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A Locket for My Secrets

Summary: Vivienne never liked photos of herself. Not before Rapture, not even after she faked her death and vanished beneath the sea like so many dreamers who'd had enough of the surface world. But when a candid photograph captures something she can't quite look away from, she sends for the man behind the camera.

This is a vignette that takes place somwhere within the story

Word Count: 460

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She lay curled beside me, her cheek nestled just beneath my collarbone, fingers idly sketching patterns across my chest like she was drawing maps to places she didn’t want me to find. The light above us buzzed faintly, flickering as if unsure whether to hold on or finally let go. But we didn’t move. Rapture breathed slow around us—pipes murmuring overhead, water pressing its heavy palms against the walls, and somewhere in the bones of the city, a trumpet wept.

Her heartbeat found mine. Unhurried. Certain. Like it had decided I was safe.

Maybe I was.

“Eiji,” she whispered, careful not to wake the hush between us. “What’s a secret you can’t tell anyone?”

I smiled before the words even touched my lips. “If I told you,” I said softly, “then it wouldn’t be a secret I can’t tell anyone, would it?”

A small sound caught in her throat. Half laugh. Half sigh. “You’re too clever.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe I’m just clever enough to survive you.”

She didn’t answer. Just reached, slow and deliberate, past my ribs and toward the bedside table. Her hand closed around my camera like it had always belonged to her. I tensed out of habit.

“Easy,” I said, quieter this time.

“I know.” Her voice was soft, but there was no uncertainty in it. She cradled the camera like it was newborn. Then, with practiced fingers, she unscrewed the lens.

“What are you doing?” I asked, sitting up, not sharply. Just enough to watch her.

She didn’t answer.

She raised the lens to her lips and whispered something into it; words folded so small they disappeared between the threads of breath. Then she screwed it back on, slow and reverent, like sealing a bottle meant to be lost at sea.

The camera returned to its resting place on the nightstand.

“What was that?” I asked, my pulse steadying.

She looked up at me then, and her eyes were open in a way that had nothing to do with light. Not pain. Not confession. Just the soft undoing of someone who’d carried a truth too long alone.

“Now you carry my secret,” she said. “Even if you never know what it is.”

She reached for my hand, curling her fingers through mine.

“It helps, darling.” she said. “Just knowing someone else holds it. Even without understanding. It’s… lighter, somehow.”

I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it, slow. Just once.

We didn’t speak after that. There was nothing left to say. All the words rested within my camera.

She tucked herself closer. I held her.

On the nightstand, the camera sat between us, lens still fogged from the warmth with her breath.

Still.

Quiet.

Carrying something neither of us had the words for.

[a-a-moore]

Tired of seeing folks complain about not seeing any good BLACK AUTHOR fanfics for Sinners.

Here are some of my favorite blogs for Sinner fanfics (smut included😉):

• @yamst3rdamctrl • @melodyofmbaku • @moth2flamewriting • @uzumaki-rebellion • @nerdyscouttribute • @enticingmelanin

Feel free to add this post other BLACK fanfic authors only.

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When Salt Burns

Summary: On the bayou, Booker and Cherry set out on one last moonshine run to secure a better life for their baby, Faye. But when they meet a man not of this world, everything changes—leaving them cursed and barred from the home they once knew. Now, haunted by what they’ve become, they face the painful divide between love, sacrifice, and the line they can never cross.

Word Count: 2572

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The night air smelled like wet tobacco and thunder, though the sky hadn’t broken yet. Clouds sat low over the bayou, bloated with impending storm. 

Inside, the house was quiet. Baby Faye had gone down early, rocked to sleep in the crook of her mother’s arm. Then came the knock. Not on the front door, but the screen—light, respectful. Familiar.

Booker.

He stood with his hat in his hands, a bottle of shine in his coat pocket, and that same old charming smile on his face. The one that could melt butter or bend steel, depending on who was looking. His coat was damp with river mist, hair brushed back but still wild at the edges. Handsome in a dangerous way.

Big Mama sighed, long and tired as she answered the door, “You show up like a storm cloud, boy.”

“Mama Roberta,” he said, giving her his sweet-boy drawl, “I got the truck all loaded up.”

Booker had been circling her house since he was just past seventeen, with too much hunger and too little sense. She had patched up his knuckles, fed him when he was running from the law for petty crimes, let him sleep in the woodshed when the nights got too cold. Somewhere along the line, he started calling her Mama like he meant it and shortly after, he got what he really wanted; the affections of Big Mama’s daughter, Cherry.

“You taking her with you?” she asked, not blinking.

