Vanity Plates

I could feel the pull again.

I jerked away, but luckily kept my hands steady on the wheel. The urges faded as the car passed, and I eased up on the brakes to let the gap get wider.

The whispers and mutters of a sort-of half-life also faded, like I turned down on the volume on the radio.

Thanks ever so much, DOT. You stinketh mightily, as the Good Book says.

No, not that one. My Witches' Almanac.

It's not the workers; most of them are doing what they can with crappy jobs in crappy conditions. But those administrators? Forcing their workers to team up with the lowest bidder, yeah that's going to make for some nasty materials. But now?

They finally got to the section of the license plates where my initials could potentially turn up.

Almost.

Over and over and over.

Every time I visit my bestie, I see at least a dozen. Most are only off by one letter, and a close one at that.

Like that one, there goes MXH. Oh, don't like that style, what about MHX? Both ways have been used to show monograms, you know. Close ones, like MTH and MZH and MVH and let's not forget MYH-

They're. Not. Me!

I have to remind myself each time one goes zooming by. Flinch, as a piece of my soul gets snagged by some psychic barb, trailing off to follow the vehicle. Catfishing at its most metaphysical...

And the whispers! That one has two kids, this one has a deadbeat husband. This other one just lost a job. The one further on is drowning in overspending that can't be caught up with, but the Joneses just got a new car! The one zooming by can't tell her family her secret. The one pulling into traffic from the on-ramp just can't stop bad-mouthing their co-workers, and HR has noticed and there will be questions come tomorrow...

Flinch. Jerk. Do my best to stay in the lane.

Not. Me.

I swear it's like the old-style photographs. You know, the ones that everyone saw ghosts in? That was the silver nitrate in the developing plates, mostly. If you even had a touch of werewolf or vampire blood in your line, and yes there are ways for that to happen and no I will not be telling you, you actually did lose a bit of your soul as your image was fixed to the paper. I know a coven or two that constantly scours the back corners of antique shops and flea markets, buying up the old pictures. There are ways to free that bit that don't involve something as extreme as a house fire. Can you imagine, trying to rest peacefully beyond the veil, when a part of you is still trapped in the living world, but can't do anything about it?

Ugh. People. Always finding a way to make living worse, all in the name of “convenience.” For whom?

My coven isn't the only one working on a cantrip to prevent the pull, but these things take time. Regular car warding doesn't cover it, for some reason, like the idiot who made the stupid license plate decision was planning to make more accidents-

Oh dear. There goes an MLB plate, and the city I'm heading towards does, in fact, have a well-known baseball team. And isn't that bus up ahead sporting the colors of said team?

There are cantrips, and there are spells.

When driving on known dangerous highways, I like to be prepared. In case of emergency, the most powerful ones have a trigger word that you can set up beforehand. I have a potty mouth when it comes to stress, so most of them are triggered by that particular word that rhymes with “duck,” but I can't say for fear of offending someone.

So when the SUV bearing the MLB plate given by the DOT kissed the CTA like some kind of OMG PDA, heading NW to ORD, it was like WW2 in the USA. NGL, the poor SOB didn't see it coming. Call the CIA to ID their CEO.

The bus flinched, and the swerve took out the cars in the left lane. The SUV plowed right into the bumper. I was already hitting the skids because the chain reaction was playing out, coming closer.

I drew breath. “Fuuuuuu-”

And another car zoomed past, oblivious, with an MUH plate.

My real initials. The pull was stronger than I expected.

I flinched, and I didn't finish the spell. Nor did I course correct.

Crap.

Because unfinished spells are the most dangerous of all, ticking time bombs as random as the roll of a d20 in role playing.

BOOM.

Cars crashing in slow-motion ballet are pretty – when you're at a demolition derby. On a major highway? When you're in the middle of it?

My car took the brunt of it, but would never run again. And was upside down to boot. I had a clear view of the fireball that used to be the bus, but I was far enough away that I only got a momentary wave of scorching heat before the sounds rolled over me and away.

The spell had kept me intact, but I was trapped in the car.

Whispers washed over me...

I really have to go get the laundry, I don't have time for this!

Where's my baby? Honey, are you okay? Where are you? Where are you??

I don't think I can move...

I was trying to get out, undo my buckle, pound on the door for help, because people were getting out of their cars. The fire was raging, and it spread with the gasoline, and other cars were being added to the inferno.

I was pretty far away, but it was getting closer. Too close for comfort.

And people got out of their cars, and looked around in a daze...

And started taking pictures.

Like zombies. Staring at their phones.

I was screaming, pounding on the glass, and all they did was click click click.

I could feel bits of my soul leaving, stuck in cell phones. Screaming for eternity.

Click click click.

The fire got closer.

Click click click.

Closer...

Click click click....