Monday, September 30, 2013

Truer Words...

by Colleen Foley

I drove to the last house on a lightless street, bathed in the bloody darkness of a yellow moon shining through thick,overgrown, trees and the visages of one abandoned house after another.

I pulled a stoppered bottle out of my pocket and handed it to Seth.

“Listen, no matter what, you get that jar. Anoint it with this. Won’t work for me and it’s important.

“Why not?”

“Because little brother, my mojo’s borrowed - almost a fallacy. Only the real deal can do this.

“Nate, what’s in…”

“It’s a human soul. As big and bad as they get.”

Thursday, September 26, 2013

Changing Places

“You only look calm,” Nate said, cutting the wheel sharply, skidding onto gravel. “Inside, you’re seething.”

Good to know my visage remained composed, even if it didn’t fool my brother. The first thing I’d learned about facing monsters, especially human ones, was not to show emotion.

“It bugs you that I’m the one anointed with the magical advantage for once, while you’re relegated to backup.”

He needed to believe that. I needed him to. If it’s a competition, Nate always charges ahead.

“No, not really.” He’d take my truth for fallacy.

“Okay, sure.” He laughed, pointing us confidently toward death.


This For That

by Colleen Foley

I thought about screaming, but it was over too quickly to bother. She pulled her hand back and closed it, snuffing the impossibly purple-white glow in her palm.

“I leave you a bit. You goin’ to need it.”

“Where’s the priest?” Seth demanded.

“Here. Hiding.” She pointed to my chest.

“That help you find him; end him. He disrespect me…interbreed my power with unclean things. Stain my good name. I give him something. A small jar. You bring it back here when you done with him. I give you something high caliber in return.”

Her rich, throaty chuckle faded away.


Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Making the Deal

“Pleasure to meet you,” Nate lied, but he had the sense to bow.

“I know why you here.” Marie Laveau appeared solid. “What you bring to trade for my favor?”

I held out a bag of herbs, potions, stones.

“Not touching you, boy. Unclean you ain’t, but tainted you is. Some things not meant to interbreed with people.”

Nate cleared his throat. “I could offer a service.”

She cackled. “Why I need skinny white boy got no magic his own?”

“We have skills,” I offered.

“I take this high caliber trinket. Then we good.” Her hand disappeared into Nate’s chest.


Graveyard Dirt

By Colleen Foley

I could feel Kaia’s gift working inside me. It was dark, but not the slick, hateful blackness of the infection. This was the sultry heat of a still August night, and it felt good.

At the graveyard, Seth followed as I walked one branching path after another.

“Nate, have you been to Marie Laveau’s grave before?”

I looked back over my shoulder and grinned.


I stopped in front of a small, white mausoleum festooned with offerings one would expect to see strewn before the throne of a Queen. Kaia’s power surged through me.

“Seth, meet Marie Laveau.”

“Nate, how…?”


Wednesday, September 11, 2013


Brady held court, a golden prince with a scarred wooden chair for a throne. Beautiful women drew close, vying for attention, as usual.

Behind the bar, Jackson frowned, first at Brady, then at me. “That doesn’t bug you?”

“No need to be hateful for what happened.” I sipped my wine.

“I’d have beaten him to death with the nearest branch. Still could, if you want.”

“That’s sweet, in a murderous way.” I slid him a five. “But I have this covered.”

On my way out, I nodded to the women I’d hired, every last one infected with a virulent pox.

Saturday, September 07, 2013

Circa 1906

McElroy watched workers shuffle into the plant, his perch high above the sticky floor. The low thrum of fans didn’t do much to deter the stench or flies. A new girl swatted at them, not yet used to the inevitable trappings of things about to die.

McElroy narrowed his eyes. She had a gloss about her, hair too shiny, shoulders square. Her shoes were all wrong.

“Fuck me, she’s a muckraker.” At his signal, Sigmund lumbered over, wiping thick hands on his leather apron.

The lady journalist would add a nice flavor to the canned pork. He’d label it “gourmet.”