Booker shifted. “She’d come even if I tell her no. You know what she like. And it’s just a run, that’s all. Got word from a man in Parish Crossing. pays double, likes it clean.”

He was right. 

Big Mama knew there was no point in stopping what couldn’t be stopped. Cherry would follow Booker to the ends of the earth and all Big Mama could do was pray he wouldn’t lead her there. 

Then Cherry appeared, flying last Big Mama and down the porch steps with those light steps that made the floorboards sing. Her short hair was pinned up, soft waves framing her face, and she wore that butter-yellow dress Big Mama hemmed for her last spring. Her arms gleefully flung around Booker’s neck.

“Mama,” she said, smiling. “We won’t be long. Just one run.”

Big Mama stared at her like she was trying to memorize every detail.

“You ever seen a cottonmouth sleep?” she asked, eyes never leaving Cherry’s.

Cherry blinked. “No, ma’am.”

“They don’t. Not really. They just lie still and wait for something warm to come close.”

Booker chuckled from behind her. “Now she preaching.”

“Watch out for them cottonmouths, Cherry pie.���

Cherry rolled her eyes, leaned in, and kissed Big Mama’s cheek. “We’ll be back before that ol rooster crows. I promise.”

Big Mama returned the kiss then watched them walk off—Cherry’s hand slipping into Booker’s—and heard the first raindrop strike the tin roof.

The truck sat there rattling with a cough and a hiss, headlights cutting through the heavy mist and thick rain. Booker escorted Cherry in first with a flourish then climbed into the driver’s seat, hand gripping the cracked steering wheel like it owed him something. Cherry settled beside him, tucking her dress underneath her thighs, one arm resting on the windowsill. She glanced back at the house one last time.

The porch light flickered. Big Mama hadn’t gone inside yet.

“She still watching,” Cherry said.

“She always do,” Booker muttered. “Baby Faye ain’t give you no trouble, did she?”

“Nuh-uh. We got lucky having such a good one on the first try. She drank up that milk and went right on to sleep.” Cherry turned to him, face softened by moonlight. “We…not always gonna do this right? We get some money and we go straight? For Faye?”

Booker took Cherry’s hand in his and kissed into her palm before curling her fingers in so that she held it tight, “If this Duvall paying what he saying, this the last run. I’m gonna get you that ring you been eyeing at ol’ Jenkins shop then I’m gonna give you and baby Faye my name. Cherry Love now don’t that sound sweet?”

Cherry laughed.

“I’m gonna get us a nice house, Too! One big enough for Big Mama to move into and you gonna get the storybook life you deserve. I promise you that, Cherry pie.”

“Good. You know that’s the only reason she don’t let you live with us? Cuz we ain’t married.”

“She just trying to keep me honest..” He gave her hand another squeeze, his eyes moving from the road to her’s, “And I’m gonna be. Hell, after we finish tonight we should head to my mama place and gather my things cuz we just as good as married anyways once we get that money.”

Cherry’s gaze floated blissfully outside toward where moon and stars would hang if it weren’t for the clouds blanketing them and dreamt of how long it would take to get used to hearing his name after her’s. 

Outside, the engine hummed low and the gravel churned beneath the tires as they rolled down the path away from  home. Away from the house with the creaky porch, the faint smell of bay leaf and rosemary, the lullabies still clinging to the air.

The further they drive, the heavier Cherry felt.

Despite Booker’s promises of tomorrow, Cherry couldn’t stop the guilt that gnawed at the corners of their fantasies.

“I hate leaving her,” she whispered.

Booker didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to.

“She ain’t but six months,” Cherry went on, voice catching. “She like a little dough ball still. Smells like milk and lavender.”

“Big Mama gonna take care of her. We’ll be back quick, fast and in a hurry.”

He reached across the bench seat and laid a warm hand over hers.

But Cherry’s eyes were already damp.

“She don’t cry much,” she said, as if clinging to that small mercy. “Only when she hungry or needs changing. Or when she dreaming. Sometimes I think she sees things. Like her dreams too big for her little body.”

Booker didn’t answer. He couldn’t comfort her. Not when he felt the same guilt but he kept telling himself this was the last run and that was all the comfort he needed.

The road narrowed, oaks closing in, and the moon vanished behind thick clouds. The truck jostled over a deep rut in the earth, and the jugs in the back clinked softly.

The closer they got to Parish Crossing, the less the world made sense. It was past midnight now, and the roads should’ve been dead. But strange lights flickered between the trees; too bright to be fireflies, too low to be stars. Booker thought he saw something once, pale and wide-eyed just beyond the tree line. But when he turned his head, it vanished.

