The Inkwell presents: My Soul to Keep

By The Inkwell

This month, the month when the veil between worlds is at its thinnest and who knows what walks the lands, a devil came a calling. Whether supernatural or no, these beings held the literal and figurative souls of our characters, but not for much longer. One little favor, that's all: fulfill the request of a fiend willing to bargain with lives and yours will be returned. Sounds simple enough. But such bargains are never quite what they seem and, in the end, even a soul may not be worth the unintended price.

Altweibersommer - Looking back on her life, Clara finds her memory slipping until an unexpected visitor arrives to assist her.
Dating Death: The Favor - A birthday party grows complicated when the underworld takes an interest in one particular soul.
Fais Dead Do - All Ophelia wants is to be married before her family and friends, and Luc is determined to make it happen in his own mercurial way.
The Devil is a Punk Rocker - Lil is a free spirit, but Angie must convince her to do as Jack wishes to be free herself.
Favored by Hell (#7) - The Sins remain trapped with Kevin, but Wrath has the chance to break her chains. But at who's cost?
A Touch of Memory - Beaten and bloody, one man must choose between stealing life from one or losing the love of another.
Devilish Antics - When imagination is the only limit, how much chaos can one doppelgänger cause?
Lucifer's Revenge - Choice: the greatest gift given, the source of unending disappointment. Something a certain Fallen wishes to remind his father of.
Death and Taxes - A little creative accounting leads to questions of forever and who we wish to face it with.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Inkwell
• Release date: Oct 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005187521

The Inkwell

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Altweibersommer

Written by S. Crow

*Altweibersommer: German, meaning Indian summer , seemingly from alt (old)+‎ Weiber (women's) + Sommer (summer), literally old women's summer.

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There were things in life Clara used to be convinced would never change. Seasons passed her at that inconsistent speed time had. First, it was slow and ever mysterious, as her mind beheld the marvels of the world through the eyes of a child. Then it got quicker and quicker, speeding up through the busy, industrious years of her adulthood, until it became so fast the days and months began to blur, an indistinguishable stretch of hours seeming to crawl by. She was of an age where the difference of half a decade didn't even mean anything anymore. Eighty or eighty-five, it was much the same to her.

But, throughout that long period of life, a set of certainties had crystallized themselves into perfect clarity. One was that the most precious time, the time spent with loved ones, always passed the quickest, never long enough, especially interspersed as it was with hours of loneliness. Another was that holding a grudge simply wasn't worth it. Nothing good ever came of pent-up rage and long- lasting resentment. The final one was that magic didn't exist.

That was why, when the cat appeared, Clara knew her mind must be going. It was a nice day in late September. The weather was showing some mercy on her little village, the scalding temperatures of summer having receded to pleasantly warm by the beginning of September already, and nights bringing cool air to her home. Clara was in the garden, walking slowly towards the tomatoes, the steep slope of the grassy hill stretching out below the house proper, something she couldn’t conquer with ease. Despite the mild temperatures, the climate was still dry enough to warrant a regular watering schedule. She had grown far too many tomatoes this year, too, and there was no way she could eat them all. Not alone, anyways. These days, there was no one left to eat them with her. However, that was no reason to neglect the plants and spoil the harvest. So, down the stone steps she went, hose in hand.

The cat sat on the foot of the stairs, looking up at her with disconcertingly intelligent, yellow eyes. Clara stared back. She couldn’t remember that cat, had never seen it before in fact. None of her neighbors owned one, as far as she knew, and she most certainly wouldn't consider getting one at her age.

I need you to do me a favor and shoo, she said, waving the hose at the animal. Her voice was rough from disuse. She still remembered thinking it must've been the first time in days she had spoken, and how she'd truly become a bitter old lady if all she wasted her breath on was chasing away cats. A few droplets of water escaped the nozzle. The cat narrowed his eyes.

Good afternoon to you, too.

Clara promptly dropped the hose.

Oh, hell. That'll take you hours to pick up at your pace, the cat sighed.

Were she any younger, Clara might've run in fear, might've thought herself poisoned or drugged. But she wasn't young and her legs were knobbly and bent in strange ways, so running was out of the question. She turned her face left and right, but there was no one else who could have spoken, so her eyes eventually returned to the cat.

Finally satisfied it must've been me? the cat asked, and there was a certain amusement in his voice.

Clara didn’t bother to reply. Instead, she bent down slowly, with all the dignity the years left her, and picked up the hose. Then she turned, calmly, collectedly, and went to water the plants. The cat’s laughter followed her all the way.

*      *      *

Since then, the cursed animal never left her side. Clara tried to ignore it, but it persisted, filling her hours with empty chatter.

It was always mundane things, like, I wouldn't put that in your cake, if I were you. That's laundry detergent, not flour, or, That window's far from clean. Why don't you do it over?

Clara never answered, refused to even look, but the cat was undeterred, going on in a similar fashion day after day. She did exchange the detergent for the real flour, though, and she did polish the glass of the window an additional time. It felt like something ringing in the back of her mind, a faint recognition of a kind, but it never grew any clearer. As if she were trying to blink directly through the golden rays of the low sun to glimpse a shadow on the horizon.

Just as September eventually surrendered to October, a visitor rang her doorbell. She was sorting through old photos that day—No, dummy, that's the wrong year. That was at least a decade earlier, the cat had said—and hadn't expected anyone. So her living room table was in considerable disarray when she made her way to the door. Whoever it was, they'd have to make do with her kitchen. The frown on Clara's face quickly dissolved into a smile, though, when she laid eyes on her guest.

Fiona, darling! You should've said you were coming.

Fiona huffed. It's Wednesday, mom. You know I'm always here on Wednesdays.

Has it been a week, really? Clara led the way into the house, hardly waiting for her daughter to take off her shoes. It wasn't like she needed to show her around, and at her pace, Fiona would be done before she reached the door to the kitchen.

Only, when her daughter's steps didn't follow, did Clara turn, finding the woman staring at the shoe rack. What is it?

Fiona lifted her eyes, a torn expression in them. Dad's shoes are still here. You wanted to put them away last time, remember?

Clara shrugged and continued shuffling into the tiled room and towards the kettle.

That old fart can't expect me to tidy up after him even in death.

A snort drifted after her, muffled as Fiona bent to remove her shoes after all. I swear, mom, only you and dad.