Stepping
on Cracks
Niggie
Purrahnama
I
was walking down the vacant streets the other day and I saw the most
irresponsible thing I could have imagined: a woman in heels stepping on a crack
in the pavement. She must’ve been blind behind those Gucci glasses if she
couldn’t see the smooth paved sidewalk that surrounded her. Had she not stopped
to consider all those before her that had encountered this awful experience? Had
she even taken a moment to remember the good old tune that we all sang as
children that warned us of the repercussions of stepping on cracks? This
hyperactive, idiotic, and ignorant woman clearly has no conscience if the idea
of her mother crying out in grief is as casual to her as ordering a skinny
latte. As soon as that five inch black stiletto heel hit the uneven surface, I saw
the depths of hell open up and swallow her whole. To her I say, “Good day, and
enjoy the agonizing pit that has become your new home.”
13
Leah
Scheitel
Thirteen.
This number has haunted me my entire life. I was born on a Friday the 13th, in
the middle of February, and I blame this date on my lack of love. Think about
it: Nov. 1 is All Saints Day, and all the demons come out to play the night
before on Halloween. If you apply the same logic to Valentine’s Day, Feb. 13
could be known as the day of love for demons. Add that with the stupid thirteenth
number, and a Freaky Friday, and basically I was doomed to drastically fail at
love since the day I was born. Fucking great. I’ll just delete my Plenty of
Fish profile now, get a litter of cats, and wither away as a crazy old cat
lady. Can’t wait to explain this to my mother when she asks why she never got
any grandkids.
Passing
Scissors
JJ
Brewis
A
few years ago, I worked as a lackey at a postal outlet. It was pretty dreadful,
but filled with lots of strange bonuses, such as the ability to talk to my favourite
customer, Cindy Huntress, the apartment wrestler. Sometimes I would check my Myspace
messages on work terminals whenever my evil boss, Naziza, wasn’t constantly
monitoring me (to be fair, I did try to go on Dudesnude. com one time. ONE
TIME). She was beyond nutty, but being superstitious since childhood, her “new”
superstitions have sadly rubbed off on me. One time, Naziza needed to cut up a
bunch of address label stickers, and started looking for the scissors. I was
using them and went to hand them to her. I have never seen such an offended facial
expression in my life. “PUT THEM DOWN. NOW!” she shouted at me at the top of
her lungs. I was so alarmed, I spat the chai out of my mouth all over my REALLY
COOL Distillers t-shirt. “Do you want to steal each other’s luck?” she asked me
curtly. I then learned the lesson of never physically passing a pair of scissors.
It could seriously fuck up your deal with the laws of fate and gravity and
time-traveling toymakers. Plus, old witches will yell at you.
Breaking
Mirrors
Claire
Vulliamy
I’m
an angry person, so I have lots of experience with breaking things, and let me
tell you, it’s true. Breaking mirrors puts some serious witchcraft on you.
First of all, punch a mirror and your knuckles will bleed like crazy for at
least 30 minutes. It doesn’t make any sense, it’s as if your own reflection has
it out for you. There can’t even be that much blood in your hands; it’s like
your heart exploding, but in your fingers, which is pretty fucked up, if you
ask me. Even after you break the mirror, the voodoo isn’t over. Try cleaning it
up? Takes hours. Days later you’ll be pulling shards of mirror out of your
freaking eyes. That’s why I don’t break mirrors anymore. I have become a changed
person. Now I just crash into parked cars. MONSTER TRUCKS, BITCHES!
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