earlier today. It was pale pink, all lace and frills. Gag me, I thought. I couldn’t imagine wearing something so girly. Even as a child I always refused to wear a dress. Events like homecoming were the only things bitches like Lauren cared about. “Wouldn’t it be awful if...?” I said, pouring the bottle of black ink I had stolen from art class, down the front of her dress. I could still hear half the school laughing from earlier, as she dumped her soda on me, after calling me white trash. It took two teachers to drag me away. If I had gotten the chance, I would have clawed her face off. I guess this would have to do instead. I grinned, already imaging the look on her face. I pocketed the bottle and closed the locker. A door slammed shut down the hall. The noise sounded like a gunshot. I froze in place, wondering who it could be. It was after eleven at night. I had sneaked in through the boiler room myself. It wasn’t hard; the janitors were always forgetting to lock it after their smoke breaks. I would bum a few from them, from time to time. Maybe I left the door open and the wind blew it shut? I took a step down the darkened hall, watching for any movement. If something jumped out at me, I would scream like a horror movie heroine. God, this place is creepy at night. The only thing I could see was an empty hallway, lit by a solitary emergency light. It was time to leave anyway. As I started walking, my boots sounding overly loud, I heard the door squeak open ahead of me. I quickly ducked into the gym. Footsteps headed my way. Shit, what if it’s a cop? I really didn’t need another strike against me. There was nowhere to hide in the gym, so I ran across the hardwood floor to the boy’s locker room. It was almost totally dark inside. If it was laid out like the girl’s locker room, then I could probably find my way out the other side. Not that I attended many gym classes. I moved carefully, hoping I wouldn’t trip over something and break my leg. The gym door opened. He or she was heading my way. I crouched behind a bench, opposite the showers, praying whoever it was, wouldn’t see me. I tried not to retch at the stink of this place. It was disgusting. Like sweat and old gym socks. The footsteps came closer, in the room now. A light went on, but it only illuminated the showers. I was still hidden in the darkness. I watched as he came into view. It was Kellen Riker, one of the football players. Relief flooded me; at least it wasn’t a cop. When he turned in my direction, I bit back a gasp. Kellen’s clothes, face and arms were covered in blood. Drenched in blood. He didn’t appear to be hurt, so who’s blood was it? God, did he kill someone? Kellen was on the football team, but off the field, he was a loner. He had lived in town for less than a year. What if he was a serial killer? And I’m trapped in this room with him.  Kat Gracey writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance novels featuring her two favorite supernatural beings - witches and werewolves.
She currently resides in the UK, where she enjoys yoga and catching up on her favorite shows. You can learn more about her books via her website:  Percy Ink Copyright © 2024 Arla Jones “Watch out, you little cretin!” A sturdy boy with long black bangs pushed Percy aside as they left the school bus. The next boy shoved him onto the ground. “Eat dirt!” A cackle and stomping feet, and Percy waited on the ground to see if he would get some other insults, but nothing else happened. They left him alone. He sat on the ground, grabbed his backpack, then stood up. Brushing his clothes, he slowly walked across the field to the school building. This was the fourth school this school year, and it wasn’t any better than the other ones. Percy Ink was thirteen years old, skinny, and had fine, almost girlish features. His hair was pink. That was not because of his mother’s experiences with hair colors and saving money by not visiting hairdressers, but because he’d always had that color hair. It was bright pink, like fake hair. A boy with thick pink hair was unheard of. And because his name was Percy Ink, of course, everyone called him Pink. Pink never had any friends. He was always the most unpopular boy in school because his mother had switched schools so many times that he had lost track. This year, four times, and in previous years, even more. Now, his mother had told him that he had to try to cope with this one because this city did not have any other schools for him to try out. “Stick with this one. If they bully you, then try to cope with it. Talk to your teachers. Try to make new friends.” New friends, Percy thought grimly. I don’t have any friends, no old or new ones. Percy wore a pink hoodie, a black short-sleeved T-shirt, and jeans. That was his usual outfit. His mother suggested he switch to more neutral colors like grey or black, so she bought him some grey and black clothes. Still, Percy liked pink because the color matched his hair. His ears were big and pointy like his grandfather’s. His grandfather had told Percy that he had a secret that he would share with him and had asked Percy to come and visit him after school and Percy was eager to find out what his grandfather wanted to tell him. Percy's father left when he was born. His grandfather rarely spoke of him, only hinting that his son loved Percy's mother and him deeply. When Percy asked why his father didn't stay, his grandfather promised to reveal the secret someday. Today was that day. Percy would finally learn about his father and his family, a revelation he anticipated more than starting a new school. He sighed as he walked to the front door of the new school building. He didn’t expect much. Bullying would not change. Percy's Grandfather Percy was introduced in his new homeroom, “Percy Ink.” The students started clapping their hands and desktops, shouting, “Pink, Pink, Pink.” The teacher, Mrs. Carrier, tried to calm them, but it took a while before the classroom was silent again. She pointed to the empty desk in the back of the room and told Percy, “Go sit over there, dear.” Suffering a brutal first day at his new school, Percy Ink endured relentless teasing and ridicule from his classmates. They mocked his name, calling him "Pink," and their cruel whispers and spitballs followed him throughout the day. The torment continued on the bus ride home, where he was physically attacked by several boys, leaving him battered and bruised. He was glad his mother was not home so he could sneak into his room, shower, and change into clean clothes before leaving to see his grandfather. His nature-loving grandfather lived by the forest in a small cottage. Percy had often asked why he wanted to be out there and not live near the other people, the shops, and the services, and his grandfather had replied, “I like it here. I can hear the talk of the trees, the whispers of the vines, and the buzzing of the bees. I can’t hear any of that in the village. All I hear is the people’s chatter, noisy car engines, and factory sounds. No, that’s not a place for me to live.” His grandfather’s roof was mossy, with vines covering the walls. Some toads and mice ran across the garden path as Percy approached the building. He knocked on the door, and his grandfather let him inside. “Percy! How nice to see you.” He saw the sad look in Percy’s eyes and asked, “You had a difficult time at school, didn’t you?” Percy nodded. He sat down by the kitchen table. “I’m okay.” He looked down, the corners of his mouth curved downwards. His grandfather shook his head and said, “Come outside. I have a garden growing, and I want to give you some seeds. They are special.” Percy followed him outside, and behind the building, he saw his grandfather’s herb garden. He recognized dill, basil, parsley, mint, and lemon balm. His grandfather did not stop there but waddled ahead. His back stooped, and he used a wooden cane to keep his balance. They headed deeper into the forest, where his grandfather pointed to a small opening. He had pumpkins growing there. “See those pumpkins. I have different varieties. I will give you the seeds of a special pumpkin. I want you to plant one seed on the ground for every bully or malicious person you meet. When Halloween comes, you take one pumpkin to each house as a present. They will take care of the bully for you.” He chuckled as if he knew what would happen to the bullies. The Pumpkins Percy was puzzled. How could these pumpkins help me? He had no clue what his grandfather meant, so he asked, “Can you explain?” “You have problems in every single school where you go,” his grandfather replied, tilting his head. “Am I right, hm?” “Yes, you’re right. They bullied me from the school bus to the classroom and again at the school bus,” Percy admitted and sat down next to his grandfather on a wooden bench under the trees. Percy’s grandfather used a cane when he walked, and now he pointed at the garden and his growing pumpkins. “These are not regular pumpkins.” Percy believed that. These had a shiny surface, and some of them looked like they had white spiderwebs growing over on the surface. Some had black pinstripes, and some had purple wart-looking spots on them. “Pick up the one with the white web on top of it. That has very good seeds,” his grandfather instructed. Percy stood up and went to the