“You feel that?” Cherry asked, rubbing her arms.

“That cold?” Booker said, “Yeah.”

“It’s May. Ain’t supposed to be no chill.”

From between the crooked trees and their more crooked branches, they could see their destination. 

The man’s place wasn’t a house. It was a cabin set deep in the swamp, so far off the main road they had to drive across two makeshift bridges and a path lined with broken dolls hanging from the trees.

“What the hell—?” Cherry started.

“Just keep your eyes forward,” Booker muttered.

“Forget this, Book. We should get home. This don’t feel right.”

“We leave him the ‘shine and we change our lives forever, Cherry. Don’t let wild thoughts spook you out the life we deserve. Do it for Faye.”

a man stood on the porch barefoot, skin almost grey in the moonlight. Thin frame. Long fingers. Yellow smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He stood there almost rigid and watched as Booker climbed out of the truck.

“You Booker?” He asked.

“That’s me.”

“You Cherry?”

She hesitated. “Guilty as charged.”

He grinned wider, teeth like piano keys. “Call me Duvall.”

Cherry leaned in close as they unloaded the bottles. “He look… wrong.”

“He paying good,” Booker said flatly. “He don’t need to look right.”

The exchange was short. Duvall didn’t test the liquor. He didn’t even haggle. Just handed them a pouch of coins that clinked clearer than a wet whistle and said, “Stay a moment. Rest your feet. You come a long way.”

Booker opened his mouth to decline.

But something in Duvall’s voice slid inside him like smoke. Made his spine ache. Made his tongue still.

They sat on the porch set.

Cherry’s hands twitched in her lap. Her skin crawled.

Duvall brought out two glasses of his own, thick red wine in cut-crystal. “A toast,” he said. “To new beginnings.”

Booker lifted the glass without thinking. Cherry hesitated. Her eyes flicked to Booker’s, searching for something steady, but he was already drinking.

“Book,” she said.

despite her hesitations, she drank too.

The wine scorched her throat the second it touched her tongue. Not warm, not sharp—burning.

She gagged, dropped the glass, and it shattered on the porch. Booker fell to his knees, clutching his gut, eyes wide with something beyond pain.

Duvall knelt between them, voice like velvet and rust. “You run shine for men who kill themselves slowly. I offer you something purer. Something eternal,” then his teeth, long as a wolf’s, sank into Booker’s neck.

“Pale one.” Cherry’s voice came out in a whisper, choked by fear the the realization Big Mama’s tall tales weren’t just tall tales after all.

She tried to scream, but her voice wouldn’t rise. Her breath caught in her chest like a bird fluttering desperately, trapped in its cage.

Booker’s body seized violently, his spine arching off the ground in a jagged, unnatural bow. Bones popped. Skin stretched. His eyes turned black, then gold—molten and seething like hellfire—before flashing back to void again. Veins pulsed like serpents beneath his skin, crawling toward his throat. He clawed at his own chest, choking on growls too thick for a human mouth. Blood frothed at the corners of his lips. And then he screamed a raw, gurgling wail that split the night, something between a man dying and a monster’s birth.

“Book!” Cherry’s voice broke, ragged and shaking, torn straight from her gut. She dropped to her knees, yanking his head into her lap, her hands slick with sweat and blood. “No, no? what did you do to him!  What the hell did you—“

Duvall pressed a blood-slick finger to Cherry’s lips.

“You’ll thank me,” he whispered, his breath hot on her neck, “Once the hunger starts.”

————————————————————-

Somehow she dragged him to the truck. She didn’t remember how. Only the burn of his blood on her hands.

Duvall just watched, just let them go: no chase, no urgency. He didn’t need to lift a finger. Cherry wouldn’t make it far. Her blackout came sudden and hard, and then the truck wrapped around a red maple.

Neither had spoken since.

They just walked in silence back towards home through thick rain and mud

Their clothes clung to them, soaked from rain and sweat, then later, blood. Dried in patches. Caked beneath their fingernails. 

Booker’s eyes were still adjusting. The world looked brighter and darker at once. The leaves shimmered like knives. He could hear the rats nesting under the cane fields. He could hear Faye crying from miles away.

Cherry walked beside him, barefoot now. Her butter-yellow dress torn at the hem. Her hair no longer pinned. Her hands trembled, but her back stayed straight.

They stopped at the edge of the property.

Big Mama’s house rose up through the moss and the trees, quiet but awake. A lantern burned in the window. The porch light was still on.

