What kind of a rock
star lives in a small town in the middle of nowhere and plays at weddings and
funerals? That’s what Jeremiah Kensington is thinking after an unsuccessful bar
gig one night. Then Jack Scratch comes into his life, ready to represent him
and launch him to stardom. Jack can give him everything: a new band, a new
name, a new life, a new look, and new boots…although they aren’t exactly new.
They once belonged to The One, a rocker so legendary and so mysterious that
it’s urban legend that he used black magic to gain success. But what does
Jeremiah care about urban legend? And it’s probably just coincidence that the
shoes make him dance better than anyone, even if it
doesn’t always feel like
he’s controlling his movements. It’s no big deal that he plunges into a world
of excess and decadence as soon as he puts the shoes on his feet, right?
But what happens when they refuse to come off?
About the Author:
Selah Janel has been blessed with a giant imagination since
she was little and convinced that fairies lived in the nearby state park or
vampires hid in the abandoned barns outside of town. Her appreciation for a
good story was enhanced by a love of reading, the many talented storytellers
that surrounded her, and a healthy curiosity for everything. A talent for
warping everything she learned didn’t hurt, either. She gravitates to writing
fantasy and horror, but can be convinced to pursue any genre if the idea is
good enough. Often her stories feature the unknown creeping into the “real”
world and she loves to find the magical in the mundane.
She has four e-books with No Boundaries Press, including the
historical vampire story ‘Mooner’ and the contemporary short ‘The Other
Man’. Her work has also been included in
‘The MacGuffin’, ‘The Realm Beyond’, ‘Stories for Children Magazine’, and the
upcoming Wicked East Press anthology ‘Bedtime Stories for Girls’. She likes her
music to rock, her vampires lethal, her fairies to play mind games, and her
princesses to hold their own.
Excerpt:
They’re mine. I’m really holding them, Jeremiah realized.
I’m holding history that isn’t supposed to exist. When The One took the stage,
any competition turned tail and ran. It was said that the one time the singer
revealed what he looked like the crowds were moved to tears by his beauty and
sophistication, and tore each other apart because they couldn’t get to him.
Some said it was a conspiracy that complete copies of his songs didn’t exist
because the music was too potent to release to the public. There were people
who still worshipped the mystery, the music, the outfits, and the boots.
And now those people would come to him.
“Go on. Try them on,”
Jack encouraged. Jeremiah nodded and carefully put the platforms on the floor.
Shaking with nerves, the youth sat and guided his feet into the cherry red
sheaths. Electricity crackled along his instep and through his toes. He tugged
the vinyl up over his calf and gasped. Jeremiah was overtaken by a sudden burn,
a sudden ant-crawling of power that worked its way through his skin and into
his very soul.
“What the—” he choked. The plastic spasmed, tightened around
his foot, and then relaxed. The left boot stretched itself a little higher up
his calf and extended its sole and heel a little more to adapt to his needs.
Jeremiah thought he had imagined it, but the right boot immediately followed
suit. The matching sets of the laces squirmed and rippled, settling into a
slightly different pattern than when they were taken out of their box. A quick
look around proved that while everyone in the room was looking, Jack was the
only other person that actually saw. “Did they just…?” Jeremiah couldn’t bring
himself to say something so bizarre. He barely managed to hold back a cry when
a thousand tiny needle teeth nibbled his skin from toes to knees. A tingling
sensation spread under his skin and Jeremiah was filled with a rush of violent
confidence that almost made him swoon.
“Good. They fit,”
Jack said. Only his tiny, mysteriously cruel little smile hinted that he was
aware of the boots’ strange behavior.
The longer Jeremiah looked at himself the more he realized
that he could do no wrong. My life just changed. With these on my feet, my past
is gone. I’m going to be better than I ever thought possible.
All around him the yes-men and hangers-on gaped.
“You look so good!”
the store footman practically swooned. His vinyl and lace frock coat danced
under the fluttering movements of his hands. His sharp, pale face flushed with
excitement underneath the stylized Victorian wig.
