Posts - Rick Baldwin

Choices

May 22, 2023 | 0 comments

You never asked to give,
nor I to take.
These, our branded destinies—
seared into us
before our first breath.

The advantage was mine:
wrapped in silken, milky skin,
a blur of glowing world,
my everything.

By your crib,
they planted a dagger—
your fate fixed
to the surgeon’s edge,
never your own.

My cries were silenced
by the comfort of a nipple;
yours, by the cold pierce
of a syringe,
a mother of steel
leaving you naked to the world.

Now, grown men,
I take the wheel,
driving to your cell—
your home.
The chain tightens,
its land around your neck.

— © Rick Baldwin

You are the fourth nail
dull, crooked and corroded
piercing the watery heart
pushing through the spine
splintering the wood
injecting the poison like
a Golgotha adder
dancing on the stone and
kicking the crown
Your rituals are performed in
robes dragging the ground
The work of your hands betray
you like a whore bride
The children starve while
you eat the lamb
and lie with the calf
I never knew you.

— © Rick Baldwin

The Pursuit of Warmth

May 22, 2023 | 0 comments

He shoved the
iron poker deep
into the coals,
like a man forcing
his words into
a conversation he
barely understands—

she said he always did—
roughshod, without thought.

He poked and cracked coals,
chunks splitting and rolling
like Minnesota Fats at
a volcanic billiards table.

She set the last cigarette
on freshly painted lips,
lit it with 24 years of
simmering resentment.
Her fingers scraped
the final bite of honey biscuit
breakfast from the saucer,
lifting it to her tongue.

“There’s chicken in the
fridge from last night.
I’ll be late again.”

Her purse strap tightened
around her hand like a
cable car passenger
pulling the emergency cord
a stop too late.
“Pull. Pull hard,”
she told herself.

Stale smoke and country ham
stained the air. When he shut
his eyes, he imagined
his grandmother’s kitchen
smelling the same way
had she lived past twenty-nine.
“Too damn early,”
he muttered.

Fireworks splashed the air
as the poker smashed against
a crackling stump.
The front door slammed;
his spit sizzled
where it struck the ash.

•••

The Things We Do

May 22, 2023 | 0 comments

The scant, gray room—
You caged me;
Me, a fox with
Silken, amber fur
And hungry teeth.

I dreamed of escape
That cool spring morning
At our Swiss train station,
Your heels striking echoes,
I, afraid of the machinery.

“Why do we do
The things we do?” you asked.
I kissed your nose,
Like tasting a hen.

I gave my ticket to a boy,
Watched him board without bags.
My gloves pinched my skin—
Black, like your hair,
And smelling of blood.

Reflection

When I wrote “The Things We Do,” I was thinking about how regret often shows up in fragments: a smell, a color, a fleeting image. Tactile images like the fox, the gloves, the train station almost create an actual persona which comes to haunt us perpetually, disguised as memories. The poem reminds me of relationships that seemed to be full of loneliness, guilt, and the remembrance of promises never met.

I’m A Guest on Take A Sip

Feb 15, 2023 | 0 comments

A big thanks to Michael Poole for having me as a guest on his podcast “Taking A Sip.” We discuss spirituality, podcasting, kilts, drum corps, ASMR, the arts and tons of other things. Give it a watch!

Monkey

Nov 26, 2022 | 0 comments

This is more than a poem—
it’s a wild monkey,
slipping from the tangle
of an overgrown jungle,
boarding a train
bound for the big city.

Buying a hat, landing a job
with an organ grinder,
working eleven hours daily,
clutching a cold steel cup
where nickels plonk.

Strangers tithe
without lifting eyes,
faces screen-bleached
since slipping from
the Apple Store
boarding a train
bound for the big city.

You May Be Right. I May Be Crazy.

Mar 31, 2022 | 0 comments

(L to R) The author, circa 1979. Italian-looking singer-songwriter, Billy Joel.

When I was in high school, I idolized the kind of NY, Italian, street gang-guy I saw in celebs like Billy Joel and Stallone. I really wanted to be in a street gang, which, if you know me, you know how completely asinine even the thought of that is. But I didn’t want to be in a real street gang, I wanted to be in more of a movie street gang. I didn’t want to actually hurt people, I wanted to strut around the streets like Travolta in a leather jacket, maybe smoking cigarettes. I wanted to know some guys named Mikey and Vinnie. Maybe learn to use the f-word occasionally and not feel guilty about it. That’s all I knew. I really wanted to be a Baptist preacher and I carried around a copy of The Cross and the Switchblade with me all of the time. It was a book about a preacher who went to New York to save the street gangs. I figured I could do that. Maybe have the best of both worlds. Although I would have to nix the f-word probably.