Booker reached for Cherry’s hand, and she took it.

“Home,” he whimpered, though the word felt wrong now, like it didn’t fit in his mouth anymore.

Cherry nodded, tears in her eyes. “She’ll understand.”

They stepped forward. Slow. Together.

But the moment their feet touched the walk up to the porch, the earth whispered a warning. A hiss, soft but sharp, rose from the ground.

Salt.

Thin white lines had been laid along the porch boards and across the threshold. Protective, ancient, final. Not carelessly sprinkled but placed with love. 

Big Mama had laid that salt every day for as long as Cherry could remember, but only tonight did she hesitate. Cherry now stood on the wrong side of it, no longer the daughter who used to freely run barefoot through that doorway.

Inside, a baby wailed.

“Faye,” she choked. “She crying for me.”

Booker’s face crumpled, but he held steady. “Big Mama!” he called out, “Mama!”

“Mama!” Cherry cried, stepping closer.

Her bare foot grazed the salt. It sizzled. Smoke lifted from her skin.

She yelped and pulled back, pain blooming across her arch.

The front door creaked open slowly.

And there stood Big Mama.

Hair wrapped in a deep blue scarf. Her nightgown still on, same as when they left. Her eyes full of tears but her face hard as stone.

Booker’s throat worked. “Mama…”

“Don’t,” she said, voice low. Flat, “You…You can’t cross the line. Why can’t none of you cross that line?”

“I could cross if I wanna! I can—“ Cherry stepped forward and her foot sizzled. She leapt back with a yelp into Booker’s arms, “Mama, It ain’t what it look like! 

“It’s exactly what it looks like…” Big Mama’s voice shook

Cherry stepped forward, ignoring the ache in her foot. “Let us in. Please. We can explain.”

Big Mama shook her head, but her hand trembled where it gripped the doorframe, “ can’t let you in. You hear that baby crying  in there? That baby still has a soul. Y’all don’t. If I let you in…”

Cherry sobbed. “We didn’t ask for this—”

Booker stepped forward, his voice hoarse. “Let us see her. Just for a second.”

The salt hissed again, louder this time.

“Don’t you cross that line,” Big Mama warned. “Not one toe.”

Inside, Faye wailed louder—piercing, desperate.

“She need us,” Cherry pleaded. “She need her mama.”

“She aint got one no more” Big Mama said, voice cracking her head shaking in disbelief

Tears streamed down Cherry’s face. She fell to her knees just shy of the threshold. “I smell her,” she whispered. “She still smell like me.”

Booker’s face twisted with anguish. “Please, Mama. You can’t keep our baby from us.”

“You took mine from me”

Booker’s eyes flashed—-pain, guilt, violence and, worst of all, hunger.

Big Mama’s hand rose slowly and in it, a pouch of white ash and crushed root. Her other hand reached into her gown and pulled out a small, polished knife.

“Go now,” she said. “Before I forget the part of me that love you.”

Cherry’s voice broke. “Mama!” She shrieked, broken and angry 

The salt sizzled beneath Cherry’s palm as she reached forward. Her skin smoked again.

Booker grabbed her arm and stepped back.

Cherry sobbed into his chest. Her whole body shaking.

“This wrong, Mama.” He said as they retreated down the porch steps, Cherry sobbing and wrapped up in his arms, “She ours and we got every right to her. You tearing a family apart.”

Big Mama watched them until they disappeared into the dark, her shoulders shaking, mouth moving in a silent prayer.

Inside, Faye quieted. 

But Big Mama knew this wasn’t over.

They’d be back.

[a-a-moore]

"This film was an incredible opportunity for me. And more than anything, I thought it was an opportunity for me to write a love letter to cinema, to all the things I love about going to the movies. [...] In many ways it's most important movie I've made, straight from me to all of you." - Ryan Coogler

SINNERS (2025) BEHIND THE SCENES (1/2) Dir. Ryan Coogler

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apparently I've had this blog for a year now but I just started using it a few months ago LOL

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I NEED THIS AS A PRINT

preacher boy

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that shot scratches the itch in my brain so good

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hold on was this in the movie or is this deleted? Not the song itself but some of these scenes like cornbread really dancing and mary and stack dancing

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AKASHA in QUEEN OF THE DAMNED (2002)

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NEW! SINNERS (2025) behind the scenes video

source: milescatonfanpage

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I don’t remember the klan couple welcoming him in and remmick saying “god bless you”

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Sinners Garlic Challenge

Option #1

You get a batch of white chocolate and mold it into large garlic cloves. 1 is really a garlic clove. No one knows which it is and everyone has to guess who got the clove based upon reactions