pumpkin patch. It felt like he had walked into an electric field. He felt pinpricks of electricity when he touched the pumpkin and quickly pulled away his hand. He glanced at his grandfather, who nodded and said encouragingly, “Go on! It won’t bite you. The black one would bite, but that’s why I didn’t ask you to pick up that one. It requires a special touch to take.” Percy kneeled and touched the pumpkin with a white web again, this time with both hands. He whispered, “I will pick you up. My grandfather said I should take you, okay?” This time, the pumpkin let him lift him in his arms with no shocks of electricity. He carried it to the bench and placed it next to his grandfather. “What next?” “Now we go back to my cottage, and we will cut it open,” his grandfather said chirpily, leaning heavily on his cane. “You will carry the pumpkin, of course,” he added. Percy followed him carrying the large pumpkin, hoping he wouldn’t trip on the twining and knotty roots that crossed their path. As he carried the pumpkin in his arms, he heard a whispering. He looked around but couldn’t see anyone. He glanced up and saw the dark canopy of leaves above. The branches of these magnificent trees reached up to the sky, trying to catch the white clouds passing by. The trunks and branches were covered with moss and spotted with lichen. Percy felt like the trees were observing, watching, and protecting the little patch of pumpkins that his grandfather had planted there, and if he had not been with him today, the trees would have stopped him if he had stolen a pumpkin with him. He rushed after his grandfather and asked, “Are these trees normal?” “Of course not,” his grandfather replied, glancing at Percy. “They are protectors, the guardians of nature, the tree men.” “Why are they here? Why do they protect you and the pumpkin patch?” Percy continued asking more questions. “They serve me, guard me and my creations like the pumpkins,” his grandfather replied as they finally reached the front yard of the cottage where he lived. “Come inside. I think it’s time you learn more about me and your father,” he added. Percy’s grandfather opened the thick wooden door with a large golden skeleton key and kept the door open for Percy to get inside with the pumpkin. “Set it on the table,” he said, and Percy followed his instructions. The pumpkin looked as if the web on its surface shone in the darkness. Percy touched the web with his finger, and the web seemed to attach to it. When he pulled his finger away, the shiny string followed his hand. “Stop that,” his grandfather ordered. When Percy was about to apologize, he realized that his grandfather was not talking to him but to the pumpkin. He scolded it, saying, “This is my grandson, Percy. You know his father, Eldridge the Great.” The pumpkin seemed to pale, and then let go of Percy’s finger and pulled the shimmering string away from his finger. His grandfather lit the oil lamp on the table. He used only oil and gas, not electricity, inside his cottage. He had no modern technology like cell phones or computers. Percy thought he was a bit old-fashioned and stubborn because his grandfather didn’t want to learn the new technology when Percy asked about that. Percy sat down and latched his eyes to the pumpkin. It looked alive. “Let’s see,” his grandfather muttered. “I need a large knife—” He didn’t have time to end his sentence when the pumpkin jumped off the table and rolled toward the doorway, planning to escape. “Grab it before it gets out!” Percy’s grandfather ordered, and Percy ran after the pumpkin. I was correct. The pumpkin is alive. It’s not a normal pumpkin at all, Percy thought as he took the pumpkin in his arms and returned it to the table. This time, he didn’t let it go but kept his hands on both sides so that he would feel it if the pumpkin moved. “Keep it still,” his grandfather ordered. Then he said something to the pumpkin in a language Percy didn’t understand and then said to Percy. “It will be still now. I told him, I will only make a small hole so that we can get the seeds out.” He came closer to the table with a large kitchen knife and carved a curvy slice on the side of the pumpkin, and said to it, “Spit them out now. My grandson needs seeds.” The slice of the pumpkin’s side moved like a mouth and spat out a pile of seeds. They were not uniform but colorful, varying from red to green and from white to black. When he had a pile of seeds on the table, Percy’s grandfather mumbled again with weird language, and the curvy slice on the side of the pumpkin closed, and it looked like nothing had ever cut it. Staring with eyes wide, Percy asked a series of questions, “What’s going on? What was the language you spoke? How can the pumpkin understand what you say? Why did it run away?” He had so many questions… Chuckling, his grandfather pulled a chair next to him and sat down. “I’m a fairy.” “A fairy?” “You heard me. Your father was a fairy. That’s why you look different than human kids, and the kids here sense that you are no ordinary kid like they are. You’re special because you’re half-fairy.” “I’m a fa-fairy?” Percy stuttered. “Just a half-fairy,” his grandfather corrected, smiling. “Your father was a fairy king, and he visited this village and fell in love with your mother. She was so beautiful. She got pregnant but didn’t know when your father was here. He had to return to rule his kingdom. He sent me to watch over you when he heard that you were born.” His grandfather looked sad and shook his head. “I never thought it would be this difficult for you. I had hoped that changing schools would help you to find a good match, but it has not. You are different. I’m not sure if it would have been any easier for you to live in a fairyland with your father. The kids there would have teased you, too, because you’re not like them. So, I guess you’ll just have to deal with the cards you’ve got. You are part of this human world and part of your father’s fairyland.” “Can I ever visit him there?” Percy asked with hope shining in his eyes. He crossed his fingers under the table, hoping his wish would come true as he had never met his father. His father had gone away before he was born, and his mother didn’t want to tell him much about him. “Perhaps one day,” his grandfather replied. The Pumpkin Seeds Percy’s grandfather rubbed his thick beard, and inside of it peaked a tiny yellow beak and beady black eyes. Percy heard a chirping sound. “What is that?” Percy’s grandfather looked down and said, smiling, “That’s my blackbird. She likes to hide inside my beard. I think she believes it’s her nest. She heard the pumpkin spitting out seeds. Those are her favorite ones. Keep an eye on her; she’ll eat all the seeds if she can.” His thick beard was the color of old branches, partly grey, green, and black. The green part in his beard was leaves. Percy had no idea what leaves were doing inside his beard, but he guessed that the bird had brought them with her. However, the more he stared at his grandfather’s beard, the more he realized that parts of it were really green, like fresh branches growing, and not just extra debris brought there by the bird. “How can your beard grow green?” Percy asked without thinking. “Because I’m a wood fairy. When we grow old, our parts like hairs and nails start to resemble the trees,” he replied and showed his wrinkly brown hands, whose nails reminded Percy of sprouts of leaves rather than human nails. “Is that hereditary for wood fairies?” Percy asked, wondering what his hair, beard, and nails would look like when he grew older if he was a part fairy. Laughing, Percy’s grandfather replied, “Yes, all wood fairies will look more like a tree when they get older.” He paused and added, “I don’t know about you. You’re a wood fairy from your father’s side but otherwise a human. We’ll just have to wait and see.” Turning his eyes to the table where the magical pumpkin seeds were, he noticed that some of them had cracked open and sprouted. “I can see a sprout,” he said, amazed. “Yes, the magical pumpkin seeds will sprout fast, and when you put the seeds on the ground, you need to tell them who they are for,” his grandfather explained, keeping his eyes on Percy’s face. “I don’t understand,” Percy replied, furrowing his eyebrows. “For example, if you have a bully on the school bus, you will tell the pumpkin to grow that seed for this bully. And so on. A seed for each one of your enemies, so to say,” his grandfather explained. “Why would I want to give them anything?” Percy mumbled. He recalled the awful first day on the bus and at school. “Because these seeds will do something you won’t believe. They will haunt the people who have bullied and laughed at you. Just wait and see. You will have to deliver one pumpkin for each of them on Halloween. Let the pumpkins grow in your yard, and don’t eat them. They will be ready by the end of October, for Halloween,” his grandfather replied. “Okay, but I still don’t understand how a pumpkin will change anything,” Percy complained. “You’ll have to trust me on that,” his grandfather said. “We are wood fairies, and we can make anything grow. Most of what we grow is special, magical if you like. My herbs are more potent than human-grown versions of the herb. Besides, I want to see that you can grow too. You are half wood fairy