One year, I asked for a leather jacket for Christmas. My parents couldn’t afford a real leather jacket so they got me a vinyl one. It looked a lot like the real thing and I wore it all the time in high school and college. I’m wearing it in this photo. It looks a lot like Billy Joel’s but, I’m guessing, his was real leather. I always imagined I’d one day get to go to a “rumble” in my jacket, but I never did. Once, the neighborhood bullies tried to challenge my brothers to a fight and I thought it was the perfect opportunity, so I grabbed my jacket and a long chain I’d been saving for the occasion, but my dad went out and ran the bullies off so nothing really happened. Eventually, I changed over to Billy Joel’s “suit jacket and loose tie” style, which seemed to work much better for me.

When I was in middle school, my dad started getting into a new hobby of selling things at flea markets. He was a school teacher but would do the flea market stuff on the weekends and he ended up making more money doing that than he did teaching. So I grew up around flea market culture. I’m still fascinated by the southern flea market characters I encountered every weekend. Flea Markets, antique stores, secondhand shops, thrift stores are all still a huge part of my life. It gets in your blood and won’t come out. Like a stiletto. Sorry. I go to antique stores just to relax. I could spend an entire weekend doing nothing but visiting thrift stores and antique shops. Last week I stopped by a thrift store to look for some junk pieces I could recycle as art. While I was there I saw a really cool leather jacket. It still had all of the tags on it. And, holy crap, it was exactly my size! I can never buy clothes off the rack because I have freakishly long arms but this jacket fit perfectly. And it was only $25!

I used to never buy or wear anything leather. I’m vegetarian because I’m an animal lover and I never thought it was right to not eat animals but still wear them. Then, I decided to wear a kilt for a year in 2012 and I had to buy leather stuff. Boots, straps, vests, all that stuff that makes you look more cool in a kilt. I also started eating fish last year, so screw the animals! Dang, I should have used the f-word there. No wonder I never got in a street gang.

I bought the jacket. I took it home and cleaned it the way the leather stores I Googled said I should clean leather jackets. Last night I put it on for the first time in it’s full, freshly laundered, glory. I dug out the switchblade knife I have been keeping in my nightstand— in case The Bishops want to start some shit— and I came out to the kitchen to see what my wife thought. She laughed. Laughed? It wasn’t really the response I was looking for. I mean, this is a real fucking leather jacket! But while she was laughing, she also took off her bra. It was like she did it without even thinking. I don’t even know if she knows why she was taking it off. It just happened. Dang, the first time I put on a real leather jacket and the first girl I see immediately whips off her bra. I knew it!

Farm Fresh Eggs

Oct 30, 2018 | 0 comments

Fiona Blaine opened her eyes, squinting at the glowing numbers on the digital clock. Without her glasses, she could only make out the faint outline of the time. It was 5:29. One minute before the alarm. She reached out and shut it off just in time, not disturbing her husband, Sonny.

She sat up slowly and fumbled for her glasses on the nightstand. A silent prayer of thanks crossed her mind for the extra few minutes of sleep on the weekends. Every weekday for the past fifty-two years, Fiona had been up at 4 a.m. to prepare breakfast for Sonny. Weekends were a brief reprieve, a chance to sleep in until six. But today was different. Today was the Cocke County Celtic Festival, and for the past forty-nine festivals in a row, Sonny had led the parade with his bagpipes and full, dress kilt. She would need to start breakfast earlier this morning.

Fiona wrapped herself in her cream-colored flannel robe and tiptoed to the kitchen. She flicked on the light and froze in her tracks. In the middle of the floor lay Monster, their old black lab, his eyes barely open. She sighed, relieved that at least the dog hadn’t stirred in his sleep. Fiona opened the fridge, scanned the contents, and planned her steps carefully: biscuits first, bacon next, and finally Sonny’s favorite cheese scrambled eggs.

The eggs!

Her heart sank as she scanned the refrigerator’s contents. The egg carton was missing. How could she have forgotten to pick up eggs yesterday? Sonny would be up soon, expecting his usual cheese scrambled eggs.

