Coconut Cream Magic: Uncollected Anthology: Spells Gone Awry, #12

By Stephanie Writt

Who knew the epic fail of a cooking spell could lead to naked house demolition? And then could get so much worse…
I try to conjure a pie for my grandmother’s birthday. Heh. Right. That goes sideways in an explosion of wrong and coconut cream filling. But it might not be the worst thing that ever happens. Maybe. Maaaaybe. Because to get everything I ever wanted I will have to face down the most frightening and unbending creature on this plant. Naked.
So, that’s going to go real well. Oh yeah. Really well.

“The story [A Future Song]...left me feeling satisfied and touched.”
– Charles de Lint

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wayne Press
• Release date: May 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386903246

Book preview

Coconut Cream Magic

Coconut Cream Magic

Uncollected Anthology: Spells Gone Awry

Stephanie Writt

Wayne Press

Contents

Coconut Cream Magic

Read and be happy!

Steven Mohan, Jr.: The Sufferance of Shark Gods

Annie Reed: The Fixer

Dayle A. Dermatis: Releasing the Spell

Kristine Kathryn Rusch: Disrupt Magic

Leah Cutter: Nine Lives

Michele Lang: Avenge Me

Rebecca M. Senese: Tear Away

Free Story: 1st in Geriatric Magic’s: The New York Collection

Geriatric Magic

Want to read more in this series?

Preview: Love & Jinx

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Love & Jinx: Want to finish reading?

Also by Stephanie Writt

About the Author

Coconut Cream Magic

Uncollected Anthology: Spells Gone Awry (Issue #12)

So , that just happened.

No shit, no shit, there I was, balls deep in coconut cream pie in my grandmother’s attic.

How do I know it was specifically balls deep?

Because I was naked. Surprise!

And the tropical creaminess was caressing my ball sac in a most indelicate and chilling way. Aaaaand it was starting to cream its way between my butt cheeks.

Unpleasant? You bet.

And the attic? What the fuck?

The pie filling had crack access so easy because I was bent in half at the waist, my bareback shoved up against that damn Pink Panther insulation stapled to the slanted rafters. Yeah, this wasn’t no super roomy affair. No sitting room or ancient trunk filled extravaganza of lost treasures and genealogical adventures. Nope. Not even any real room for storage space.

Except for me and my fucking coconut cream pie disaster of epic proportions.

How the hell was I going to clean it up?

I did still have my wand. Maybe I could, you know, reverse…

Uh oh.

I could feel it.

I had landed (appeared?) with bare feet each on a support beam. Joist? I didn’t care what it was called. I also didn’t know what was between the coconut cream and the sheet rock of whatever room in my grandmother’s house I hovered over.

And how did I know it was my grandmother’s house?

In the (fucking) Mood was playing from somewhere. Tinny and loud and grating. The set list would soon change to Sing, Sing, Sing then slow down to croon Moonlight Serenade and String of Pearls, and then right back to the bounce and jive of In the Mood" again. Which I wasn’t and never would be.

All Big Band favorites gave me PTSD flashbacks of childhood. Saturday from 3pm to 5pm while mom did the grocery shopping I was my grandmother’s cleaning slave. Silver polisher, rug banger, drape upper/downer (while she washed them) and the worst. Duster! Every knick-knack and figurine (why did it have to be cats?), collectible plates and freaky porcelain dolls. Humans devoid of soul: porcelain doll. Creep factor 87 on a scale of 10. All this cleaning, all the work, all the slaving to her will, all done by hand. No magic.

So yeah. I knew where I was.

And it was summer.

And it was hot.

And the cream was softening. Under my feet.

And becoming slick.

And I didn’t know how long until…

My left foot slipped off first. Off the ball of my foot and punched through insulation and what felt like drywall.

Before I could think of anything (idea, spell, prayer) I was face planting through sweet, warm gooeyness. Then hit a pillow with resistance. The insulation. But the weight from my falling torso punched through the unseen pink stuff, and ceiling drywall collapsed under the pointed impact of my shoulder.

I shifted in the fall and tried (and failed) to grab the support beam. My 2 x 4ish lifeline. Not that I was going to die from the fall. Fuck, what? An 8 foot fall? Unless I landed on her miniature Famous Skyscrapers collection: a swath of porcelain spikes in an impossibly tiny skyline atop her