yourself. You should have the skill of cultivating and raising plants in you.” Turning his eyes to the seeds, his grandfather added, “Let’s get these in a bag, and you can take them home. Be careful with the sprouted ones. Make sure you don’t bend or cut off the new start.” And after they collected the seeds in a small bag, Percy said goodbye and left. Percy walked back home, dazed. His heart was racing in his chest. It had looked as if he had taken his grandfather’s revelation in stride, but he was just stupefied. He had always felt like he didn’t belong here. No, that was not exactly correct. The other children thought that he was an odd nerd. He had not realized how different he was: A fairy! What was a fairy? He had no idea except what he’d seen in movies: the tiny creatures with wings who looked like humans but who could fly. He bet that was not a correct description of a fairy. Then he recalled the movie he’d watched. Those fairies were more humanlike except for their pointy ears. He felt his ears with his fingers. They were pointy like his grandfathers. He hadn’t seen anyone else with such ears, so perhaps that was one true sign of a fairy. His ears picked up the sounds of the forest, the leaves rattling, the little critters talking, and even the sounds of the bugs on the ground. His hearing was excellent. He knew it was better than any other kids he’d met. He believed that was a fairy quality, too. He pushed his hands into his pockets, kicked an acorn on the road, and kept kicking it like a football in front of him. He fingered the little bag of seeds in his pocket. What should I do with the seeds? The instructions were weird. “Plant one for each enemy,” Grandfather had said. A wood fairy can grow anything, his grandfather had told him. I still don’t know how these seeds can help me. Why would I want to give pumpkins to my enemies? They will probably look gross. Grandfather’s pumpkins were strange black, stripy, and spotty. I could tell the receivers that they are part of special Halloween marketing, and that’s the reason they look different than normal pumpkins, Percy thought, kicking the acorn forward. When he reached his home, he stopped. Should I plant the seeds in front or in the backyard? Should I ask my mother where the best place to plant these is? Perhaps in the back is better, then no one will see them before Halloween, he thought. He had already succumbed to the planting idea. He opened the front door and went inside. His mother was not yet home. She works late tonight, Percy thought. I would like to ask her more about my father. She never wanted to tell me anything. She only said it was a one-night stand, but now I don’t believe that. She might not know about my father, but now I know. Besides, she kept in touch with my grandfather, so she must know about my father, too, Percy realized. If she was angry with my father, she wouldn’t let me talk to my grandfather, would she? He took some cheese and a slice of bread from the refrigerator, buttered the bread, and made himself a cheese sandwich with a glass of milk. He sat by the kitchen table, wondering what he should do first. He couldn’t plant the seeds willy-nilly. He needed a proper plan. He took a piece of paper and a pen and started writing a list of the people who had bullied him or been unkind to him in all the schools he had attended this and the previous semester. The names were easy to recall. Everyone on the list had pushed him to the ground, kicked him, bullied him, or teased him because of his pink hair and clothes. Magical Pumpkins Grow Fast After writing the list of all the bullies in town, he went to the backyard, made tiny holes for each pumpkin seed, and mentioned the name on the list. Soon, he had two rows of seeds planted and growing. Percy looked at his gardening work and decided it was good enough. He put the list of names in his pocket so he would recall where he planted each bully’s pumpkin, and next, he returned inside and went to the living room to watch television. However, his mind wasn’t in the movie playing on the screen but in his grandfather and fairies. He realized he had not watered the seeds after planting them, so he went back outside and opened the garden hose to spray the water. As his eyes met the piles of dirt on the ground and new sprouts already pushing up, he stopped in his place. Do pumpkins grow this fast? I just planted them. How can this be possible? Percy recalled his grandpa’s words that he was a wood fairy and that wood fairies could grow anything. I guess that was all true, he wondered, and then he watered the new saplings before returning inside. When Percy heard the key turning in the front door’s lock and his mother returned from work looking exhausted, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me that my father was a fairy?” “You’ve seen your grandfather, and he told you, didn’t he?” Percy’s mother took off her shoes and sat down to rub her feet. “Yes, he did. Why didn’t you tell me?” Percy leaned on the doorway to the living room and stared at his mother. Percy’s mother shrugged and glanced at him. “It just felt silly to tell you that your father was a fairy. I don’t think many boys want to hear something like that.” It was a simple explanation. “Is that why I’m different than the others?” Percy tilted his head and kept his eyes on his mother. “Yes, perhaps. Although, I think the bullies would bully anyone who looks different or is weaker or prettier than they are. That’s the nature of bullies,” she replied. “It happens everywhere in every school. You’re not alone. We have tried changing schools, but nothing seems to work out well.” She gave Percy a stern but concerned look and asked, “Are the other boys teasing you at school again?” “I’m fine,” Percy lied. He knew they didn’t have many choices in schools. All the other schools would be further away, and it would take more time to travel there and longer trips on the school bus, which he hated. “Did you eat anything? I can warm you some casserole leftovers from yesterday if you’re hungry,” his mother said, standing up and straightening her back. “I’m always hungry,” Percy replied, grinning. And they went to the kitchen. After his mother had the plates ready and the food heating on the stove, Percy said, “My grandpa gave me some pumpkin seeds to plant, and he wants me to give them to other people and not keep any ourselves. I planted them in the backyard.” His mother nodded, stopped stirring the food, and turned her head to stare at Percy. “Is there something special in these seeds? Are they fairy seeds?” “I guess they are,” Percy replied, adding, “He said they will help me with the bullies next Halloween. I have to go around this town and hand out them to those who have bullied me.” “Even if they are not magical seeds, that’s a nice thought, and it might help you to make friends,” his mother replied. The Pumpkins Every day after school and then when the summer break started, Percy kept watering his pumpkins. He loved to see little yellow flower buds and watch them open into a star-shaped beauty. The dark green leaves were large, covering the flowers under them. His grandfather taught him a little song to entice the bees, the butterflies, and the hummingbirds to come and enjoy the flowers and pollinate them properly. Percy’s grandfather gave him some powder to sprinkle around the perimeters of the pumpkin patch to keep the harmful bugs away. He also insisted that Percy learn another song to keep the squirrels and other critters away from the pumpkins. “You must sing this once a week; otherwise, you might find out that someone had taken a bite of your pumpkin, and then the pumpkin would rot and die. You’ve come so far with these pumpkins that you have to follow my instructions to the end.” Percy thought singing to a pumpkin patch was silly, but he did as his grandpa told him to do and hummed to the patch while watering it. The next morning, the backyard was busy with bees, white and yellow butterflies, and tiny hummingbirds. Percy was pleased. He would try anything to get the bullies to leave him alone. If this helped, then it would be worth all this trouble. However, he didn’t want his mother to hear him singing, so he only did it when she worked late. At the end of the summer, he saw tiny, colorful pumpkins form under the leaves. They were not all orange; some were black, green, spotty, and dark red. The pumpkins grew well but not as fast as the plants had done. It seemed that the pumpkins knew that they had to be ready on the 31st of October and not any sooner. The next school year started the same way as the previous one ended. Percy was pushed against the wall, and his books were thrown onto the floor, and no one cared to stand up to help him. He never cried or said anything to these bullies, which made them angrier, and they tried to get him to show his emotions. Percy never complained or asked them to stop. He knew it wouldn’t help. They would continue bullying him. When his mother saw him coming home after the first day of school, his bag torn and his clothes dirty, she sighed. “They are still bullying you, aren’t they?” “Yes, they always do.” Percy looked defeated with his hunched back. His mother’s eyes followed his stooped figure as he went quietly to his room. He glanced outside to his