Round 4.1:Write a story of max 2.5K words that is both LGBTQIAP+ and paranormal. The story must contain the following three words: Cackle (verb), ominous (adjective), microwave (noun).
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(*Note: This story contains scenes of violence)
A gust of wind has me pulling my sweater collar tighter to my throat. Normally I love October, how it ushers in the change of seasons. But the deepening fire of fall colours doesn't warm me as usual. There's an ominous feel to the air today.
The screen door creaks open behind me.
"Thanks, Rachel. Not many people let me use their bathroom but you're as nice as your place is."
"Not a problem, Drew." The pharmacy's new delivery person is a tall man so I have to crane my neck to meet his eye. He has a rather intense stare but is always quick to smile whenever I see him here or in town. "Do you have a lot more deliveries to make?"
"TGIF! Just two more then I'm done." He grins over his shoulder as he heads down the porch steps. "Hoping to get some night fishing in this weekend at the lake. How about you? Got any plans?"
"Nope. Got nothing exciting except microwave popcorn, Netflix and chill."
From inside the kitchen, the microwave timer pings. I can't help but grimace.
Drew laughs. "Snuck a packet in while I was in the john?"
"Uh, yeah." Not true. I hadn't touched the microwave.
I run my hand across the back of my neck. At least my hairs don't stand on end anymore when things like this happen.
"Popcorn for supper." Drew shrugs. "Been there, done that. I live alone too and I suck at cooking."
From the porch, I watch him place his delivery bag in the trunk of his car then get behind the wheel. I wave as the vehicle crunches its way down the dirt road.
"Popcorn for dinner does sound good," I murmur to myself.
There's a loud bang behind me and I whirl around. Through the screen door I spy the box of popcorn I keep on the kitchen counter upturned onto the floor. Individual packets scattered everywhere.
I close my eyes and clench my fists. "Damn it, Witchy!" I call out with wishful thinking.
No such luck. A stuttering, high-pitched warble answers me, from the other side of the lane. Sure enough, the stray feline whom I named after his meow that sounds like a witch cackling slinks out from beneath some bushes.
The black stray is the unexpected tenant I acquired when I got the cottage last winter. Rent is paid on occasion in the form of a dead mouse or bird left at my doorstop. The cat stays outdoors for the most part but sneaks inside (ok fine, I let him in) when the weather's bad. Then I find him curled up on my bed or on my sofa.
