Illustration by Rolffimages | dreamstime
“Shut the dream before any more gronklins get through!” yelled Aunt Balinda as she stood by the bed holding the grimoire in one hand and her broom in the other.
I hurriedly (and somewhat clumsily) closed the swirling portal hanging above Aunt Mel, who was still sound asleep in her bed. Balinda often said that her sister could sleep through a hurricane, and looking about the room with books knocked from their shelves, clothing tossed about, and two candelabras lying on the floor, I think we definitely confirmed that statement.
“We have to hurry and catch them before they try to crawl back into her head,” ordered Balinda. I held out my wand, which was actually a fly swatter. I wasn’t allowed to have a proper wand, but since I wasn’t supposed to be doing magik in the first place, I couldn’t rightly complain about it.
A gronklin lurked under the bed and I zapped it with a luminaire incantation. Gronklins were so disgusting that they were almost cute and reminded me of a horror movie I pilfered from my father’s DVD collection called Critters 4. They were mostly just teeth with beady eyes and as night creatures they were particularly susceptible to light spells. When I flushed the gronklin out from under the bed Aunt Balinda trapped it in the crystal ball sitting on the nightstand next to Mel.
“Hurry, Caylin. Gronklins frighten easily at first but then begin to gather their bravery,” explained Balinda. My aunts were the only people to ever call me by my actual name. My avant-garde mother chose a Gaelic name though our family roots could only be traced as far back as Cookeville, Tennessee. I think you’d be hard-pressed to find any actual faerie folk in my background. Aunt Mel claims we had kin burned alive at Salem, but Balinda always points out no actual witches were burned in Salem. This inevitably leads to a drunken argument with them droning on into the devil’s hour of the night, ending where it always does: each one claiming that the other stole Herbert Walker’s heart.
I spotted two gronklins making their way toward the bedroom door and shut it violently with a gust of wind spell. I should have been able to shut it with telekinesis but my aunts considered that too advanced and refused to teach me. Balinda trapped those two gronks as I herded them to the middle of the room. By my count that only left one outstanding.
I heard a low grumbling but couldn’t find the source. An ominous clicking sound could only have been him snapping his tongue against the back of his sharp teeth. I realized then that I was going to do the one thing everyone watching a horror movie tells the young girl in the dark room not to do. I slowly raised my eyes and looked up. There he was with his claws dug into the ceiling like a bat. I stumbled backward as he released and began his dive toward me.
“Bonisho!” I shouted as I blasted him with white light. His pupils dilated and his body shimmered as he stopped in midair and then was sucked into the crystal ball.
“Caylin!” shouted Balinda. “Who taught you that trapping spell?”
I shrugged and replied, “I was watching you.”
Balinda scowled. “That magik is dangerous. I’m going to have to have a long talk with Melinda about this.” With a stamp, stamp, stamp of the broomstick on the floor the crystal ball pulsed, flared white, then went dark.
“They weren’t hurt, were they?” I asked.
“No, my dear. I just sent them back to the place where dark dreams dwell. They’ll be perfectly happy there.”
With that Aunt Mel stretched her arms out and sat up in bed. She said, “Oh, that was such a lovely nap.”
“Humph!” said Balinda, “the next time you are having bad dreams I suggest you just get yourself a tall glass of warm milk.”
I left my two witch aunts arguing playfully and excused myself from the room. Balinda was telling Mel that she thought I was progressing too fast. As I was walking down the stairs I gave a slight nod and closed Mel’s door softly. This was going to be the best summer ever.
DANIEL REECE has been writing in and about obscurity for 25 years. He currently lives with his wife and daughter in Memphis.
SHORT AND SWEET (or not-so-sweet), the Very Short Story Contest welcomes entries of up to 750 words, maximum. Writers are encouraged to incorporate the city into their work. Winning stories will be published in Memphis and archived on memphismagazine.com. Whereas the fiction contest was in the past a once-a-year event, the Very Short Story Contest will recognize ten winning entries annually, every month except February and August. The Very Short Story Contest is presented by Novel, Memphis’ newest independent bookstore, where each winning author will be honored with a $200 gift certificate. Interested in submitting your work? Please read the full contest rules, then send us your best stuff!
