HONORABLE MENTION, 2020
The Screw Turn Flash Fiction Competition
BY HARRIET PHOENIX
I slide the postcard carefully under the glass. Three times I’ve thrown this spider outside, and three times it’s crawled its way back in. Too bad, so sad, you leggy bastard. Should’ve stayed out.
Some people might see this as kismet, as if this one arachnid’s persistence is a sign from the universe. Not me. What I’m doing is beyond wrong. Beyond blasphemy. Unthinkable. I just don’t care.
The spider darts around inside the glass, as if it knows what’s coming. Too late. I gave you every opportunity, didn’t I? You have only yourself to blame.
I carry the glass inside the red chalk pentagram and set it down carefully next to the pestle and mortar. I sprinkle salt in a circle around the chalk and sit cross-legged. Usually I’d have a little more ceremony: invoke the Goddess, represent the five elements, cast some runes. At least light some incense. But the spell doesn’t require it, and it feels hypocritical to act as if this is in some way . . . sanctioned. So instead I light three black candles and go straight to mixing the ingredients in the mortar.
Later, when they ask me, I wonder if I’ll pretend I felt a qualm. I doubt it.
Herbs and sulphur. Bark of two different trees, any two: I chose birch and yew. Run-off wax from whichever of the black candles feels right: I choose the left. A chunk of smoky quartz: if this works, the stone will have dissolved into the potion by the time I drink.
One last ingredient: a single human hair. Long, wavy and red as a sequoia tree. I plucked it off her jacket as she turned away from me. How was it my fault when she’s the one who changed? I lower the hair into the mortar in a spiral. It rests on the surface of the dense liquid before slipping beneath.
Finally, I pick up the spider glass. The poor thing is still now, resigned. The spell doesn’t call for this, specifically, but the instructions heavily imply that it will help. A life, any life. Commitment.
I hold the glass over the mortar and pull away the card. I tap the glass one, two, three times against the stone, and the spider tumbles into the liquid. It twitches, trying to stay afloat, but I bring down the pestle and grind its body against the side.
You had so many chances to avoid this. Didn’t I give you every chance?
I pulverise the spider carcass, mixing it in until there’s nothing left. I lift the mortar and hold it above the centre candle.
To do unto you as I do unto me. Work my will, so mote it be. To do unto you as I do unto me. Work my will, so mote it be. To do unto you as I do unto me. Work my will, so mote it be.
As I speak, the surface of the potion begins to bubble. It’s working.
I bring the spout of the mortar to my lips and drink the contents in three long gulps. It’s smooth, all liquid. The stone dissolved. I put the mortar down and pick up the kitchen knife next to it. It’s not part of the spell. But I wanted to do this right away.
My religion has one law, just one. Don’t hurt anyone. Not anyone else, and not yourself. It’s the only thing that matters. I rest the tip of the knife against my left palm. I thought about using a poppet, a voodoo doll. That might give her a cramp or a headache. Not good enough.
I drive the knife into my palm and draw a line towards my fingers. The blood wells out, and I imagine her crying out, grasping her palm, staring in horror at the cut made by nothing. The pain is white hot, but so is hers.
I cut myself, and she bleeds.
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Harriet Phoenix has wanted to be a writer since she was old enough to understand that books are written by people. She studied English Literature and Creative Writing at Aberystwyth University and now lives in Wiltshire, U.K., where she writes science fiction and fantasy. “Holding a Grudge is Like …” is her first published work.