Micro-fiction: Have You Tried

A witchy comedy horror in less than 900 words, very much for Pride month

Photo by Halanna Halila on Unsplash

Hiya! Time for another weekly dip into the cauldron of horror, this time inspired by Pride month and witchcraft.

I’m Mata, and I write new tiny horror stories and essays each week. If you enjoy these and appreciate the work that goes into them, click the ‘like’ heart at the end, share this story with others, and consider going for a paid subscription:

With that said, let’s sweep into this week’s tale:

Have You Tried

My parents descended together onto the floral print sofa. My mother crossed her legs, head high and back straight like her posture was going to be spot-checked by guerrilla nuns. My father crumpled like a punctured bouncy castle, his head a turret twisting slowly to the side and then upwards towards the ceiling, looking at anything but me.

“Darling,” my mother said. “We wanted to ask you something.”

I waited.

My mother nudged her husband. He clearly hadn’t taken his cue, and his deflation continued. If someone didn’t get the pump going then he’d slide onto the floor and disappear beneath the coffee table, vanishing below neatly stacked copies of Good Housekeeping and Gardeners’ Monthly. My mother poked him harder, and he pushed himself upright.

“Have—” His voice died in a wheeze, his reinflation still incomplete. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Have you…” He pulled at his collar and glanced at the thermostat, like we’d accidently set it to ‘erupting volcano’ by mistake.

“What your father is trying to say,” my mother interjected, “is that we were wondering—” Her voice trails off, shoulders rounding.

I knew where this was going. I fiddled with the black lace edge of my skirt. “Yes?” Energy crackled in my veins. My parent’s auras shifted through murky shades of black, red, and purple.

My mother cocked her head, trying to look sympathetic. “Have you tried not being a witch?”

I pursed my lips and nodded. With parents, it’s important to show them you value their input, even when they’re stupid. After a pause I deemed sufficiently indicative of careful thought, I rolled the tip of my tongue between my lips, tasted the dark-cherry gloss. “But I am a witch.”

“Yes,” my dad said. “We understand that. But perhaps you could, you know, try not being one. How about joining a tennis club instead?”

Again, I gave this a vigorous nod, trying to show appreciation for this eminently sensible suggestion. Under my skirt and along my stomach, my skin itched. I knew without looking that hair was sprouting there, born from the instinct to transform into a wolf and either maul or flee. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The itching subsided. “That’s an interesting proposition, but if the midday sun catches my skin then angels will see my cursed soul and open the ground to cast me into infernal pits.” This gets blank faces. “And that would ruin the tennis courts.”

My mother gasped. “Oh!” She intertwines her fingers over her knee. “Maybe knitting?”

“Knitting?” I say. My eyes stray to my craft work, skulking proudly on the wall. The unholy weaving of threads enclosed the bones of many wild creatures. Sprigs of noxious plants twined among the construction. If you placed your ear against it, you heard the dripping of sacred water trickling through places so deep beneath the Earth they will never be witnessed by incarnate souls. “I could try knitting. I have more black yarn.”

My parents followed my gaze and shuddered. “Perhaps not,” my father said. “On second thoughts, no,” my mother said.

“It’s just we want you to fit in,” my mother said.

Realised I was nodding again, so locked my head in place. Their eyes filled with fear. I scare them. They wanted to destroy my identity, take away the thing that makes me me.

Flames flickered at the edges of my vision. Jittering impulses consumed my fingers, making them twitch and jerk, forming the first sigils of a curse, a banishment to make—

“We just want you to be safe,” my father said. “The world is a hard place for people like you.” His eyes sparkled. My mother’s too.

It’s not me.

They don’t fear me; it’s how the world will treat me. The realisation strikes like a glacial waterfall, dowsing the inferno that had been brewing only a second before. The barbs in their question still pricked, but there was a blood red rose of love among the thorns too. Sure, they could have said it better—much better—but they were trying to say they loved me.

They don’t feel the power hidden inside me, the urges that flow through my mind and body. They don’t know how many of us there are. Our neighbour is a decorated marine and a warlock. Three doors down? She’s a small business owner and witch, and so is her ‘best friend’ housemate. More of us are all around, and the world will never extinguish us. We are wild seeds, growing wherever we land. We survived the Roman empire, the Inquisition, the terrors of the ‘Enlightenment’ spreading our kin across the world, and more. We have always been here and always will be.

I can’t tell them I’ll stop being a witch. “I’ll be careful,” I say.

It’s true. I am always careful.

Invisible to them, my hellhound nuzzled my thigh, my eternal companion. I can’t stop being a witch. I was born a witch and will die one. I have no choice in this, but others can choose to not be a dick about it, and my hellhound is loyal, always hungry, and very protective.

The end

If we’re lucky, our parents love us, whoever and whatever we are. That doesn’t mean they’re always great at expressing it, but love still counts for something, and many of us queer folk aren’t fortunate enough to even have that.

Community keeps us alive. Embrace each other, lift each other up; we need to be each others’ hellhounds.

On a different—but not entirely unrelated—note, I saw Ryan Coogler’s ‘Sinners’ this week, and my goodness that’s an incredible film. Coogler is better known for Black Panther, and there are similar themes here, brought to life in an incredible mix of music, history, and damn good vampire action. I absolutely loved it.

Also on the theme of historical spooky fiction, I just finished reading Grady Hendrix’s ‘Witchcraft for Wayward Girls’. It’s got scary witches doing genuinely spooky magic, but the real terror—and the vast proportion of the book—is how underage, pregnant teenagers were sometimes treated in 1970 in the US. The abuse surrounding their lives is truly grim. I can’t tell you it’s a light read, but it reaches a great ending, and the misery of those conditions should serve as a memorable warning about how far the US can easily go in punishing those it deems unworthy of sympathy.

We need love, understanding, inclusion, and equity. We need community. It keeps us alive and gives us hope. We survive together, through being out and visible, and hopefully we find ways to flourish.

Go out there and be excellent to each other.

I mean this from the bottom of my heart: go be kind and spooky,

Mata

xoxo

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