backyard and saw the growing pumpkin plants. The pumpkins were now bigger than his fist, and he could see them from his window. “Can you help me?” he whispered through the window as he stared at the pumpkins. A breeze came from nowhere, and the large leaves waved at him. He was sure the leaves waved and responded to him. He tried again, “You are growing fast. Will you be ready by Halloween?” Again, the leaves waved in the wind. And the wind calmed down right after that. Where did the wind come from? Or was it all just fairy magic? Percy wondered. All Hallows’ Eve Finally, the month of October had ended, and All Hallows’ Eve was here. Percy had a half day at school, and when he got home, he took his bike and went to see his grandfather again for final instructions on what to do with the pumpkins. They had grown enormously. Some were the size of his head, and some were smaller, like the size of a football. All the pumpkins were different colors, patterns, and shapes. Some were round, some oval, and some were flattened in the middle. His grandfather sat on a bench in front of his tiny cottage. He wore a brown tunic with a hoodie and had his wooden cane next to him. “Percy, how nice to see you. I bet you will be busy tonight.” He winked at him, and Percy gave him a weak smile. He still didn’t know what, if anything, the pumpkins would do. Percy sat next to his grandfather on the wooden bench and said, “The pumpkins grew well, and they all look different. What should I do with them next?” “You will deliver them one by one. Remember to deliver the right pumpkin to the right person. Don’t mix them up because these are magical pumpkins; they recall what you told them when you planted them on the ground. You have to be sure that you hand them out correctly.” His grandfather looked stern as he said that. “Do I have to deliver the pumpkin to the person who bullied me, or can I just leave it at the bully’s home address?” Percy asked. He really didn’t want to meet any of his bullies face to face in his free time. “You can deliver the pumpkin to their home address. That’s fine. The pumpkin will know what to do if it is in the right place. It will help you to get your revenge,” his grandpa replied. “My revenge? I’m not sure I want revenge. I just want them to leave me alone,” Percy protested. Revenge could lead to retaliation, and everything would be even worse. “They will leave you alone after this. Believe me. A wood fairy’s word,” he said, glaring at Percy. “You’ll be respected after this. You won’t have to run away or hide. They will stay away from you, I promise.” “I hope that’s true,” Percy said quietly. His grandfather took a small pocketknife from his tunic and handed it to Percy. “Use this when you cut the pumpkin from the plant. Don’t trample any of the vines or the leaves; the pumpkins won’t like that. You have to respect them so they will do what you ask them to.” “Okay, I can cut them carefully without breaking any vines or leaves.” Percy took the knife and turned it around in his hand. The handle was carved with figures that looked like vines and trees. “Is this a special knife?” “Yes, it belongs to your family. Your father sent it to you. It has wood fairy magic.” “Thank you.” Percy pocketed the knife and then turned to face his grandfather. “If he can send gifts here, then why can’t he come, or why can’t I go there where he is now?” Sighing, his grandfather patted his back. “Traveling back and forth between two realms is not easy. Your father did it once, but he doesn’t want to do it again. He can send items through the portal between realms. That’s easier than physically visiting the other world.” Percy nodded. It made sense. He decided to visit his father one day regardless of how dangerous it was. He wanted to see where his father lived and where his ancestors came from. “But can I visit him?” “Yes, but you might not be able to return here if you go there. What would your mother do then?” His grandpa tilted his head and studied Percy’s face. “She would be devastated if she loses you.” “I guess I couldn’t leave her,” Percy admitted. “She could come with me. I’d love to have our family together.” “Hmm, I see what you think. Nothing is easy in life. You can dream about a journey to your father’s world, but I would not suggest going there. It wouldn’t be any different for you there than here because you’re only half-fairy. You’d be teased because you are not like the other fairies.” Percy’s grandfather saw the sadness in Percy’s eyes and said, “We will talk about it some other time. Now, it’s time for you to go and deliver the pumpkins.” Percy stood up and said, “I hope you’re right that the pumpkins will help me to get rid of bullies because I don’t know what else to do. I can’t keep changing schools all the time.” “Believe me. The pumpkins will do what they are meant to do,” his grandpa said and watched as Percy took his bike and waved goodbye. Poor boy, Percy’s grandpa thought as he watched Percy drive away. He’s stuck between two worlds, and no one accepts him as he is. He is a kind and lovable boy. He should be treated better. The Delivery On his journey, halfway back home, Percy suddenly realized he had overlooked a crucial detail. He needed to consult his grandfather regarding what to do with the pumpkins before he delivered them. With a swift turn of his bike, he raced back to his cottage. Arriving in haste, Percy called out to his grandfather, who promptly emerged from the cottage. Breathless and anxious, Percy blurted, “Grandpa, I forgot to ask if I should carve faces into the pumpkins!” His grandfather, wearing a mischievous grin, replied, “Ah, Percy, you can certainly carve them if you wish, but it’s not a necessity. If you do decide to carve, remember to use the special knife I gave you. It imparts additional magical powers to the pumpkins,” he added, winking slyly. “Thank you, Grandpa! I must hurry now; there’s so much to do before tonight,” Percy said as he spun his bike around and sped back in the direction he had just come from. Percy left the kitchen lights on at home, went to the backyard, and carefully selected a large pumpkin adorned with faint yellow stripes and green spots. He consulted his list to ascertain to whom this particular pumpkin belonged, took out his knife, and started carving. He decided to carve the face fast, nothing fancy or detailed, because he had many pumpkins to deliver around the town. Outside, it was still light and would be for several hours. He cut the pumpkin from its vine, carefully avoiding walking on any vines of leaves, carried it inside to the kitchen, and placed it on the rustic wooden table to await its transformation. There, he sat hunched over a Halloween pumpkin, his eager eyes reflecting the pumpkin before him, clutching a well-worn pocketknife, its blade glistening in the kitchen light. With deliberate care, the boy’s small hands gripped the knife’s handle as he studied the pumpkin’s surface. His brow furrowed in concentration as he envisioned the face he wished to carve. His fingers, guided by excitement and nervousness, traced the outlines of a jagged grin on the pumpkin’s surface. The pocketknife’s blade began its meticulous dance, slicing through the pumpkin’s flesh with a soft, rhythmic scrape. Percy felt like an invisible hand was guiding the knife, making fast slashes and creating something wild and magical, much faster than he could have done with any ordinary knife. As he carved, the boy’s face mirrored the emotions he was etching onto the pumpkin – a wide, mischievous grin with sharp, triangular teeth. Each blade stroke brought the eerie smile to life, one cut at a time. Occasionally, the boy paused to assess the work, sweat glistening on his forehead as he continued the intricate work. The pumpkin’s innards, a slimy tangle of seeds and pulp, were scooped out and set aside, making room for the flickering candle to illuminate the newly formed features. The boy’s knife moved skillfully, shaping eyes that seemed to glint with an otherworldly light. Finally, he completed the sinister visage by cutting out a crooked, triangular nose. With a sense of accomplishment and a touch of awe, Percy stood up and stepped back to admire his handiwork. The once faceless pumpkin had been transformed into a haunting jack-o’-lantern, its eerie expression now a testament to the boy’s Halloween spirit and a harbinger of the spooky festivities to come. The thought of delivering the first pumpkin to the home of the notorious bully weighed heavily on Percy’s mind. With determination and purpose, he cradled the pumpkin in his arms, feeling its heavy weight. Leaving the comfort of his home, Percy looked determined, his steps echoing with both resolve and a hint of anxiety. He trusted his grandfather, but he feared facing the bully. Luckily, he didn’t have to go far, just a few blocks. The large and imposing pumpkin felt like an appropriate offering to match the magnitude of the bully’s mean reputation. As he arrived at the bully’s residence, Percy carefully placed the pumpkin on the side of the driveway, a silent but poignant message. It was a gesture of peace, a plea for understanding, or perhaps a challenge, all wrapped into one silent act. With a lingering glance at the pumpkin, Percy quickly retreated, anxious to move on to the next pumpkin