She knew what he would say, too. He’d remind her this wouldn’t have been a problem if the door to the chicken coop hadn’t been left open a year ago this September when, in the middle of the night, a fox or coyote or something had entered the coop and killed all five of their good-laying hens. Fiona didn’t remember leaving the door open, and Sonny said he certainly would never have done such a thing. It was the biggest quarrel they had had in their marriage. Sonny finally just said to heck with it; he wasn’t replacing the chickens. They’d have to start buying eggs at the grocery store like city folk do.

And that’s exactly what Fiona would have to do this morning. Drive to the all-night grocery store for a carton of eggs. Grabbing her rabbit coat and the keys to the Lincoln, Fiona slipped out the door to the garage. At this hour, there’d be no one at the store to care about her bed hair and disheveled appearance. She adjusted the car’s seat and mirrors from Sonny’s preferences, cranked the heater, and set off down Sussex Road.

Cooper’s 24-Hour Grocery was only three miles away, so she had plenty of time. She’d be in and out, eggs in hand, before Sonny even noticed she was gone. She didn’t worry about Monster waking him up; after all, that dog hadn’t barked in four years.

As she passed the old church cemetery, she noticed something unusual ahead. A faded wagon by the roadside. Her headlights illuminated a cardboard sign: “Ordell’s Farm Fresh Eggs.”

“Thank you, Lord!” Fiona exclaimed, relieved. Local farmers often set up roadside stands, and she was grateful for the shortcut. She pulled over and stepped out of the car.

The wagon’s stand was dimly lit by the full moon, aided by the scarlet tail lights of her car. She approached and noticed a figure wrapped in a blanket, sitting motionless by the eggs.

“Good morning!” she called cheerfully. “Lordy, you have saved me! I was just starting breakfast and realized I forgot the eggs! Can you believe that? I don’t know what’s wrong with my head lately.” She squinted at the figure, trying to make out details. The blanket was too thick to see anything clearly.

“Are you Ordell?” she asked. “Hello? Anyone there?”

A hand stretched from under the blanket and pointed silently at the eggs.

Fiona smiled. “My husband loves his eggs. I’ll take a dozen, please.” She gathered a dozen large eggs into her basket. “Thank you so much for being here. I was about to drive all the way to the store. How much do I owe you, Ordell?”

The blanketed figure remained silent.

Fiona placed a five-dollar bill on the stand and muttered to herself, “He probably doesn’t even speak English.” She felt a twinge of sympathy. “Poor man’s just out here early, trying to make a living.”

Relieved, she scurried back to the car, though a bit unsettled by the strange quiet of their encounter. The eerie silence from the figure on the roadside lingered in her thoughts.

When she returned to the kitchen, Monster had moved from the kitchen floor to the bedroom. She didn’t think much of it. She was too focused on getting breakfast started. She set the eggs on the counter, then retrieved the biscuit dough from the fridge. As she kneaded it, she thought about the comfort of mornings like this; the warmth of the oven and the sounds and scent of bacon frying in the pan. She knew the smell would soon drift to the bedroom, waking Sonny in the gentlest of ways. When the bacon was done, Fiona poured most of the grease into the “Bacon Grease” container, leaving just enough to flavor Sonny’s eggs.

She cracked an egg against the side of the iron skillet. Fiona wanted to scream when the first cold, slimy tentacle emerged from the egg, but she was prevented from doing so as it wrapped twice around her mouth. The second tentacle was thinner and sleeker, resembling a lizard’s tail. It crawled up her neck and sprouted tiny fingers that twitched and spread across her scalp. Two of the finger-like appendages descended her forehead and pierced through her eye sockets. Her glasses fell to the floor, and she got the feeling she would never be needing them again.

From the broken shell in her left hand, a dark, bristly mass emerged, pulsating and expanding rapidly. Veins and filaments spread, its viscous fluids oozing over her hand. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she slumped against the stove, her body growing cold. All she could think was, “Where is Monster? Why doesn’t Monster hear this noise and come running to my rescue?” Then she realized it was, after all, Monster. That dog hadn’t heard a single sound in the past three years.

Fiona’s body convulsed as the mass launched a cord into her chest, injecting a yellowish liquid into her heart. The liquid spread rapidly, dissolving her from within, but on the outside, it exploded into a glob of golden bio-goo that coated the cabinets, the stove, and the oven.

