DISCLAIMER:The following story is a work of fiction. All names, events, locals, et al, featured in the work are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is entirely unintentional.

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This work is copyrighted © by A. Maynard Alphé Névrè. No part of this story may be transmitted or reproduced in whole or in part in any form including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the express written consent of the aforementioned author. If you want this, and other stories to continue, please donate to Nifty @ http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
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Two hours after we began this next chapter in our lives and I was pissed off my arse. Can I make a banging margarita or what? Anywhose, there we were sitting around the kitchen table, I was on my fifth drink and Aunt Avie was on her sixth, when my big bro came sauntering in. His hair was freshly washed but still done over in the fucked up hack job that wack job of a foter of our left it in. Clearly, he was at a loss as to what to do with it. So, an ab fab bish, such as myslef had to step in. "We have so got to do something with that massive cheveux-ne you've got going there, bro. I'm not going to be caught dead anywhere with you looking like that," I chuckled lightly to myself before turning to Aunt Avie and asked "May I borrow a pair of scissors?"

There is just something about hair that I find insanely sensual. I'm never more myself than when I'm elbow deep in hair. Marcus, my first ex-boyfriend had the loveliest thickest mane of blond hair. There's just something about a were that's sex walking on a stick. Anywhose, fifteen minutes later I'd done the best I could salvaging Céleste's hair turning it into a rather posh pageboy do.

"Care for a make over, Aunt Avie," I said after a sip of my sixth margarita and a snipsnipsnap of the scissors. "I have a philosophy about brake ups. I call it the BCS."

"Tell me more," She said as she slightly stumbled over to the chair and flopped down with a huff of hot air. I ran my hands through her long mane of red hair as I tried to picture the work of art that lay within the mess of locks.

"BCS is of course an acronym standing for Binge, Change, and Step out. After a break up I grab a few pints of Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia, and an assortment of junk foods and a shit load of romantic comedies and have a junk food fest and make fun of lovers. Then, I go buy something new that I wanted but didn't let myself buy. I maybe change my hair style. Next, I hit the streets and paint the town. I make it a habit to stop by his fav place to show him just how good I look without him." The whole time I'm talking I'm snipsnipsnapping away at her hair. When I'm done her hair is short in the back, just under an inch, and just long enough to touch the top of her cheeks with a fringe bang stopping just below the eyebrow. "Well, what do you think," I said as I handed her the hand mirror.

"It's something I wouldn't have had done, but, I like it," She said as she gave herself another once over in the mirror before she sat it down on the kitchen table.

"So, Mummy Dearest was murdered," Céleste said as he poured himself a drink and sat at the kitchen table with a sigh.

"Yeah and we're witches; hence the whole fire breath gambit," She said like she was talking about the weather. "Speaking of fire. Dot. Dot. Dot."

"Hint taken," Céleste tossed her the pack of cigarettes after he'd taken one for himself. "How dose the fire thing work, exactly."

"Imagine that there is a ball of fire in your hands. When you can see it in your mind's eye in all clarity, then, make it real."

Céleste tried it and was surprised when a small blue flame burst to life atop the index finger of his left hand. "It's cold. I though it would be hot," he said half lost in amazement at his accomplishment as he put the tip of the smoke to the flame and inhaled deeply.

"God, you are so like your mother. Her first flame was a cold on as well. Cold flames are best for defensive or offensive attacks."

I tried my hand at fire conjuring. I felt a rush better than acid and extacy, or what I imagined them to be like (What, just because a bish talks a mean game doesn't means she gone there.) My body grew hot as what felt like a wave of pure heat descended upon me; consumed me. I felt this heat burn through my body from head to toe. Then, it traveled to my hands as they raised of their own accord.

I'm happy to report that I didn't just set a finger on fire. Not by a long shot. I sent a bolt of violaceous purple lightning out of the tips of my fingers and right out into the chest of some boy walking through the kitchen door. A red head grey eyed pale skinned boy.


If you have any comments about this story, questions, or just criticisms (constructive ones, please) feel free to message me at: ama.nevre@gmail.com. I will attempt to reply to all messages in a timely manner (usually within a day or two of receiving it.)

Best wishes and happy extracurricular proclivities to one and all.  A.M.A.