in his mission. And so, the hours passed, each marked by Percy’s unwavering commitment to his task. With dedication, he continued to carve pumpkins one by one, each destined for the doorstep of a different bully. Now a blazing orange orb on the horizon, the sun cast long shadows across the neighborhood, signaling the approaching end of a long and exhausting day. Fatigue weighed on Percy as he neared the conclusion of his mission. His hands were sore from the carving, his heart heavy from the emotional journey he had undertaken. Yet, as the last rays of sunlight painted the sky with hues of orange and pink, he found solace in the knowledge that he had completed his job. Percy had no idea how the magic in pumpkins would work. He guessed these pumpkins would draw their magic from the fairyland, and because they were delivered to his bullies, he suspected there was a malice curse or an evil spirit attached to the seeds he had planted and grown into pumpkins. The Fairy Magic As the evening cast its gentle shadows, Percy sat comfortably in the kitchen, savoring a cheese and tomato sandwich. As he relished each bite, his thoughts fluttered toward the mystery of the pumpkins. Throughout the summer, Percy had dedicated himself to the diligent care of those pumpkins, nurturing them with devotion. Tirelessly, he had ensured that the summer heat didn’t parch their roots and that insatiable bugs didn’t feast upon their dark green leaves and sprawling vines. The task had become more than a mere chore; it had evolved into a passionate pursuit, and Percy had unwittingly transformed himself into a skilled and caring gardener. As Percy chewed on his sandwich, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. His toil and devotion had borne fruit – or, in this case, pumpkins. Yet, anticipation washed over him as the night grew darker and the stars twinkled. What if, just maybe, these pumpkins harbored a secret, waiting to reveal itself on a night like tonight, on All Hallows’ Eve, as his grandfather had promised him? With each passing moment, Percy’s curiosity deepened. He couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight, something exciting might happen, and his life might take a bewitching turn due to the fairy magic that he knew floated in his veins just like his grandfather had told him. Percy stood up and walked to the kitchen window. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the moon ascended. This is the time when the pumpkins should show their magic, he thought. Even though he wasn’t there to see the pumpkins, their enchantment stirred, causing them to emit an eerie, luminescent glow from within. This ethereal radiance was a signal that they had awakened, ready to weave their ingrown fairy magic upon the residents of the houses where they were delivered. As the evening continued and the darkness deepened, the magical pumpkins emitted silver-tinged gas, which swirled through the air like a spectral mist. This gas carried a potent fairy magic that affected those who encountered it. Those who inhaled this mystical vapor found themselves succumbing to a series of vivid hallucinations that would make them see supernatural and eerily realistic creatures like spectral witches, werewolves, ghosts, goblins, and monsters and overwhelming all their senses. As Percy stared outside, he saw one of his bullies, the same sturdy boy with long black bangs who had pushed him down to the ground on the first day at school, running out of his house, looking scared and screaming for help. He kept glancing over his shoulder as if he thought someone was following him. The bully boy was dressed like Dracula for Halloween, but now he looked pale as snow as he ran along the sidewalk. “Help! The monsters are chasing me! Anyone, please, help me!” A couple of adults stopped him, trying to ask what was wrong, but he just pointed behind him and said, “Don’t you see them? They are right there coming after me! I will be dead if they catch me!” As the adults didn’t see anyone nearby, they were convinced that it was just the boy’s imagination in play. They shook their heads and walked away. Curious, Percy kept watching the events folding outside. The next one of his pumpkin victims appeared panting and puking on the side of the road. He also asked for help from the adults he met. He explained that witches with glowing eyes and flowing robes stirred cauldrons of shimmering potions in his front yard, and they had forced him to eat bats’ legs and moldy cabbage from her cauldron. The adults laughed. “Funny story! Keep at it,” they told him. They believed that he was acting because it was All Hallow’s Eve. None of the adults noticed anything extraordinary, even if both boys swore ghosts and monsters were around. Percy went outside to see the pumpkins at work. He walked along the street, checking up on the houses where he had delivered the pumpkins. At each home, he saw the bully emerging outside, crying, screaming, pleading for help, or curling up in their yard, fearing the supernatural powers working around them. The next victim came running out and explained that he saw ethereal processions of ghostly figures, all shrouded in mist, parading through the walls of his home. They had wanted to take him with them to the other side, to the land of the ghosts. He had run out when he figured out what the ghosts wanted. One bully sat on the sidewalk holding his head as terrifying monsters emerged from the dark corners of his mind, their growls and roars shaking the very foundation of his sanity. As Percy strolled ahead, viewing the power of pumpkins, his grandfather appeared next to him. He hadn’t heard him coming, but suddenly he was there. “Are you pleased with the pumpkins’ power?” Grandfather turned his head to Percy and stared at him with his eyes shining with fairy magic. “Yes, I guess,” Percy replied. “I don’t know if this will stop the bullying.” “It might. And if it doesn’t, then we’ll work out something else. If these bullies don’t want to lose their sanity, they will stop what they have been doing,” his grandfather replied. “Fairy magic is powerful; you have only given them a tiny taste tonight.” The pumpkin-induced hallucinations were petrifying as they blurred the line between the normal world and the supernatural. The bullies found themselves caught in a tormenting dilemma, their hearts torn between the intoxicating allure of fear and the instinctual urge to flee from the nightmarish apparitions that haunted their senses. The supernatural visions were both tempting and repellant, beckoning them further into the abyss while urging them to retreat from the unknown. Their transformation was palpable. No longer did they swagger down the school hallways with the same arrogance. The once-feared bullies, who had reveled in their dominance, now hesitated to venture anywhere alone, haunted by the memories of the paranormal visions that had left their minds scarred. They refused to be the first to enter a dimly lit room or explore shadowy corridors. Their newfound anxiety and vulnerability were apparent to all, and the bullies were now objects of pity rather than terror. As the shadows continued to dance in the corners of their minds, the bullies’ once-mighty careers as tormentors faded into obscurity, forever altered by the magic of that unforgettable All Hallows’ Eve. *** Percy’s life unfolded in the human realm, where he lived with his mother and attended school like any ordinary child. However, hidden beneath the facade of his everyday existence, a yearning dwelled within him—a secret wish to journey to the enchanting fairyland and reunite with his fairy father. In the quiet moments, when the world was still and his heart whispered dreams, Percy would confide in his grandfather. “I didn’t know the pumpkins would be so powerful. The bullies have changed. I can live now with my mother without being afraid of them. It’s the first time in this world this has happened.” The old fairy would listen to him. “That’s what I hoped. Fairy magic is powerful. Maybe someday you will visit your father with me and learn more about the magic we can create.” “I’d like that.” Percy’s smile brightened his face. His grandfather advised Percy. "You'll have to grow here and learn the ways of this human world before you can enter the fairyland. And that moment has not yet arrived." Patience was the virtue Percy would have to master, for the clock of fate ticked to its rhythm, and the fairyland would remain beyond his reach for now.  Meet Arla Jones, a multi-genre author hailing from the picturesque landscapes of Finland, now making waves in the literary world from the tranquil shores of Michigan.
