In my email newsletter this month, I’m sharing a recent short story I wrote for a Punk Meets Fae mashup challenge. I’ll be offering the story in installments through December, and I’m including Part 1 here as well.

If you’d like to continue with the story, I’d love you to join my list. You can unsubscribe at any time.

Pixie Dust and Stud Collars

Part 1

It was happening—in that wavering haze that made Shannon think of a desert mirage—if the desert was packed full of people, had a roof, and was the size of a giant basement. A Mirage. Humidity. Maybe a special effect manufactured by the band.

Those were the preferred explanations in the beginning, but no more, not after witnessing the phenomenon three times. That didn’t mean she had an answer.

The effect was indiscernible until it hit you that something was off, and you looked harder, only to observe the eerie dust cloud coalesce over an unsuspecting pubgoer. More terrifying was when the target vanished, no one seemed to notice, no one but Shannon as she stood, dumbfounded, heart racing while the screaming, thrashing fans jostled her.

It had taken three Twisted Chords performances to believe what her eyes were seeing. And here she was, seeing it again. But tonight, at the RockSea GoGo, the all-grrrl band’s fourth venue, Shannon was ready for action. Action, but no plan, other than to yank the target out of harm’s way if she spotted him in time—her best strategy after too many sleepless nights agonizing over the reality and what to do about it. Shannon froze.

Yes! That towering man in front of the stage had to be the target.

The ones before had stuck out like that—taller than anyone around them, powerfully built, gorgeous.

She wiggled and shimmied in his direction, straining to keep her eye on the guy, the band, and the sparkling dust. It wasn’t easy. The surf-punk femme power chant had the crowd riled as the mini-skirted, go-go-booted singers shredded their instruments and emptied their lungs over the worshipping crowd… And the acrid air was beyond sultry, obscuring the glitter. Was it moving toward the giant dude wearing a spiked collar? She both hoped and dreaded that it was.

Shannon thrived on the overstimulating, dizzying clash of sensations from a packed pub. Soldering with sweaty bodies at these venues was her passion. It was also her job as a journalist. Aside from punk rock music’s raw strings, tribal-stomp beats, and off-kilter crescendos, the intimate fusion was what Shannon craved.

The bobbing bodies lost in art-defying noise were a thing of beauty, a single entity, greater than themselves, amplifying the music’s message, inspiring escape into a primal existence. The crowd’s pulse was the centerpiece of her reviews. This band’s scale between screaming rebellious dissonance and hypnotic siren calls added a thrilling dimension. She cringed, even as she made a mental note to use this in a piece later. Folklore imagery kept creeping into her ideas about the five hauntingly beautiful musicians.

What bothered Shannon about the mystical connotation was that it felt like truth. While the familiarity was disconcerting and prompted the need for answers, it was the disappearances that filled Shannon with urgency, bringing up buried memories of personal loss. If there was a chance she could prevent another one, she needed to take it. She stopped pushing and strained on her tiptoes for a clear view of the stage.

The dust cloud that had blossomed in the strobing lights was forming into a moving ribbon. She felt the connection again, which she’d denied up till now. The materializing phenomena resided somewhere in her memory like an elusive itch.

Reason told her she had nothing to do with these happenings so bizarre no one would believe a word out of her mouth—probably not even Becka who thrived on the bizarre. Scratch that. Her best friend would swallow the story whole and beg for more. But once spoken, denial was off the table. Shannon worried that acknowledging her awareness somehow made her responsible for the disappearances. Her jaw tightened.

If she’d let her brilliant, receptive friend in on things, she might have had a better plan.

The bodies pressed in, their collective heat rolling over her like bathwater while she twisted up once more to peek around a wide punk rocker wearing a crewcut and glasses. Her target was only feet away… and he was looking right at her!

He sent her a wink.

Shannon blinked rapidly in response as if the repetitive focus might wake her from a dream. A waif-like girl fell into her. Shannon caught the laughing leather-and-lace-clad fan and heaved her back to her friends. Okay, not a dream. She straightened her shoulders.

This was it. The moment thinking on her feet would be critical.

---

Part 2 coming September 9 to my newsletter only.

Give my books a read and let me know what you think. Reviews and comments are always appreciated.