by Chelsea Owens
Eric loved the Greek fast food place in the mall. He hadn’t been in months; Monica complained of his smelling of onions whenever he ate there. He wasn’t sure he should be letting her stop him from pitas and Tzatziki, but -truth be told- Monica was a little scary.
Something about Monica’s black-lined black eyes worried him.
Something about Monica’s black-painted black fingernails frightened him.
Frankly, something about Monica’s black-dressed black everything gave him the willies.
“You can’t let her push you around just ’cause she’s a Wiccan,” Eric’s pal, Niko, advised.
“You’re right,” Eric said.
He and Niko stopped by Greek Fest that very day. The food was everything Eric remembered; he thought about it with pleasure all afternoon. When he walked through the door to his apartment, he could still feel the crisp onions between his teeth and the fresh tomatoes on his tongue. The lamb had been seared at the edges but soft in the middle. The Tzatziki –
“So,” Monica’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “You did it.”
Eric stopped and stared at her. She wore even more black than usual and stood within a black circle of black candles. Somehow, even their flames looked black. He heard David Bowie’s “Heroes” playing from Alexa.
He stepped backwards slowly. Monica spread her black fingernails wide and he found himself immobile.
♫We can be heroes, Bowie crooned, If just for one day…♫
“So,” she repeated. “You thought you could eat Greek…”
♫Just for one day…♫
“Just for one day,” Eric tried to defend himself, but his mouth didn’t work. His limbs didn’t work. His eyes stayed wide open and staring at the black-clad, black-lit Monica. She waved her hands over and around the black candles, chanting -you guessed it- black words.
♫And you, you can be mean…♫
“Midnight, Coal, Pitch!” Monica’s voice rose in volume to drown out the music. Her candles and the overhead lights of the apartment fluttered.
I’m sorry, Alexa said, I don’t understand your request.
“Jet, Soot, Cave, DARK!”
Eric’s clothes fell off and around him as the room grew huge, stretching up and away. His last thoughts were, I feel a bit like shredded lettuce, before his cognitive functions ceased.
Monica stepped over her candle circle and walked to where Eric’s clothes sat in a pile on the floor. Pushing aside his discarded shirt and jeans, she uncovered a perfectly-made Greek sandwich.
“Now, Eric Morgenstein,” she cackled, “You can be a gyro, if just for one day!”
Footnote: ‘Gyro’ here is used because of it’s ability to rhyme with ‘hero’. Australians will know this fast food item as a souvlaki.
Chelsea Owens lives with her husband in Utah, USA and is a prolific blogger, when raising her children and saving the world allow. She has been an online friend and supporter from very early in my own writing journey. I am a proud holder of a winner’s badge in one of her Terrible Poetry contests.