With a penchant for exploring diverse genres, the author captivates readers with tales that traverse the realms of mystery, romance, thriller, sci-fi, and fantasy, weaving intricate narratives that transport audiences to worlds both familiar and fantastical. When not penning captivating stories, the author enjoys gardening and painting.  A MEAL BEFORE DYING (an excerpt from GOING BACK TO FIND YOU) The Thursday before Halloween… “I’m not sure about these candles.” Hailey Conner Bennett gazed critically at the lamps Lizbeth Petersen had painstakingly arranged on the steps leading up to the door of her brightly painted wooden caravan. “How do you mean?” Liz was pleased that she was able to keep the snarl from her voice. A big orange cat had wandered over while she and Hailey were talking. When it started pawing at the little glass cups Liz shooed it away. “Not sure about what?” “I’m not sure they’re a good idea.” Which was tantamount to saying nothing. Liz counted to ten and forced a polite smile. “Why is that?” “Well, they’re a fire hazard.” A faint crease between Hailey’s brows revealed an uncertainty that the predator in Liz found irresistible—in a chase-her-down-and-drain-her-blood kind of way. “Don’t you think? I’m sure the fire marshal will. Especially with all the children who’ll be running around.” Fair enough. Sapphire Falls first annual Halloween Festival had definitely been postured as a family-friendly event. And as the former mayor and current Director of Tourism, Hailey had both a point and a legitimate reason to involve herself in Liz’s business. But, all the same, Liz had to appreciate the irony. Being a vampire, she was undoubtedly much more concerned about the possibility of fire than even the most scrupulous of fire marshals. “Not to worry. I’m using flameless candles. They might look real, but they’re battery-operated LED lights. The best part is that they’re all on automatic timers, which should look suitably spooky to any of the children who happen to be around when they start going on or off by themselves. Spooky or magical,” Liz said, correcting herself. “Depending on their outlook, I suppose.” “Oh, good. I guess I should have realized you’d have thought of something so basic.” “I wouldn’t be much of a psychic if I couldn’t intuit that. Besides…” Liz felt a surge of pride as she patted the exterior of her cottage on wheels. “I have to protect my investment. This is my home, you know, as well as my livelihood.” Hailey’s gaze swept the camper once more. “You don’t live in it, do you? Full time?” “Yes and yes.” Liz chuckled at the surprised expression on Hailey’s face. “Listen, I spent more years than you need to know about stuck in one place, dreaming of the day I could just pick up and go anywhere or anytime I felt like it. Now that day is here, and I’m determined to make the most of it.” Hailey shook her head. “I couldn’t do that. Not just because Sapphire Falls is my home, I’d get claustrophobic.” “It does take a certain temperament,” Liz agreed. She studied the woman for a moment, trying to disguise her hunger. Hailey was so poised and polished. She was young, healthy, strong—just the way Liz liked her meals. It was all she could do not to drool. “You probably have closets bigger than this.” A frown creased Hailey’s brow. “I don’t know why you’d say that.” “Professional psychic, remember?” “Oh. Right.” Hailey continued to look uncertain, which Liz suspected was an uncomfortable state for a woman who was so clearly used to being in control. She smiled reassuringly. “It’s okay to admit it. You won’t hurt my feelings.” “Well, in that case…” Hailey’s own smile reasserted itself. “You might be right.” “Maybe you’d like to see inside?” Liz held out her hand invitingly. She let a hint of compulsion bleed through her voice. Her fangs pulsed in anticipation when Hailey responded, moving toward her in a dreamlike manner. “That’s it. Come on up. Let me show you around.” Liz stepped back, moving out of the way so Hailey could enter. She did so hesitantly, blinking in surprise as she glanced around the interior of Liz’s new home. “Wow. This place is amazing.” “Thank you,” Liz replied, surreptitiously pressing the door’s secret latch so they wouldn’t be interrupted. She took a moment to cast her gaze around the room as well, trying to see the place from Hailey’s perspective. Satisfaction surged. It was amazing. She was enormously proud of the job she’d done. After Felicia’s death had freed Liz to make her own decisions, she’d taken her share of the clan’s inheritance money and used it to commission a custom mobile home loosely based on a traditional Romani vardo. She’d paid a pretty penny for all the little extras. Hand-carved wooden panels covered the interior walls, their Art Nouveau curves picked out in gold. The velvet drapes and repurposed oil lamps gave the room a mysterious air while keeping it comfortably dark. Her bedroom was a marvel of vampire engineering, arranged to be as cool and lightproof as possible, its entrance hidden, like the lock she’d just engaged, to keep the curious from entering and the nervous from escaping. With the addition of an extra-large shower and mini fridge—crucial for cleaning up accidents and storing emergency rations—she was all set. And with the money she hoped to earn at this weekend’s festival, she would finally leave Nebraska behind her to see some of the rest of the country, maybe even make it out to the coast before she died. She refocused on Hailey, only to find that the woman had drifted alarmingly close to the little table Liz had set with a crystal ball, her favorite deck of cards and a jet and amber pendulum that had belonged to her grandmother. “Don’t touch those,” she cautioned. The sound of her voice made her cringe. She hadn’t intended to speak so sharply. Hailey cocked an eyebrow. “Something wrong?” Liz felt herself flushing. Barking at one’s dinner was never a good idea. And, really, why should Hailey know anything about energy flow or protocol? Why would she even assume Liz was genuine? Even among other vampires, Liz had encountered ignorance and skepticism aplenty until she’d proven herself and won their respect. She should be used to it by now. She was used to it. It was just that ever since Felicia’s death, Liz’s moods had been growing more and more mercurial. Feral. The word shivered through her consciousness, sparking fear, despair and resentment. After all this time, when she was so close to achieving her dreams, she was losing her mind. She forced another smile. “Sorry. You can touch the cards, if you’d like. But the other tools have been cleansed and consecrated for my own personal use. If you touch them, I’ll have to clear them again to remove your energy signature.” “Sorry.” Hailey pulled her hand back. “I didn’t know.” She gazed at the table for a moment then turned to Liz, her expression curious. “So, if I might ask, how did you learn all of this? Did someone teach you? Is it something you’re born with?” “A little of both, actually.” Liz shrugged. “At least in my case. Psychic ability runs in my family. My mother’s people have always been witches.” “Always?” Liz grinned. “Well, to be honest, I can only trace my family lineage back for about three hundred years, but—” “Only three hundred years?” Hailey shook her head. “That’s impressive!” “I suppose.” It would have been more impressive if the bulk of that wasn’t her own personal history. Obviously, Hailey wouldn’t have any way to know that. “I was thrilled when you contacted me about taking part in our festival,” Hailey confided. “Especially since it was my idea to run those ads you responded to. Now that we’ve met, I’m even more excited. I know everyone’s going to love having their fortunes told by a real professional. Which is not to suggest the other fortune tellers aren’t genuine, but your setup is so unique.” “Thank you.” Liz said, uncomfortably aware that it wasn’t Hailey’s ad that had inspired her, and that she was far from being what anyone would call a professional. Up until now, most of her readings had been done for free, a few for barter, and the rest at Felicia’s express command. Felicia had never grown tired of boasting about how she’d outwitted Liz’s grandmother, how the older woman’s supposedly greater powers had been no match for her own. Liz had never been able to convince Felicia that she’d done no such thing. As Granny would have been the first to tell her, being able to see the future didn’t mean you could change it; only a fool would tempt fate by trying. Though she’d said from the start that both Liz and her brother Robert were marked for darkness, Granny had never really explained what she thought that meant. Maybe she was trying to spare them. But it was exactly that kind of cryptic remark—never elaborated or acted upon—that had prompted Liz to ignore the old woman’s warnings in the first place, to strike out on her own, and end up in Felicia’s clutches. Prophecies, as Liz had learned the hard way, were often self-fulfilling. After that debacle, Liz had given up reading for herself. Who needed the disappointment of false hope? Or the paralyzation brought about by unwarranted fear? Sufficient unto the day is the evil therein—that was her motto, and she was sticking to it. But for right now, doing readings for others could help fund her travels, would provide them with value, and keep her well-fed. Where was the bad? And speaking of staying fed… “Why don’t you have a seat?” Liz murmured, moving closer to where Hailey stood. She placed a hand on the other woman’s shoulder and urged her into one of the chairs. “Pick up the cards, and I’ll show you how it’s done.” * * * After Hailey left Liz’s wagon, just slightly unsteady on her feet, a few ounces lighter—something she’d likely appreciate when she stepped on her scale tomorrow morning—and with no clear memory of what had taken place, Liz sat on her front stairs and gazed out at the night. The cat had come back, and