Meet Me at the Crossroads

April 4, 2013
By ChelseaS. SILVER, Lexington, Kentucky
ChelseaS. SILVER, Lexington, Kentucky
7 articles 0 photos 6 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia." -Carlos Fuentes

The moon is pale, but a sliver in the cold black of the night sky. No stars shine here; they haven’t in a long time. They haven’t since I came. The air is cold, cold like death, but the whisper of wind murmurs of hope and chances. Hope and chances that only I can offer.
The man comes like all the others, with the little box he doesn’t quite believe in but desperately hopes holds some kind of truth. He digs a shallow grave in the middle of the crossroads, murmurs a prayer to a God that isn’t here, then stands.
That’s my cue. The breeze swirls and gives me shape, a pale, beautiful girl in a white dress that reveals more than it hides; a girl with long dark hair and the crimson eyes of the devil. I smile, and it’s not friendly.
The man is pale and shaking; his fear tastes like tender steak, his desire like rich red wine. “I need…I need your help,” he stammers, as if I didn’t know this already. People don’t come to me to chat.
“What can I give you?” I ask huskily, walking slowly around him. I murmur temptations as I circle my prey. “Fame? Fortune? The girl of your dreams?”
I sense a hitch in his breathing at that last one, and a slow, predatory smile curves my luscious lips. “So it’s love you seek. Love’s not hard; love is easy. All it takes is desire. Love is just another name for lust.”
“I want my Monica to love me,” he whispers, wringing his hands.
It’s not hard to see why Monica doesn’t love him; who could love this sniveling shadow of a man? But hopeless, lost souls like him are what I thrive on. They’re what I need, what I desire. They’re the easiest to break.
I catch his chin in my fingers, my sharp nails cutting the skin and causing a droplet of scarlet blood to fall to the dusty earth at our feet. “She will love you,” I whisper sensuously. “She will love you for ten long, beautiful years. And when those ten years are up – I’ll collect what’s due.”
“Yes, please, thank you!” He doesn’t even ask what I’ll collect. The fool. Well, he’ll know when those ten years are up.
I lean forward, and I kiss him, pressing my soft lips against his thin mouth. Our deal, sealed with a kiss.
Deals of passion must be sealed with passion.
Sometimes, I almost wish I could feel it.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.


MacMillan Books

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!