Options #2

You get a batch of jelly beans and, similar to option 1, they're all marshmallow except for one that's garlic flavored. Again, guess who got the garlic flavored one

Option #3

Everyone eats a large garlic clove and see who can take i best

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Source (X)

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A Soul Worth $5

Summary: Booker and Cherry (vampires) hunt

Word Count: 1104

Warnings: Blood, Gore, Death

Branches clawed at his face as he tore through the trees, lungs burning, shirt slick with sweat and blood. The yellow moon overhead leered down like an evil, jaundiced eye. Somewhere behind him, the forest groaned. Bark split. Something breathed through its teeth.

He didn’t dare look back.

Marcus stumbled over a root and fell hard, his elbow cracking against a stone. He bit back a scream, clutching the neck of a bottle, the other half—

“Jesus,” he gasped, “I put that damn thing in his face.”

The woods were too quiet now. That kind of silence that made your heart skip steps and your ears lie to you.

He pushed himself up, scrambling into a thicket of reeds near the creek. Water gurgled nearby, thick and low. He dipped his hands in and splashed his face as if could erase all he saw, “You’re dreaming, Marcus. Just that whiskey. Bessie told you to put down that damn bottle. But his teeth, Jesus, those teeth.”

Back at the cabin, Booker had come polite as ever, slow-stepping across the porch in a sharp gray suit like he was born into it. 

Marcus had owed Booker five dollars for years but Booker had never mentioned it, not once. So when he showed up unannounced on Marcus’s doorstep, all sharp suit and Sunday calm, Marcus was surprised. But from the look in Booker’s eye, it was clear—he didn’t come for no five dollars.

“I’m gonna keep this one quick,” he’d said, cocking his head like a curious dog. “You make it to that Baxter property line and you live. You don’t, you die.”

That’s when Marcus ran. Not at first. He thought Booker was joking. That is until his eyes flashed red and he lunged at him. 

Unfortunately for Booker, Marcus had a bottle in hand. Once Booker became close, he spun and jammed the broken bottle right into his face. Glass sunk to the neck. A sickening wet sound followed, almost like a crunch but far too damp. Booker collapsed backward into the dirt, roaring in pain.

That’s when the chase started. The whispers in the woods. The flickering red eyes. The voice that didn’t echo so much as drip from the trees.

Marcus had run ever since.

Now he crouched in the reeds, panting, clutching a jagged remnant of that same bottle. Maybe he’d try again if Booker came back.

But would he come back? No. He couldn’t. Not with that wound. Not with half his jaw hanging off and one eye ruined. 

Marcus felt his skin begin to prickle with warning.

Something shifted.

The reeds rustled.

Marcus froze.

A rustle.

Then—

A giggle.

Not Booker's voice. Not male. Not loud.

Light. Mocking. Playful.

The sound of a girl laughing at a joke only she heard.

Then he heard her footsteps. 

Cherry.

She walked like the woods parted for her. Mud swirled around her ankles like anklets. She was barefoot, and each step left no mark. Her eyes glittered like wet stone, and her mouth curled in a smirk that felt both seductive and predatory.

She tilted her head. “Ain’t you a mess.”

Marcus flinched. His breath caught.

Behind him, twigs snapped.

“Well damn.”

The voice came from behind him; cheerful, casual, like someone discovering a long-lost sock under the couch.

Marcus whipped around.

And there he stood.

Booker.

Head tilted. Blood running in slow rivulets down his cheek. The bottle still embedded in his face, glass twinkling under the moonlight. One eye glared at him red-hot, the other swollen shut. His suit was torn at the shoulder, black with soil and blood, but he straightened his collar like he’d just stepped off the church pew.

He smiled. One canine longer than the other. 

Marcus scrambled backward on all fours.

“Well now. That was rude.”

Booker plucked the bottle from his face with a wet pop, gave it a glance like it offended him, then tossed it over his shoulder.

“Your mama ain’t teach you no manners, huh?” he said, beginning to walk forward. “Just out here sticking  glass in folk’s faces. What if you took my eye out? Hell, forget about the eye. I think you broke my tooth.”

Marcus raised the jagged remnant, hand trembling. “S-stay back!”

“You know what Marcus, I’m real disappointed in you.” Booker wagged a long, clawed finger at him, “I remember your mama raising you better than that.”

“Oh Mama Mayberry” Cherry sighed, like recalling a sweet memory, “She was always such a sweet thing. You became too much like your daddy, Marcus. Too drunk and too stupid but you ain’t gonna be either for much longer.”