she petted it absently. This was hardly her first visit to Sapphire Falls. She’d come here repeatedly over the years, though not often enough to attract attention. She’d watched successive generations of the local population grow up and die and be replaced by others just like them. She loved it here. But in just a few more days, she’d be on her way. Off to see the world. She wondered if any of it would live up to her expectations. Sapphire Falls is my home, Hailey had said; Liz envied her. She couldn’t recall ever having felt that way about any place. Thinking about that was too depressing, however, so she decided to concentrate on the cat. Mostly orange with white paws, he had a large scar behind his left ear. If he could talk, she imagined he’d have some interesting stories to tell. He crawled into her lap, purring loudly, but even with the distraction, Liz found her mind drifting back to her own problems. It was possible she could live for several more years, or even several decades—assuming she kept herself fed and somehow avoided running into anyone who wanted to kill her. She’d heard of other feral vampires who’d done it; hopefully, those weren’t just urban legends. But “possible” and “likely” were two different things. She took a deep breath, and another look around, trying hard to appreciate what she did have. What she had was tonight, a furry new friend, her pretty new wagon. And this place—which she’d always been fond of. If she were human, she’d absolutely want to settle in Sapphire Falls. But she was finding this Halloween festival unexpectedly stressful. Maybe she’d feel better once it was fully dark. Although really, with all the houselights and streetlights, the pumpkin-shaped lanterns illuminating the gazebo, and even her own ersatz candles just blinking to life, she doubted it would ever be truly dark here. Not like she remembered from years gone by. She missed those nights with an ache that reached all the way to her bones. She missed sitting by the riverbank waiting in blissful anticipation of what the night would bring. The sand would be cool and soft between her bare toes. Her ears would strain, hearing only the sound of the river at first, grumbling to itself as it stumbled over rocks along its way to join with the Missouri. Then a rustling in the leaves would draw her attention, would whisper a warning. Her heart would pound. Her breath would catch. She’d pick up the faint slap of footsteps approaching. She’d rise and turn and… There’d be the heat of another’s body pressed tight against her own. Strong arms banding around her… The cat on her lap kneaded her leg. His claws punctured her skin through the thin fabric of her skirt. Liz let down her fangs and hissed at him. He laid back his ears and stared back at her, but he didn’t seem inclined to bite, so she resumed petting him and forced her mind back to the present, to the pleasant view before her, all the colorful decorations, and felt her jangled nerves respond—but not in the way she’d wanted. A discordant hum of voices carried on the night air. The scent of prey came from every direction. From families, safe in their houses, settling into their evening routines. From tourists walking the deserted streets, heading to the diner or the bar, or back to their hotels. Her stomach grumbled. Her fangs ached with need. She’d only just eaten. How could she be hungry again this soon? Her growing appetite was a problem. Her need to ingest copious amounts of blood on an increasingly frequent basis had been getting worse for months. When Felicia died, Liz, and all her family, had been shocked. It was the end of life as they’d known it. Everything was different now. Everything had changed. But for the longest time, they hadn’t really grasped what all those changes would mean. As their disbelief faded, it left behind an undeniable feeling of elation. They were free! For the first time in ages, they could make their own decisions. Shock soon gave way to a sense of purpose and, for a short period of time, everyone in the family worked together, joyously pooling their talents. New lives and new dreams began to take shape. That halcyon period didn’t last long. All too soon, everyone’s tempers began to unravel. Then their nerves, their appetites, their minds—they began losing control of everything. Vampires weren’t meant to be on their own, to make their own decisions. When they’d been turned, it seemed as though some indefinable part of their soul had been broken. Some quality that had made them human had been either mangled or destroyed. Their minds could no longer cope with freedom. Fights broke out between them. Things were said that could never be taken back—if they even wanted to. Mostly they didn’t. More and more often, they began to avoid each other, to go their own way. As though by keeping their distance from one another they could keep from acknowledging what they knew to be true. The worst had happened. They were turning feral. The sound of a scuffle reached Liz’s ears. She jumped to her feet, startling the cat, who leapt down the stairs and disappeared into the shadows. Liz ignored him, focusing on the sounds, the smells…A grunt of fear. A hint of venom. A whiff of blood. Food. Her predator mind took over. She hiked up her skirt and ran toward the gazebo. The structure had been given the full-on holiday decor treatment. Liz found herself barreling through the pumpkins, leaping over hay bales and dodging potted mums before landing in a crouch just feet from her prey. Shock and recognition pulled her to her feet. “Rob? What are you doing?” She hadn’t seen her younger brother and nest-mate in over a month. Clearly, he’d gone out of his mind in her absence. He had to be crazy to be feeding like this. Out in the open, this early in the evening, with a victim who was un-entranced, un-subdued, and obviously unwilling—it wasn’t just wrong, it went against every survival instinct he should have possessed. “Stop that. Now!” Rob’s eyes blazed as he turned his head and loudly hissed. “Go ’way, Lizbeth.” What? No. Liz opened her mouth to argue, to pull rank, to be the voice of reason they both desperately needed her to be, but what emerged was a sub-vocal growl that had the bats veering away at explosive speed. Her lips pulled back in a snarl that left her fangs exposed and glaringly visible. The woman in Rob’s arms shrieked. Too late, Liz slapped a shaking hand over her own mouth. Robert stared at her, his expression stunned. She watched as he pulled himself together, then focused on the woman struggling in his grasp, whispering soothing words until she stilled. He bent his head to kiss her, then dipped lower, running his tongue along her neck, sealing the small punctures he’d made. Finally, he let her go. “I’m sorry,” he said, his charming smile just the right shade of rueful. “Did we scare you? My sister and I are actors. We’ve been hired to work at the haunted house this weekend. We’ve been practicing, trying to stay in character. You know how it goes. I guess we got a little carried away.” “Yeah, you d-d-did.” The woman stuttered in reply. “You’re g-gonna be great. B-b-break a leg, or…whatever.” Then she turned and fled. “Fucking hell,” Rob muttered as they watched her go, headed toward the relative safety of the costume shop, one of the few businesses open this late. “That’s a meal I couldn’t afford to skip.” Liz glared at her brother. “Are you crazy?” “Yes, Liz.” Robert slumped on the bench that circled the gazebo and raked his hand through his hair. “I’m crazy. You’re crazy. We’re all completely nuts. Isn’t it obvious?” “I’m not crazy.” “You’re not?” Robert’s laugh held a nasty edge. “Did you or did you not just expose your fangs to an un-entranced human?” “An un-entranced human you’d been feeding from! In public!” Robert slumped forward. “Don’t remind me. Shit.” “You can’t—” “I know!” Liz bit back the rest of her complaint. Her brother’s voice was so raw it tore at her heart. “I’m just…tired, Lizzie. So tired. And hungry. And angry. I’m angry all the time.” “Hangry,” Liz replied in agreement. “I know. Me, too.” “Don’t.” Robert’s lip curled in disgust. “Enough with the stupid slang. It’s the worst thing about this new century.” “Well, maybe not the worst thing…” “It is,” Rob insisted irrationally. “The absolute worst. There’s nothing I hate more.” Liz sat beside him. She refused to be drawn in. There were plenty of things worse than slang. But she would not engage in such a ridiculous argument. “Really, though, what’s going on? What’s wrong?” “You know what’s wrong,” Rob snapped. Then he sighed and tried again. “It’s the hunger mostly. I can’t keep up with it. No matter what I do, how often I feed, I’m always hungry. And even when I can feed, I’m almost afraid to.” Liz frowned. “Afraid?” “Of what I might do. Maybe I’ll take too much or stop too late. Maybe I’ll drain somebody without realizing. It’s why I skimp on the venom.” “That was intentional?” No one intentionally skimped on venom; it was suicidal. If word got out, if humans actually started to believe in vampires; it would be the end of everything, their entire way of life. None of them would know a moment’s peace or safety ever again. “Tell me you’re joking?” Rob shook his head. “Did it look like I was joking?” “Rob…” “If my prey’s unconscious, what’s to keep