Monster ambled into the kitchen, sniffing at the goo dripping from the oven door. He licked it lazily, then circled twice before settling in the middle of the floor to sleep.

Several moments later, Sonny entered the kitchen, dressed in his usual pre-parade attire. He expected to find Fiona at the stove, but she wasn’t there. Puzzled by her absence, he glanced around. Her robe lay in a heap near the stove. He looked in the living room and the second bathroom, but found no clues to her whereabouts. The car was in the garage, and Fiona’s rabbit coat was draped over the rocking chair. He thought maybe she had gone out for a morning walk, as she often did. “That’s probably what she was doing last year when she left the door to the chicken coop open,” he muttered to himself. “Or, maybe she just went to the end of the driveway to get the mail or the morning paper.” He was confident that Fiona would return soon.

Sonny approached the stove, his eyes widening at the sight of the plate brimming with warm biscuits, crispy bacon, and delectable cheese. He stirred the contents of the iron skillet, then carefully transferred the fluffy, golden eggs onto his plate. Sitting down at the table, he offered a silent prayer of gratitude for the breakfast before him. With a contented sigh, he scooped a generous portion of cheesy scrambled eggs onto his biscuit. The cheese was perfectly melted, just the way he liked it, and the eggs appeared fluffier and sweeter than usual. “Fiona has truly outdone herself this morning,” he thought. As he gazed out the kitchen window, he noticed an old wagon passing by the house, and thought about how Fiona had made his breakfast every day for the past 52 years. “This morning,” he thought, “may have been the best he’s ever had.” With a satisfied smile, he wiped his mouth, knowing that Fiona’s love for him was evident in every bite.

“Damn good eggs!”

(COPYRIGHT NOTICE – This story is under the full copyright of the author who gives permission for royalty-free performance/readings of the story for non commercial purposes. This story must not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, Rick Baldwin. This story may not be reprinted without permission of the author.)

The Curse of Brigid McGhee

Oct 22, 2018 | 0 comments

In the mid-1800s, Brigid McGhee’s Pub and Inn stood as the vibrant heart of Clonglash, a quaint town nestled on the edge of Ireland’s Brehon Forest in County Donegal. Farmers, merchants, sailors, and wanderers from across the region would gather around its smoky hearth, seeking solace and camaraderie over a frothy pint. However, its allure extended beyond mere indulgence; it served as a refuge, a bustling crossroads, and, as some whispered, a sanctuary of dark magic.

The townsfolk often whispered rumors about Brigid herself. Some claimed she practiced witchcraft, weaving spells into her daily routines. These whispers lingered in her family history, as her great-grandmother had been executed for sorcery decades earlier. Brigid never directly addressed the accusations, but she didn’t entirely discourage them either. Locals seeking remedies for ailments, amulets for good fortune, or incantations for revenge would often slip her secret requests over the bar.

In 1862, Melvyn Frazier, a dashing Scottish whisky merchant, became a frequent visitor to the inn while traveling between Letterkenny and beyond. With his captivating crystal-blue eyes, wavy gray hair, and vibrant tartan kilt, Melvyn charmed almost everyone, including Brigid. Despite her usual aloofness towards men’s advances, she found herself irresistibly drawn to him. Their undeniable chemistry was evident, but their intimate encounters remained discreetly hidden from prying eyes and gossiping tongues.

Love turned sour. By late September, Brigid confided in her closest friend, Ann Donnelly, that Melvyn’s affection felt like a ruse. He had been pressuring her to stock his Frazier Scotch whisky at the pub. When she hesitated, he became increasingly irritable and demanding. Their final argument erupted in the early hours of a foggy morning. In a fit of rage, Melvyn slapped Brigid, threatening to burn her inn to the ground if she didn’t comply. Clutching a dagger, Brigid drove him away.

On a particularly blustery October night, the pub was filled with locals when Melvyn made a dramatic return, arm-in-arm with a woman adorned in gaudy finery and perfumed. As he approached a table, he made a loud announcement, ordering, “Two Frazier Scotch whiskies! One for me and one for the lady!”

Brigid scowled. “We don’t stock Frazier Scotch whisky,” she snapped, “and judging by the looks of it, there’s no lady here either.”