“I’m gonna cry you
look so good!” the blonde assistant squealed, gripping Jack’s knee as if she’d
keel over if she didn’t have it there to support her. “It’s like I’m witnessing
history!”
The faces that surround him were positively thunderstruck
and at his mercy. The camera kept right on clicking. Jeremiah got to his feet
and struck a few more ambitious poses, dropping into a low crouch before
kicking a leg up in an insane bastardization of a round kick. It didn’t matter that he’d grown up looking
like every other average guy in Middle America. It didn’t matter that he’d been
more accustomed to cotton T-shirts and washed-out blue jeans than the clothes
Jack had him wearing. The overall look wasn’t complete, but the boots pulled
everything together. The added height evened out his lanky proportions. In some
unlikely way the platforms made his stubble-sporting, angular face look
downright exotic. His eyes blazed liquid brown heat and his dishwater hair
almost glowed under the dressing room lights.
Jeremiah sashayed around the tiny space and leapt onto the
low podium at the room’s center, full of a burning drive to do something. He
wanted to sing. He wanted to rock. He wanted to dance, and he’d never had that
sort of urge before in his life. Every school dance he’d ever gone to had
involved him either playing in the band or drinking contraband beverages with
his friends outside the building. “Guess I’m a natural!” he laughed. He knew he
was lying, Jack knew he was lying, but there was no reason for anyone else to
know the truth. Why bother with the truth when the image in the mirror was so much
better?
He had expected his balance to be shaky in the tall
platforms, but it was like the boots were built for him. He hadn't thought to
check the size. Maybe The One wasn't the original owner; maybe they conformed
to whoever wore them. Jeremiah’s face glowed when he looked at his mirror
image. His reflection looked as giddy and ecstatic as he felt. Why do I care
what they are? If they work, they work! His eyes dropped to the new footwear.
He was just able to see the tiny, warped image of his face in the shiny toes.
Everything’s going to be amazing from now on. As he admired his distorted image
via his feet, all of his hang-ups and
personality drained out of him. Who needs a personality with boots like these?
Jack Scratch watched his protégé glided round the room, that
same tiny, dangerous smile just barely curling his full mouth. "Just
think. What you have on represents everything that you want to be," he
coached. His words drilled through the rocker's ears and hardwired themselves
into the deepest parts of Jeremiah’s heart and soul. "They’re everything
you want on your side. These boots are temptation and chaos, just like you.
I've got it," he declared. "I've got your name."
"Give it to me," a raspy voice in front of the
mirror breathed.
"Forget Jeremiah Kensington: folk singer, blue jean
rocker, country boy, small town loser,” Jack breathed, his giant hands
fervently patting down his front until he found which jacket pocket his
cigarettes were hidden in. It was amazing that he didn’t gouge himself in the
chest given the sharpened tip of the massive silver ring that enveloped his
right forefinger. The manager leaned back against the sofa and lit up, never
once taking his eyes off his new golden boy and meal ticket. “From now on you
are J.K. Asmodeus, rock star and corrupter of the masses." A thin plume of
smoke stretched up to frame his intense expression.
J.K. looked from Jack to the man in the mirror, saw how the
red glitter of the boots was echoed in his eyes. "Yes."
The two ignored the gasps and commentary around them as
everyone texted photos and alerted the necessary paparazzi. The pair shared a
slow smile as Jack inhaled another draw of nicotine. “It’s time to sign,” he
murmured. The smoke crept in front of his face and turned his pleased
expression into something that bordered on animalistic. He removed the top
sheet of the stack he’d been examining and held it out to the younger man.
I should wait and consult a lawyer. I should take my time.
These things need to be done with care, a distant echo of a Midwestern
conscience chided. J.K. ignored it, grinned back at his manager, and reached
for the fountain pen the manager handed him. His expression was almost as
malevolent as Jack’s, though there were still traces of wholesomeness that had
yet to drain away. “Let’s do it.”
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