Another guest writer. Woot Woot!

A word from our writer:

I’m Jaime Villarreal. I’m an aspiring screenwriter and writer of short stories. Some of my stories are featured in Killer Nashville Magazine. I’m currently working on my first novel, a unique tale of horror.
Thank you for this opportunity

Here is my short story titled: SHARE WITH ME
Enjoy!


Her name is Clarissa. She never told me. I read it on her name tag. She works at the gas station on the corner. Every time I walk in there to buy gum, she offers me a unique smile. One that has meaning behind it. Maybe there’s something that she wants to share with me. What could it be? No one ever smiles at me like that. It makes me want to know everything about her. Even, if it kills me.

I step through the door of my favorite bookstore. The bell jingles overhead, announcing my entrance.

“Hello,” the clerk says. “Welcome to Crawling’s.”

I come here at least once a week to browse through art books. The clerk acts like she’s never seen me before. Clarissa recognizes me. She doesn’t say anything, but at least, she recognizes me. I should reach over this counter and strangle her until she passes out. Then, she’d recognize me. She’d never forget my face, that’s for sure.

“Is there anything in particular that you’re looking for?” asks the clerk.

“Magic,” I reply. “Books on magic.”

“Magic tricks.” She points toward the middle of the store. “Third aisle. On your left. Can’t miss it.”

“No,” I reiterate. “Real magic.”

“Real magic?” The look on her face is one of arrogance, not inquiry.

I’m thirty years old. Why would I want to start learning magic tricks? I want the good stuff. I want to cast spells. Sure, magic tricks might keep a girl intrigued for a minute, but I want magic that will make her open up to me. Share things with me.

“Voodoo,” I say, hoping the bimbo gets the hint. “Curses. That sort of thing.”

“Occult Philosophy,” she says, rolling her eyes. She points toward the back of the store. “Last aisle. Entire section on the right. Knock yourself out.”

Before long, I find exactly what I’m looking for and take the book home. I don’t have all the required materials to make this thing. It’s called an all-seeing poppet, a tiny doll made of black and red yarn with crimson beads for eyes. It’s pathetic when I finish, but it will have to do. I don’t have much time. The spell calls for a full moon and that’s tonight.

I enter the gas station. I’m met with that same unique smile. I pay for my gum and hand the all-seeing poppet to Clarissa.

“What’s this?” she asks, raising a brow.

“A gift,” I reply. “A good luck charm.”

“It’s cute.”

“Glad you think so.”

“Not sure what to say.” She shrugs with her palms turned up. “Thank you.”

“It’s just a little something to remember me by.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” I turn to walk out.

Later that night below a crisp full moon, I completed the spell from the book and hung myself in the backyard. It was a few days before they found my body.

Clarissa has me hanging from her rear view mirror now. I was hoping it’d be a necklace. She still thinks I’m cute. She looks at me with that same beautiful smile and shares with me her dreams.

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