The room erupted in laughter, but Melvyn remained unfazed. “I hope you’ve freshened the sheets,” he said smugly. “We’ll be staying at the inn tonight.”

“Like hell you will!” Brigid spat. “There are plenty of barns for the likes of you.”

Melvyn smirked, tipped his hat, and sauntered out with his companion. At the door, he turned back. “Happy Samhain to you, Miss McGhee. Enjoy the Scotch whisky.”

Hours later, long after the last patron had departed, Brigid awoke to frantic cries of alarm: “Fire! Fire at the inn!”

Rushing outside, she witnessed her cherished inn engulfed in flames. The roaring inferno illuminated the night sky, consuming the timber walls. Tragically, the guests inside were trapped, their screams soon silenced. As Brigid gaped in horror, someone shouted, “The pub!” Flames danced around its edges, spreading rapidly. By dawn, both buildings lay reduced to smoldering ashes. Seven souls had perished in the inn.

The following day, near the forest’s edge, Brigid stumbled upon a whisky cask bearing the unmistakable Frazier name. The parting words of Melvyn echoed in her mind: “Enjoy the Scotch whisky.”

For weeks, the villagers buzzed with tales of Brigid’s wrath. Some swore they witnessed her soaring across the night sky on a broomstick, vowing vengeance. Others claimed she transformed into a bat, darting between the ruins. Regardless of the accounts, one thing was certain: Brigid McGhee herself had vanished from Clonglash.

Melvyn Frazier returned to the village only once more. On Halloween night, Ann Donnelly stumbled upon his mutilated body in a forest glen near the ruins. His limbs were neatly stacked and wrapped in his tartan kilt, while his torso dangled from a tree by a crude noose tied to his manhood.

Life continued in Clonglash. A year after the devastating fire, Ann and her husband, Mac, embarked on the arduous task of rebuilding the pub. Despite its revival, Ann remained resolute in her decision to refuse serving Scotch whisky, driven by the lingering presence of Brigid. Mac, tempted by the potential financial gain, attempted to persuade her, but Ann stood firm in her conviction.

Five years later, a bartender named Connor Quinn defied the ban and secretly sold Scotch whisky to patrons. One night, as revelers raised their glasses, an unusual fog seeped into the pub. It swirled around Connor’s head, choking him until he collapsed. The whisky barrel beneath the bar burst open, its contents igniting in an unexpected blaze. The fire consumed Connor and every patron holding a Scotch whisky.

As the flames crackled, Brigid’s voice rang out, “I warned ye! Scotch whisky has no place in Clonglash!”

From that fateful day onward, no one in Clonglash dared touch Scotch whisky. Brigid’s curse became legendary, told in pubs and by firesides far beyond Donegal. However, across the globe, there are always the audacious, the skeptical, and the reckless who raise their glasses of Scotch in defiance of her warning.

A century later, on a stormy Halloween night, a pub in Belfast hosted a boisterous celebration. The air was filled with laughter, and glasses of Scotch whisky clinked as revelers toasted their good fortune. Among them was a young man, bold and brash, who heard the tale of Brigid McGhee and scoffed at it.

“Ghosts and curses! What a load of rubbish!” he declared, raising his glass. “To Brigid McGhee! May she haunt someone else tonight!”

The pub patrons erupted in laughter, but as the whisky touched his lips, the lights flickered ominously. The laughter abruptly ceased, replaced by a sudden chill that swept through the room. The fire in the hearth extinguished itself, plunging the pub into an unsettling darkness and silence.

From the darkness emerged a voice, low and venomous: “You dared to toast me with that poison?”

The young man’s glass shattered in his hand, the shards drawing blood. He gasped, clutching his throat, as if unseen fingers were squeezing the life from him. Around the room, glasses of Scotch whisky shattered, their contents spilling onto the floor. The air was filled with the acrid smell of brimstone and smoke.

“Get out!” someone screamed, and the patrons fled into the blustery night. Behind them, the pub erupted in flames, the fire dancing unnaturally, taking the shape of a woman’s face—Brigid McGhee’s face. The young man was never found, and the pub was reduced to ashy ruins.

Legend has it that Brigid McGhee’s wrath intensifies with each defiance. Those who drink Scotch whisky on Halloween are said to hear her voice, feel her icy breath, or glimpse her shadow amidst the flames. Some claim she appears in the mirror behind the bar, her eyes watching, waiting.

