Elliot Smith's Story

It wasn’t a dark night, nor was it stormy. The wind wasn’t howling through the streets and there wasn’t an ominous feeling in the air. Quite to the contrary, the bright neon shop lights seemed to banish what shadows the street lights had forgotten about, and the soft hum of a live band echoed through the busy blocks of downtown Seattle. All about South 5th street, small clusters of night owls strolled in and out of the coffee shops, bars, and late night eateries that pandered to their kind. All sorts of people were enjoying various activities, making the scene the farthest thing from your typical horror story setting, however, the disarming ambiance was just that: a false sense of security.

No matter what the atmosphere, magic and mayhem were always afoot.




The gentle force of her breath parted the sea of whip cream, rippling the mirroring black surface of the coffee below. Stealing a glance before the cream settled back into a uniform coat, Issa gazed briefly at the outline of her face in the dim reflection, catching the outlandish outline created by the rather feral fluff of her hair. Smirking at her on image, she finally leaned back, one arm going to rest against the back of the stool as she turned her eyes towards the other patrons in The Black Briar, a cozy little coffee shop that always smelled of potent brews. Her normal hunting ground, the woman often came to peruse the selection that passed through the doors. On a good night, there would be a few different culture clicks, a hand full of hopeful writers, and the occasional odd ball who she found utterly fascinating. Tonight, however, the pickings were rather slim for a people watcher like herself.

A huff of a sigh passed her lips before she turned back around and turned her eyes hopefully to the door. The night was still young. Well, relatively so. For her, one o’clock in the morning was young as her normal shift ended late on Tuesday nights due to a rather particular client. A boring fellow by the name of M. Gregory, he did little more than cause to run late and rethink her current line of work with his constant onslaught of mommy issues and selfish tendencies. He was the sort of client that left her drained, really, and thus why her little outings had become so frequent. By day, she was obligated to aid those who paid her money to listen to their usually petty issues and, by night, she was finally free to follow her own persist. Pursuits being people who were actually interesting and had issues that were worthy of her highly trained time.

It wasn’t only her obligation that changed, mind you, it was everything about the woman. At the office, she wore nothing but suits. Pressed, normally a shade of grey, and always accented by a carefully chosen undershirt, she looked the part of the highly paid therapist with her black hair in a tight and tidy bun and her boxy glasses. By night, though, things changed a little. Gone were the slicked back and tamed locks and the formal attire. Instead there was a mass of thick black hair that seemed to have been wrangled into a pony tail where it hung more like the bushy tail of an animal than some groomed mane. The glasses were gone and black sleeveless shirts were always brandished to show the tapestry of artwork that had been lurking beneath the well pressed material. Most days, Issa swore that a client wouldn’t be able to recognize her and, truly, that is where it all started from. She wanted to keep her life separate, to draw a stark line between her job and her passions, writing over the one that had been crudely etched by her growing disdain for her current clients.

Her eyes wandered slowly back to the door, willing someone interesting to enter and relieve her of the absolute boredom the night seemed ready to provide. Two weeks ago, she had an honest to goodness sociopath and, last June, she’d been able to recognize the signs of a deep depression within a college kid. They were her ‘highlights’ of her nightlife, the personal case studies she’d been able to create. Of course, there had been handfuls of other individuals, ones who had unique little issues and their own quarks, but nothing completely outlandish. Nothing to get her blood flowing and her mind working. Puffing the air into her cheeks and slowly letting it pass over her dark stained lips, Issa found herself just wanting something, anything, to save her from the dull confines of her current life. Sure, there had been talk of magic being real now, of ‘otherworldly’ possibilities, but if that sort of thing really did exist, it seemed to be reserved for political speculation on tv shows or for abandoned shacks in the woods, because nothing ever happened here. Well, at least not around her. Not yet.