me from going too far? How can I be sure I’ll stop in time?” He shot Liz a stubborn look. “I wipe their memories when I’m finished. There’s no real harm done. So, what’s the problem?” “No harm?” “No real harm, yeah. Just a few uncomfortable moments that they won’t even remember.” Rob glared at her. “Don’t act all sanctimonious, Miss Fang. I’m sure you’re just as bad. Or, if not, you will be soon. I know I’m not the only one who’s going through this shit. Maybe I’m more honest about it than you, but we’re all having these problems. Everyone I talk to says the same thing.” Liz hesitated. She wasn’t. Yet. Unless she was and had been wiping her own memory afterward. Was that even possible? Was this a sign of things to come? Oh, gods, would it really come to that? “Come back to my place with me,” she urged. “I have some bagged blood. I know it’s not the same as fresh but—” She broke off as Rob made retching sounds. “Not the same? Lizzie, it’s awful!” “C’mon, it’s not that bad.” “It is, too!” Rob shook his head. “It’s vile. I’d rather starve.” Liz refrained from pointing out the sad reality. Rob would be lucky if he lived long enough to starve. In all likelihood, he’d find himself on the sharp end of a stake long before then. “At least try it. It’s better than what you’ve been doing.” “No!” “Okay, fine. We won’t talk about it anymore.” Liz cast around for a less contentious topic of conversation. “So why are you here?” “Here?” Rob looked at her blankly. “In Sapphire Falls.” It wasn’t that far from home, but it was a fair drive just the same. He shouldn’t have had to travel this far just to feed. Rob eyed her slyly. “I’m probably here for a lot of the same reasons you are.” “Really? Setting out to see the world, are you? Hoping to make a little pocket change over the weekend?” “Tourists, Lizzie; the very large, very temporary food supply. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed them. They’re all around us. And the weekend’s just getting started.” He smacked his lips and smiled in a way Liz did not find reassuring. “You’re not saying there’s no food at home, are you?” That couldn’t be so. If Rob and the others had exsanguinated all of Merrick County…surely, she’d have heard about it. “Funny. Of course there’s food. But as it happens…I like variety.” If so, it was the first she’d heard of it. “Then why don’t you come with me when I leave next week?” she suggested. “We’ll travel the festival circuit. There’ll be new tourists at every stop, all shiny and uneaten.” “And each of those stops will put you in some other vampire’s territory, won’t they?” Rob replied, predictably. They’d had this discussion before. “No, thank you.” “I still say it’s better than staying here.” “And I still say you’re wrong. Tell me one way in which it’s better. It certainly isn’t safer.” “Maybe I’m not looking for safe.” “No, I know you’re not. You’re looking for happy ever after. What d’you think, Liz? You think if you make it out to the coast in one piece there’ll be a warm welcome waiting for you? You think that guy you’ve been pining away for even remembers you? You were history to Jason the minute he hopped that train.” “You don’t know that,” Liz said hotly. “You have no idea what happened. Any more than I do. Maybe he had no choice. You remember what it was like, don’t you? Floyd was—” “Dead, Lizzie. Floyd was dead. And Jason could have spoken with his new sire, if he’d wanted. He could have asked to be one of the people left behind to take care of the ranch. He didn’t have to go west.” “Maybe he did. Maybe he asked to stay and the answer was no.” “I saw him off at the station. He didn’t look like he was under duress.” “What?” Liz stared at her brother, open-mouthed. “You never told me that. For weeks after he left you told me you had no idea what happened to him.” Rob shrugged. “I didn’t want to upset you.” Like she hadn’t been upset anyway? Liz shook off her sense of dismay. “Anyway, that’s all beside the point. And I have not been ‘pining away’ after anyone. This has nothing to do with Jason.” But it did, a little, didn’t it? Rob wasn’t wrong about that. There had always been, in the back of her mind, the tiniest of fantasies of how she’d finally make it out west. She’d be standing at the edge of the ocean, marveling at its size. Thinking about how much it reminded her of the river back home—or how little it did. She wouldn’t know ’til she saw it. When, all at once, she’d hear his voice saying, “Lizbeth, my darling, is it really you?” And she’d turn and gaze once more into the eyes of her own true love… A silly, girlish fantasy, perfectly suited to the silly girl she used to be. “We’ve talked about this, Rob. I’ve spent my whole adult life reading about all the fabulous, exotic places I thought I’d never get to. I just want to see something of the world before I die.” “It’s a dipshit plan. You think you’re ‘going for your dreams’ or something? Well, you’re not. You’re giving your dreams up. Why, Lizzie? Where’s the sense in that?” “Oh, Rob.” Liz shook her head wearily. Now she remembered why she’d left home in the first place. Because she couldn’t take any more of these fruitless arguments. She knew something about Rob’s supposed plans for the future—expanding the family, forcibly turning people. If anyone’s plan qualified as “dipshit,” it was his. “What you’re talking about—it can’t happen.” “Why not? It’s no different than what Felicia did. All we want is to live as we always have. I’ve talked to the others; most of them agree. Why should we be driven from our home? Why should we have to leave?” “Because everything’s different now. What you’re planning is wrong. It will hurt people. If y’all can’t see that, you’re already crazy. There’s no way to stop what’s happening. We’ll go crazy, then we’ll die. Believe that or don’t. Doesn’t make much difference.” Sooner or later, their erratic behavior would attract the wrong kind of attention. Then, either the human authorities would get called in, or another House would step up to take care of the problem they posed. Either way, the media would eat it up. Reporters would swarm the area; they’d be like pigs in mud reporting on the event. The family would be branded a cult and carefully planted stories would emerge, detailing their strange, quasi-religious beliefs and hinting that the members had been victims of abuse. Their deaths—either the result of a horrific shootout, fire, explosion, or in a supposed mass suicide—would be featured for days on the evening news. “It doesn’t have to be that way,” Rob insisted. “If we pool our resources—like we did at the start—if we build the nest back up rather than letting it fall to pieces, there’s no reason to think we can’t succeed.” “There’s every reason to think that! Do you even hear yourself? Do you not realize how futile this is?” “We have a plan, Liz. Saturday night. We’re gonna pick up all the fresh blood and bodies we need at the paintball battle. It’s gonna work out—you’ll see. But the more of us who get on board with this, the better our chances. You’re gonna be in town, aren’t you? Why don’t you join us?” Liz shook her head, feeling weary, feeling trapped. “Oh, Rob.” “What’s a few hours out of your life to save your family?” Once before, she’d wanted to leave. Her brother had argued with her then, too. “You’re asking me to give up my dreams again, to sacrifice my only chance for happiness.” Last time, he’d been right to stop her. She’d had no real choice in the matter; she’d have died for sure, and Jason, too. This time…she’d die either way. So what did it matter? If she had nothing else, she at least had the freedom to choose when and where she died. And it wouldn’t be in Sapphire Falls. And it wouldn’t be this weekend! “That’s not what I’m asking.” Rob clutched her hand. “I’m asking you to give us a chance. Why give up your life without a fight? If this works the way I think it will—the way I know it will—we’ll be free to do whatever we want. You’ll have all eternity to travel.” “Eternity, huh?” It sounded good. It sounded impossible, but oh, so, nice. And she was so tired of arguing. She could understand the appeal of Rob’s quixotic plan, could understand why the others were willing to go along with it. Because what if he were right? What if they could succeed? What if she could have the life she’d always dreamed of? What price would she pay to make that dream a reality? What price wouldn’t she pay? “Tell me again what I’d have to do?”  AUTHOR BIO
USA Today Bestselling Author PG Forte inhabits a world only slightly less strange than the ones she creates. Filled with serendipity, coincidence, love at first sight and dreams come true. Originally a Jersey girl, and forever a California girl at heart, PG currently resides in the beautiful Texas Hill Country where she continues to write contemporary and paranormal romance in a variety of sub-genres. The common thread linking them together? Her stories are always centered around themes of friendship, family, and heartfelt feelings. Even the vampires? Yes. Especially the vampires. |
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About the Author:S. K. Gregory is an author, editor and blogger. She currently resides in Northern Ireland. “Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.” 
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