So, the next time you raise a glass of Scotch whisky in defiance, think twice. For Brigid McGhee’s curse transcends borders, time, and mercy. And if you hear a faint whisper in the wind or feel the glass grow icy in your hand, know it’s already too late.

The Scarlet Kilt

Oct 18, 2018 | 0 comments

I don’t think it will spoil my story one bit if I tell you upfront that I’m dead. It isn’t the fact that I’m dead that makes my tale most interesting, but how I ended up dead. This is that story.

I started long-haul truck driving the year I was discharged from the Marines. October of ’78, I was driving a load of toothpicks to the East Coast. It was late Halloween night, nearing 2 a.m., and the trick-or-treat goblins had long gone to bed. I’d just passed through Whitefish, Montana, when the logs I was carrying and my eyelids started feeling a couple tons heavier. Making good time on my haul, I figured it was a good opportunity to pull over at the next truck stop for coffee and a cheeseburger.

After miles of pitch-black driving, I finally saw light up ahead. A small greasy spoon, no bigger than a mobile home, sat just off the road, bathed in red neon light. The sign out front read “The Scarlet Kilt.” It could’ve been “The Purple Panties” for all I cared; I was hungry and needed caffeine. I pulled over.

Inside was the kind of place you’d see a thousand times if you’d been on the road as long as I had. Same heartburn-inducing food, same tired employees. But there was something about this joint, something slightly off. I walked in, lit a Marlboro, and took a seat at a small wooden table in the darkest corner.

I propped a menu in front of my face and pretended to read while I scanned my surroundings. An old cowboy in filthy clothes sucked down a brew, while a leathery-faced woman, old enough to be his mom, chewed on his ear. A white-bearded biker with a massive gut stood up, fished his wallet out of his pants, and punched Jim Stafford’s “Spiders and Snakes” into the jukebox, then walked out. Behind the counter, the cook, a hulking, Elliott Gould look-alike, flipped greasy patties and chomped on a stogie. The whole scene was a tableau of roadside stereotypes and eccentricities.

A sharp cackle broke through the haze of smoke and grease. A short, middle-aged waitress skittered to the counter, whipping a rag around like a ninja weapon.

“Arnie, sugar, if your burgers get any blacker, we’re gonna need coal shovels!”

The cook didn’t flinch. The waitress glanced at me, grabbed a pitcher of water, and strutted over with a smile that shifted between sassy and sinister.

“Don’t let that scare you, doll,” she said. “I wouldn’t say it to his face, but Arnie makes a fantastic cheeseburger. I just love busting his balls. I’ve been doing it for 25 years, but between you and me, he doesn’t hear well, so I’m not even sure he knows I’m doing it.”

She poured ice water.

“Welcome to The Scarlet Kilt, handsome,” she said. “I’m Evanora. Owner, CEO, and your waitress tonight. What can I get for you?”

“Cheeseburger and coffee,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Tom. What can I get for you?”

She leaned in, shaking my hand with a crooked smile. “Honey, I think I’ve got everything I need. This place, my little upstairs apartment, and a steady stream of good-looking men like yourself dropping by. Hey, a girl never gets tired of that kind of eye candy, even when it’s not Halloween.”

She winked, and it made my heart skip a beat. “And you, Mr. Tom… well, you’re the type of eye candy that would make a girl happy she brought an extra-large Trick or Treat sack. What’s a handsome guy like you doing out here so late anyway? Don’t you know only maniacs and murderers come out this time of night?”

“That rig out there stacked with timber? That’s mine,” I said. “I don’t know what they’re going to use all that wood for, and that’s not my problem, but me and that wood are currently on our way to West Virginia.”

She tilted her head, eyes twinkling. “That sure is a lot of wood you’re packing there. But I’ll bet you’ve heard that before. Wait, your name isn’t something ironic like ‘Tom Woods,’ or ‘Tom Plank’? Oh god, please tell me you are the world-famous porn star, Tom Logg…”

“Corbett,” I interrupted. “Tom Corbett. Yours?”

She shrugged. “Sugar, there’ve been too many last names. I’ve lost track. Just call me Evanora.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Evanora. Let me guess, you really love peaches.”

She blinked at me. “Peaches?”

I pointed at her necklace, a string of polished peach pits. “Either you really love peaches, or your kid won the arts and crafts blue ribbon at church camp.”