He tried to run.

And they let him.

For a moment.

Then Booker blurred forward and caught him by the neck like he was a disobedient child-–lifted him off the ground, boots kicking uselessly.

“Shhh,” Booker cooed, tilting his head with a grin, “Ain’t no need to fuss.”

He opened his mouth but before he bit down, Cherry called out.

“Sugar,” she said, her voice honey-thick, “don’t ruin the meat. He ain’t even prayed yet.They taste better with that bit of desperation for seasoning.”

Booker chuckled, a warm, terrible sound. “Ain’t nobody answering him out here, baby. But, go on, say grace if you want, Marcus..”

He couldn’t, not with his throat caught in Booker’s clutches.

Cherry touched Marcus’s chest. Her fingers moved over his ribs like she was gliding over piano keys. She found a spot just above his heart.

“Right here,” she whispered. “Where it’s scared the loudest.”

Marcus tried to make a sound, tried to pray, plead, curse or cry but Booker’s grip kept the sound from forming instead only a pathetic noise rumbled in his chest. 

Cherry kissed her fingers and pressed them to the spot over his heart.

“There,” she said. “That’s your last Amen. Though that wasn’t much of one.”

Booker’s jaws opened wide—too wide, wrong. 

They tore him, drank from him like the last bottle of moonshine at the end of the world. His screams twisted into the canopy, echoing with such rawness that the cicadas fell silent. Even the wind held its breath..

When they were done, Marcus was only a whisper in the roots.

Cherry licked her fingers. “Tasted like regret.”

Booker wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smiled at her.

“Mm. You was right. I really should’ve let him pray. Ah well.”

Cherry tilted her head, eyes still on what was left of Marcus. Thoughtful, “Didn’t he owe you money, Book?”

“Shit.” Booker laughed, “He did, didn’t he? Check his pockets. He might have it on him.”

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[a-a-moore]

A Soul Worth $5

Summary: Booker and Cherry (vampires) hunt

Word Count: 1104

Warnings: Blood, Gore, Death

Branches clawed at his face as he tore through the trees, lungs burning, shirt slick with sweat and blood. The yellow moon overhead leered down like an evil, jaundiced eye. Somewhere behind him, the forest groaned. Bark split. Something breathed through its teeth.

He didn’t dare look back.

Marcus stumbled over a root and fell hard, his elbow cracking against a stone. He bit back a scream, clutching the neck of a bottle, the other half—

“Jesus,” he gasped, “I put that damn thing in his face.”

The woods were too quiet now. That kind of silence that made your heart skip steps and your ears lie to you.

He pushed himself up, scrambling into a thicket of reeds near the creek. Water gurgled nearby, thick and low. He dipped his hands in and splashed his face as if could erase all he saw, “You’re dreaming, Marcus. Just that whiskey. Bessie told you to put down that damn bottle. But his teeth, Jesus, those teeth.”

Back at the cabin, Booker had come polite as ever, slow-stepping across the porch in a sharp gray suit like he was born into it. 

Marcus had owed Booker five dollars for years but Booker had never mentioned it, not once. So when he showed up unannounced on Marcus’s doorstep, all sharp suit and Sunday calm, Marcus was surprised. But from the look in Booker’s eye, it was clear—he didn’t come for no five dollars.

“I’m gonna keep this one quick,” he’d said, cocking his head like a curious dog. “You make it to that Baxter property line and you live. You don’t, you die.”

That’s when Marcus ran. Not at first. He thought Booker was joking. That is until his eyes flashed red and he lunged at him. 

Unfortunately for Booker, Marcus had a bottle in hand. Once Booker became close, he spun and jammed the broken bottle right into his face. Glass sunk to the neck. A sickening wet sound followed, almost like a crunch but far too damp. Booker collapsed backward into the dirt, roaring in pain.

That’s when the chase started. The whispers in the woods. The flickering red eyes. The voice that didn’t echo so much as drip from the trees.

Marcus had run ever since.

Now he crouched in the reeds, panting, clutching a jagged remnant of that same bottle. Maybe he’d try again if Booker came back.

But would he come back? No. He couldn’t. Not with that wound. Not with half his jaw hanging off and one eye ruined. 

Marcus felt his skin begin to prickle with warning.

Something shifted.

The reeds rustled.

Marcus froze.

A rustle.

Then—

A giggle.

Not Booker's voice. Not male. Not loud.

Light. Mocking. Playful.

The sound of a girl laughing at a joke only she heard.

Then he heard her footsteps. 

