She found herself woken from a dead sleep in the middle of the night. Her brother stood over her with a concerned look on his face, but his eyes were unreadable. She knew that at this point that he would not have woken her if it was not important. So, she got up out of bed, changed her clothes, and followed him downstairs to the kitchen. To her surprise, all of her friends were there. The twins Brayden and Renee, their cousin Jackson, Trevor and Sebastian, and even her best friend Sam was there.
But what had really caught her attention, was that Sam could not even look at her. His sandy brown hair was tousled, his amber eyes were red rimmed and puffy, and his arms were crossed over his chest. Something was bothering him, and she did not like the fact that she did not know what it was. Everyone else also the same troubled looks on their tired faces. She wanted to know what was going on, and she was about to find out.
Her brother stopped next to the sink, and she jumped to sit on the countertop next to him. It was then that she noticed that someone was missing. “Where is Rhys?” she thought that it would have been her brother to respond first, but it was Renee who answered. “Rhys is why we are here.” Her head swiveled so she could look at her. “Grace, something happened to him, and we need your help.” The room was quiet for a minute or two before Renee continued. “Rhys was in an accident. He did not make it.” She felt as if her heart had stopped. “Grace, you are the only one who has the ability to bring someone back from the dead.”
Her heart pounded loudly in her ears, and she could barely hear anything that was discussed by the group. Her mouth had dried, and she could feel tears in her eyes, but she just could not focus on the rest of the conversation. Not until her brother took her hand and squeezed it. She looked at every single person in the room and it suddenly became painfully clear that they were all looking at her. “Grace…” She turned to look at her brother Michael who had addressed her. “Please. I do not want to push you to do something you do not think you have the strength to do. But you are the ONLY person who CAN do this.”
She took a few minutes to consider it before nodding and looking around the room. “I’ll do it. But magic like this…it does not come cheap, or without a price.” She studied everyone around her, and finally, Sam looked at her. “Magic like this is darker than anything a witch or a sorcerer would ever consider preforming. At best, it requires a great sacrifice.” Renee and Brayden looked at each other. “What kind of sacrifice does a spell like this require?” Everyone fell silent and waited for her to respond. “To bring a soul back from the dead, one must take its place.”
Everyone exchanged glances, and then an unfamiliar voice spoke up. “I’ll do it.” Everyone turned and Grace saw Rhys’ older brother standing in the kitchen doorway. He was badly beat up, and bleeding from his head. “Grayson?” She jumped off the counter and took a few tentative steps towards him. “What did you do?” Her throat felt tight, and she could see the regret and heartbreak in his eyes. “I was…I was driving the car. I was not paying attention. Next thing I knew…The car was on its hood and Rhys was dead.” She knew he felt terrible about what had happened, so she walked over to him and hugged him. “Are you sure about this? Taking your brother’s place? I cannot bring you back.”
Grayson stared at her for a minute before nodding. “I want to do this. For my brother.” She nodded slowly, and then turned back to her brother. “I am going to need chicken blood, salt, five candles, and a bottle of vodka.” Renee snorted. “Vodka? For the spell?” Grace turned and looked at her, a small smile playing on her lips. “No, that is just to help me feel better about tearing a hole in the universe.” Michael chuckled, shaking his head. “Classic Grace. Pulling jokes at a serious matter.”
About the Creator
Victoria Wadsworth
I am an altruistic person who likes to help others. In my free time, I like to read other people's writing samples, as well as write my own. I believe that writing in itself is a form of communication from the heart and mind onto paper.
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The cafe and the owl
The café erupted into shouts of surprise and displeasure when the two young people crashed into one another in the dining area. Papers went everywhere, flying into the air and slowly floating back down to settle on the ground. Coffee spilled across the dark tile floor making the entire room smell of Columbian Supremo Blend. It soaked through the papers that had yet to be picked up off the floor, making it nearly impossible to read what had once been written on them. The only thing left on the pages that could be seen was the front cover which had a barn owl with open wings across the front. Its eyes were a golden amber, with sparkles of gold and silver across the face. Its wings were similar as well.
By Victoria Wadsworth2 years ago in Fiction
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins5 days ago in Fiction
Create Your Personal Vocal Homepage
I'm not a Vocal Newbie (not that there's anything wrong with that), and I'm technologically comfortable. But, I'm also perhaps too comfortable. I think I know, even if I know that I don't know what I don't know, I still think I know more that I do know.
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