She grinned. “I’m a Georgia peach, born and raised. Haven’t been there in years, though. This necklace reminds me and keeps me grounded.”

“A southern belle?” I said. “I would never have guessed.”

“It’s been a long time,” she replied. “I didn’t fit in down there. Came out here to find myself. I’m a Montana girl at heart now. Anyway, let me put your order in and check on Monty. He’s the one over there wearing the cowboy hat and the whore. I’ll be back with some hot coffee in a couple of minutes.”

She strutted back to the counter, and I watched her go, not even trying to hide the way my eyes followed her. The place did have a weird energy, but Evanora had a way of making everything feel a little lighter. A nice change from the monotonous stretches of highway I’d been driving.

A few more customers came in and out, and Evanora continued to make her rounds to my table, squeezing my shoulder or giving me a flirtatious rub on the neck. I was starting to wonder how to make a move on her when Monty, the cowboy, and his leathered lady staggered out.

“Arnie,” she said, laughing, “your cooking has run off another one!”

She winked at me again. Her flirtations grew bolder with each pass of my table. By the time my burger and coffee arrived, I was more interested in her than the food. As I finished the last of my coffee, she plopped herself onto my lap.

“My shift is over, sugar,” she said, fingers tracing down my arm. “I don’t think I want to go home alone tonight. What do you say you come with me? No strings attached. You hit the road first thing in the morning, no questions asked.” She didn’t wait for a reply. “You look like you could use a shower and a soft bed. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Just wait five minutes after I go out the front, then follow me ‘round the back, up the stairs.”

She kissed my cheek before prancing off. I waited five minutes, paid my bill, and left a generous tip. I made my way around the back of the diner, climbed the stairs to her apartment, and found the door unlocked as promised. Stepping inside, the comforting scent of incense and candle wax greeted me. The place exuded a cozy, museum-like atmosphere, its shelves crowded with eclectic trinkets, Celtic amulets, and a few peculiar stuffed animals. Above the fireplace hung a picture of a younger Evanora sitting on the lap of a smiling, red-bearded guy. A painting of a man with a goat head hung above them. Despite its quirky charm, the place felt oddly welcoming.

Evanora appeared, wearing a cherry-colored satin robe, barefoot and stunning. She carried two mugs of tea. “Hope you’re up for a cup,” she said, giving me a smile. “I make it myself. Helps me sleep. China Black, chamomile, rose hips… a few other things.”

I took the tea and sipped. It tasted earthy, with a faint sweetness. She led me to the couch. “Let me show you something,” she said, digging through a cabinet. She produced a small box, opened it, and revealed a hand-rolled joint. “I hope you don’t mind. Helps me relax.”

She lit the joint, took a long drag, and offered it to me. The smoke made my head swim, and the tea’s warmth spread through my body like a spell.

“My ex, Rory, was Scottish,” she said. “He taught me the craft when I was 19.”

“Craft?” I asked, my voice getting a little sleepy.

“Witchcraft. It isn’t what everyone thinks,” she said, lighting the joint again. “No baby-eating or cat-mutilating nonsense. No one does that kind of thing. It’s about nature and purification. Each of us has our own gift. Mine? Energy manipulation. I transfer energy.”

I looked at her, wondering if I should laugh. “I know, sounds weird,” she said, “but it’s real. In witchcraft, we’re all free to do our own thing, so we concentrate on the things we do best.”

The weed started kicking in. My mind was swirling with abstract thoughts. The witchy talk was making my head spin. Maybe there was something more than tea in my cup. A sudden surge of desire rose up in me, and before I knew it, I leaned in toward her. I wasn’t sure how I felt about making love to a witch, but I was ready to find out.

“I have that same philosophy,” I said. “Free to do my own thing. But to tell you the truth, right now, I’d rather do yours.”

I moved in, and pressed my lips to hers. She tasted like rose hips and vanilla, and the sweet scent of herbs perfumed the air of the room. Her tongue brushed against my mouth, and I loosened the tie on her robe while she undid mine. Our hands searched each other’s bodies as we sank back onto the couch.

We fucked for what felt like an infinity, the details of which are best left to memory, but it was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I wanted more, but Evanora stood up, her body moving gracefully as she began to dance around the living room. Her nude, middle-aged figure still carried the vibrancy of someone far younger, and as she closed her eyes, she seemed to be lost in her own rhythm. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she swayed like a wood nymph, her movements slow, deliberate, and hypnotic.