Cherry.

She walked like the woods parted for her. Mud swirled around her ankles like anklets. She was barefoot, and each step left no mark. Her eyes glittered like wet stone, and her mouth curled in a smirk that felt both seductive and predatory.

She tilted her head. “Ain’t you a mess.”

Marcus flinched. His breath caught.

Behind him, twigs snapped.

“Well damn.”

The voice came from behind him; cheerful, casual, like someone discovering a long-lost sock under the couch.

Marcus whipped around.

And there he stood.

Booker.

Head tilted. Blood running in slow rivulets down his cheek. The bottle still embedded in his face, glass twinkling under the moonlight. One eye glared at him red-hot, the other swollen shut. His suit was torn at the shoulder, black with soil and blood, but he straightened his collar like he’d just stepped off the church pew.

He smiled. One canine longer than the other. 

Marcus scrambled backward on all fours.

“Well now. That was rude.”

Booker plucked the bottle from his face with a wet pop, gave it a glance like it offended him, then tossed it over his shoulder.

“Your mama ain’t teach you no manners, huh?” he said, beginning to walk forward. “Just out here sticking  glass in folk’s faces. What if you took my eye out? Hell, forget about the eye. I think you broke my tooth.”

Marcus raised the jagged remnant, hand trembling. “S-stay back!”

“You know what Marcus, I’m real disappointed in you.” Booker wagged a long, clawed finger at him, “I remember your mama raising you better than that.”

“Oh Mama Mayberry” Cherry sighed, like recalling a sweet memory, “She was always such a sweet thing. You became too much like your daddy, Marcus. Too drunk and too stupid but you ain’t gonna be either for much longer.”

He tried to run.

And they let him.

For a moment.

Then Booker blurred forward and caught him by the neck like he was a disobedient child-–lifted him off the ground, boots kicking uselessly.

“Shhh,” Booker cooed, tilting his head with a grin, “Ain’t no need to fuss.”

He opened his mouth but before he bit down, Cherry called out.

“Sugar,” she said, her voice honey-thick, “don’t ruin the meat. He ain’t even prayed yet.They taste better with that bit of desperation for seasoning.”

Booker chuckled, a warm, terrible sound. “Ain’t nobody answering him out here, baby. But, go on, say grace if you want, Marcus..”

He couldn’t, not with his throat caught in Booker’s clutches.

Cherry touched Marcus’s chest. Her fingers moved over his ribs like she was gliding over piano keys. She found a spot just above his heart.

“Right here,” she whispered. “Where it’s scared the loudest.”

Marcus tried to make a sound, tried to pray, plead, curse or cry but Booker’s grip kept the sound from forming instead only a pathetic noise rumbled in his chest. 

Cherry kissed her fingers and pressed them to the spot over his heart.

“There,” she said. “That’s your last Amen. Though that wasn’t much of one.”

Booker’s jaws opened wide—too wide, wrong. 

They tore him, drank from him like the last bottle of moonshine at the end of the world. His screams twisted into the canopy, echoing with such rawness that the cicadas fell silent. Even the wind held its breath..

When they were done, Marcus was only a whisper in the roots.

Cherry licked her fingers. “Tasted like regret.”

Booker wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, smiled at her.

“Mm. You was right. I really should’ve let him pray. Ah well.”

Cherry tilted her head, eyes still on what was left of Marcus. Thoughtful, “Didn’t he owe you money, Book?”

“Shit.” Booker laughed, “He did, didn’t he? Check his pockets. He might have it on him.”

[a-a-moore]

The Rougarou and the Pale Ones

Summary: In the shadowed stillness of the bayou, little Faye leans close as Big Mama tells her of the Rougarou, the beast who guards them from the Pale Ones.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1,063

Ambient Music:

“The Rougarou and the Pale Ones”

Big Mama’s porch creaked like it was holding its breath, and the storm lantern cast long, golden shadows over the jars hanging from the rafters—some with herbs, some with bones, and some with things I ain’t never dared ask ’bout. Her rocking chair kept time with the crickets, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.

“Come close now, Faye baby,” she said, voice low and syrupy like molasses. “Imma tell you ‘bout our Rougarou—the Rougarou. The one that walked the swamps ‘fore the roads was laid and the bayou had no name.”

I curled close, chin on my knees. The closer I got to Big Mama, the closer I was to her lanterns and the further I was from the night outside which was thick as roux and just as dark.

“Ain’t always been bad, you know,” she said, eyes glinting from the flickering flame,. “Folks used to fear the Rougarou, sure, but they ain’t hate him. He was part of the land, like the moss on the trees or the water in the marsh. He’d keep the balance. Make sure nothing overfed, nothing overstayed.”

