Copyright © by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.
Featured Image: Dead light, by Vadim Sadovski
“The experiment was a failure,” he says. “It unearthed no new understanding, and vaporized my best friend.” “He didn’t die,” she pleas. “He was my dad!” “That’s bull! You’re as old as he was.” “He told me to tell you; time travel is no longer hypothetical.” Exhausted, the accused made a request. “Paper.” “A written confession of sorcery?” the Inquisitor said. “Certainly!” He laboriously wrote his note, then the Inquisitor read it aloud. “I. Confess. Each. Period. In. This. Note. Is. A. Small. Explosive. Rune—” “I’m going to go, before it affects our judgment,” he says. “Stay,” she asks. “That’s the virus talking.” “I’m not in estrus yet. Soon we’ll be in a sex pheromone haze, but not yet.” “I—” “Stay. We’re both lonely.” “I—” “Stay. I love you, too.” The knight kept his horse steady as the green dragon leaned close. “If you come compelled by greed or glory, you shall find only death,” she boomed. “I seek a single scale,” he answered. “A token of emerald hue, given in peace, a symbol of grace and power.” They open the storage unit and pause as the power flickers. The statue of twisted rubber bands has holes for eyes and knives for fingers. “It only kills unseen,” a thief says. “Keep—” The lights fail. “Oh, sh—” In darkness, there’s the stretch-twang of rubber. The vampire leapt past the rabbi. Tackled and tumbling into the church’s nativity scene, Father McCay grabbed the nearest thing and swung. The fiend’s head exploded into ash. “Blessed baby!” Kadelburg said. McCay held the effigy from the manger. “Jesus Christ!” I expected Santa, but after the crash I found a witch in my backyard. As a little girl in pajamas, I helped Befana mend her broom and said witches were cooler than Santa anyway. In the morning, I found she’d given me my first flying broom and grimoire.