She stretched out her arms.

“Dance with me, baby.”

I’ve never been shy, but dancing naked with a witch? That was a new one for me. I stood and joined her, unsure of my own movements. At first, I mimicked her graceful flow, but it was clear she was listening to some music only she could hear. It didn’t matter; I let her take the lead. Her arms rose above her head, and she skipped around as if caught in a magical trance. I followed her, trying my best to keep up.

She ran her hands over her own body, moving like she was making love to the air or some invisible presence. Her dance became more sensual, almost hypnotic. At first, I didn’t hear anything, but then, slowly, the music began to seep into my mind, like it had existed somewhere in the corners waiting to come out. I didn’t question it. We had connected on a deep level, and I could feel her energy wrapping around mine. Sweat dotted my skin, and my heartbeat quickened. We moved faster, spinning and twirling around the coffee table.

Suddenly, she stopped. She lifted her head and arms, her body still, and she whispered something in a language I wasn’t familiar with.

“Naestra, finna, toldor enna candorom! Shallae umstra lammacrom!”

She grabbed a stalk of herbs from the table and held it to embers in the fireplace. It caught alight immediately, and she placed it back on the table, where the fire quickly died, but the stalk smoldered. With a swift movement, she darted off to a closet and returned with what looked like a red kilt.

I froze. “What is this?”

“A gift,” she said. “Something special. Something passed down.”

I stared at the kilt. There was something unnatural about it. It seemed to have a strange, magnetic pull, as though it was waiting for me.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” I asked.

“Put it on,” she said, her voice suddenly hard, almost commanding. “It’s for you. It’s time.”

This woman seemed a little too old for dress-up, but I know a lot of people into role playing, so I didn’t argue. I was reluctant, but somehow… I couldn’t say no. Maybe it was the weed still clouding my head, or maybe it was something else. I was under her spell, and I complied. As soon as the kilt fastened, it began to glow, the red light intensifying. That was freaky. I tried to remove it. The buckles scortched my fingers.

Panic set in as the whole room felt different now. An unexplainable electricity charged the air. Everything about Evanora, about this place, now seemed different. It was no longer a night of lust, no longer an adventure. There was something ancient, something sinister here. I could feel it pressing against my chest, making it difficult to breathe.

Evanora moved slowly around me, her eyes locking on mine. “Do you feel it now?” she asked. “The change? The power?”

It was impossible not to feel it. When she first asked me to put the kilt on, I didn’t know what it meant. I thought it was just some strange fetish of hers. Now, as the kilt pressed against my skin and seemed to burn deeper into me, I began to understand. This wasn’t just a costume. It was a power. A force. It was taking over me. I tried to tear it off, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Don’t!” Evanora said. “You’re ours now, Tom. You belong to me and Rory. Just like all the others before you.”

Her words didn’t make sense to me, but then, through the haze, I remembered the peach pit necklace, the one nestled between the soft curve of her chest. At first, I hadn’t thought much about it, distracted by her beauty, her voice, her… presence. Now I could see it clearly.

Each of those seeds—not pits at all—but trophies. Mementos of conquests in her twisted collection. The men she had seduced, transformed, and consumed. I was simply another name on that long, horrific list. A notch on her belt. Another pit to add to her collection.

“Don’t resist it, Tom,” she said. “You’re giving Rory the gift of eternal life.”

I tried to scream—make any kind of noise, but the kilt had consumed me. It wasn’t physical anymore. It was spiritual. It was as if the very essence of me was being erased, rewritten, and remade into something else. Someone else. This kilt was alive, a vessel woven with threads of ancient magic and bound by blood oaths. It was Rory’s spirit pulsing within its glowing fibers, his unending life fueled by the stolen essence of those who dared to wear it. I became an offering, feeding Rory’s eternity.

The energy of the kilt surged, and Rory materialized. His form was radiant yet terrifying. A menacing smile grew beneath his red beard. He reached out, and I felt the last remnants of myself slip away, leaving only empty silence where once my soul had been.

The kilt fell limp, its glow dimmed. I was gone—no, transformed. No longer myself but a fragment of Rory’s eternal being. The kilt would wait, as it always had, for the next fool to continue its cycle. Rory was alive, and I was nothing more than two charms on a Montana witch’s necklace.