I swallowed. “What he look like?”

Big Mama clicked her tongue. “That depend on who you ask. Some say he got the head of a big ol’ black wolf, tall as the church steeple. Some say he look like a man, but his eyes shine yellow and his teeth too sharp. But I seen him once. Long time ago.”

“You did?!”

She nodded slow, like the memory was the weight that kept her neck bent. “Just his eyes, staring through the cane reeds. Quiet. Watching. He ain’t want nothing from me. Just making sure I knew he was there.”

She sipped from her mug; spiced tea, thick with things that weren’t just leaves and leaned in.

“But when the settlers came… they brought something worse.”

The wind shivered through the porch rails.

“Not just their laws and chains and guns. They brought the Pale Ones. Leech-kin. Vampires.”

I gasped.

“Yes, baby. Not like the ones in the movies. These things ain’t wearing no cape. They come in the body of men, pale as a plucked crawfish, eyes like dead glass. Don’t blink. Don’t breathe. And they feed off life like Old Man Baker do his brandy.”

She tapped the side of her chair. “They thought the swamp would hide ’em. Let ’em feed quiet-like. But the Rougarou? He don’t share.”

“Did he fight them?”

“Fight? Child, he hunted ’em.” She grinned, all gums and candlelight. “Tore through their nests like a storm. Ripped the head right off one’s shoulders and left his fangs floating in Bayou Teche. Some say the Rougarou guard us now. Keep watch in the night for where the Pale Ones creep.”

I shivered and glanced over my shoulder at the woods, where the dark was pressed close like it was listening. Like the Rougarou was listening.

She leaned forward and tapped my chest. “But you gotta respect him, baby. Leave out meat.. Don’t speak his name too loud in the swamp. And don’t ever, ever, forget the deal: you respect the Rougarou, and he protect you from what you can’t see.”

The wind blew harder, and the lantern flickered.

Big Mama sat back and smiled. “Now go get ready for bed, cher. And don’t forget to put out that little bowl by the back step.”

—-------

The screen door creaked as I pushed it open, careful not to let it slam behind me. Big Mama’s story was still tangled in my head like Spanish moss in the trees.

The night had gone still. Too still.

No frogs croaking. No crickets chirping. Just the slow drip of water somewhere out in the yard, and the swaying hush of cypress trees leaning close together like they was whispering secrets.

I held the little tin bowl tight in my hands. It was old, dinged and bent, but Big Mama said he didn’t care what it looked like. Said he ain’t need no silver or gold, just respect and a bite of meat. Tonight, it was a piece of leftover roast from supper, real tender with a bit of fat on the edge. 

There was a spot by the steps where the grass didn’t grow. Big Mama called it the “Shadow Patch.” Told me that’s where the Rougarou come sniffing from the woods, ’cause no moonlight ever dared touch that dirt. That’s where I was supposed to leave the offering.

I knelt down slow, careful not to let my breath come too loud, and set the bowl down. My heart was tapping against my ribs like a little drum, and the air was so heavy it felt like the swamp was holding its breath too.

I stood up quick, wiped my hands on my nightgown, and turned to go--

--But then I heard it.

Crunch.

Just one step. Not mine.

My head snapped back around.

The bowl was still there. Untouched.

But the air smelled different now -- like rain, and blood, and something wild.

“Merci, cher.”

I froze.

That voice wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even real close. But it was low. Deep like the roots of the earth.

I couldn’t see him, not really. Just the shape that could have blended with the tree but he was too tall, too still, eyes catching the moonlight in a flash of yellow like lantern glass.

I didn’t move.

He didn’t come closer.

“Something’s stirring in the woods, little Faye,” he said, “Something with teeth too clean and a hunger too old.”

“How you know my name?” I asked, whispering

The yellow eyes blinked slow. “They coming back." he ignored my question, "They different now. Smarter. Hungrier. They not the Pale Ones your Big Mama know.”

I couldn't hold his stare, and my gaze fell to the cold, wet earth at my feet.

Then I saw it; the bowl was gone.

Not empty. Not picked clean.

Gone.

I stepped back, legs shaking, but still I whispered, “You gonna keep protecting us?”

The Rougarou tilted his head. The wings on his back--wide and feathered but wrong, twisted at the joints like they remembered being arms--shifted with a soft rustle.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t nod.

And then he was gone. No step. No sound.

Just the dark and the wind starting to hum again, like the swamp was allowed to breath.