by Shawn M Klimek
lemonade over dry ice
In her black, hooded ceremonial
cloak, the coven high priestess’ candlelit face might have been a disembodied
head, floating above the altar. The otherworldly visage scanned her sisters.
Each witch nodded deferentially as her stern eyes met their own. Inwardly, she
counted. Only eleven had come—too few for the sacred, Ritual of Thirteen. She
glanced morosely at the wax pooling around the shrinking candles, sighed, and
reaching a decision, struck the bell. The metallic tone lingered
eerily.
“Sisters,
she said. “Sadly, an even number cannot perform the ritual, but perhaps the
night is not lost. Who’s up for Charades?”
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