Thursday, January 30, 2014


by Colleen Foley

I grinned, shaking my head as I watched him rise.

“Dude. Floating? Isn’t that kinda grandiose?”

Seth looked sharply at me as the thing chuckled softly.

“You will learn respect. Mother and son will be together again, her soul inhabiting his body. Their talents, hers tainted by what she did, his so pure, will struggle against each other. That perfect discord will create such power as you have never seen. It will be mine to control and this time I will not be stopped.”

In that instant, I understood everything.

“All this talk has become cumbersome. Give me the jar.”


Thursday, January 16, 2014

Throwing the Gauntlet

I hate cemeteries. Funny, right? It’s not ghosts that bug me but the lingering memory of standing in rain – just like this – a too-tight suit, muscles quivering as they lowered my mother’s coffin, my face sloppy with tears and snot. Maybe if I killed the sons of bitches who had a hand in her death, I’d get over it. Maybe.

His voice, everywhere, “You know the prophecy is fabrication, yes? We created legend, made you in her to fulfill empty promises.”

Deep breath, steady. Magic ready, raging. “Not so empty now. Come and see.”

Like the moon, he rose, shining.


Opening The Gate

By Colleen Foley

I'd explained as Seth drove. We were back at the cemetery, wending our way through rain-sloppy paths to Marie Laveau's grave. The storm started as we'd arrived, a fabrication of the priests, no doubt.

Every muscle tensed, just enough, as I ticked off reasons, in my head, for destroying him. The bottle. The zombies. Seth's poor goddamned mother. The manipulation and murder of so many innocent people. That fucking dog. My...rape.

Cold, comfortable rage knifed into my gut. I let it in, let it bloom, and kept it contained, let it anticipate its release.

It was time to end this.


Saturday, January 11, 2014

Turning the Key

Nate is old school: music, mores, muscle car all terribly out of date. It comes off as charming, in certain company.

The Houngan we hunted cared nothing for such quirks. He wanted Nate, or me, depending on who told the tale. Or perhaps he really had wanted my mother, enough to steal the remnants of her soul and fabricate a copy of her to house it.

Someone willing to go to such lengths wouldn’t be sloppy enough to discount us. Which begged the question, who was playing whom?

The engine roared as I headed down the road , seeking answers.


On The Road Again, One Last Time.

By Colleen Foley

“Really?” I reached behind the seat, grabbing something to swipe the blood from my left brow, exceptionally pleased that it was Seth's favorite shirt.

Magic snapped through the car; a deranged symphony of tiny whirlwinds.

“Listen. I just meant...I know touching that thing is killing you.” I gestured to the lump in his jacket pocket.

“I get it. But the blend of you and it is like a magical beacon. He's coming for us, and we're not where we need to be. Now, get out. You're driving. I can't see. And don't fuck up my car.”