Author’s Note: This is in response for the Guild of the Fantastic Quill’s 2009 Friday the 13th challenge. The prompt words used were “witch” and “Babel.”

Babelmouth

Last year, I blew up a chicken. Poof, gone! And not just any chicken, my best friend Rosie’s pet chicken. Why my friend has—excuse me, had—a chicken for a pet is beyond me. Heaven forbid that she have something sensible like a cat or a dog…well, maybe it’s for the best, since I don’t know if I would have ever recovered if I had blown up a cute little pug or a tiny kitty. Just thinking about it makes me shudder.

But I’m getting off the point. The chicken…kablooey! Gone in a puff of white feathers. Rosie, at first, was so shocked by the occurrence that it took her several hours before the tears of mourning finally came. They had started slow, like a weather siren does, and eventually picked up such speed that I was afraid that she was going to turn blue for lack of oxygen. I had tried to comfort her, to tell her that I was sorry, but she just wouldn’t stop crying. Finally, hours and hours later, she told me that she only blamed herself. After all, she had known the risks, and she had still asked me to help her. And, like a good friend does, I tried to take the blame back upon myself…although what she had said was absolutely true.

The situation with the chicken had been this: I was a witch…Her chicken had chicken lice. She had wanted me to use my magic to remove the lice from Cluckers (her chicken’s name, God rest his little nuggets). Usually, this would have been no problem. However, on that day, last year, it was impossible. It was the one day a year I avoided using magic at all costs, because for me—for some unknown reason—it always went horribly wrong. Friday the thirteenth.

No, I’m not superstitious. I have proof of my magic gone awry on this day each year. Exhibit A: Cluckers's Grave. But it never fails. My friend—my non-magical, if-I-can-get-it-for-free-then-I-will friend—comes to me every Friday the thirteenth with some little problem that just cannot wait until Saturday. It must be done that very day! Last year, it was Cluckers. A little earlier that same year—yes, that year had had two of the damnable days in it—it had been a sweater that was “dry clean only” that I turned, somehow, into a lamp. Thankfully, unless the result is something permanent—like death (poor Cluckers)—the messed up spell reverses itself at 12:01 a.m.

So it did not surprise me when, the morning of this year’s Friday the thirteenth, the phone rang itself nearly off the hook. I hesitated only a moment before I groaned, rolled over towards the right-side nightstand beside my queen-sized bed, snatched the receiver up and pressed it to my ear.

“Hullo,” I said dully, a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Felicity! I’m sorry, did I wake you?” Rosie’s too cheerful voice sounded through the phone.

“Yeah,” I replied, sitting up and rubbing a hand over my eyes.

“Sorry,” Rosie replied. I knew she didn’t mean it. “But, I need a favor.”

“No.”

“Aw, come on! It’s just a tiny favor! You’ve done it for me before, countless times!”

I rolled over to the left-side nightstand—cordless phone in hand—where laid a calendar with today’s date circled in red—and beneath it, a reminder for my telephone interview later that day. I glared at the black letters and numbers, as if I could will them to skip forward a day. Then, I directed my glare at the black phone in hand.

“Do you get amnesia every Friday the thirteenth, or do you just get some sick pleasure at the prospect of a death possibility?” I snapped.

Rosie sighed over the phone. “Oh, Fel, I have a speech I have to give today about proper communication skills at the college. But my hair…I can’t do anything with it. Couldn’t you just come over here and magic it into a nice, professional bun or something?”

“And have you end up bald? Or worse…headless? No!”

I climbed out of bed, only half listening to her whining pleas as I made my way out of my darkened bedroom, across the hall to the bathroom. I flicked on the light and groaned under my breath at my own reflection. My bobbed, dark red hair was frizzed to the point of looking like a red cotton ball atop my head. My blue eyes were slightly bloodshot from a late night the night before concerning a cat, a toaster, and a distressed young lady. And it may just have been my imagination, but my freckles across my cheek bones looked more pronounced this morning.

“Are you even listening to me? This is important, Fel!” Rosie squealed into my ear, causing me to jump.

“I can’t do it, Rosie. I tell you that every year. Something really terrible could happen. None of my spells are under my control on this day.”

I picked up my hairbrush and began to try and drag it through my rat’s nest while juggling the phone.

“And every year, you still help me. Can’t we just skip this little dance we do? I’m on a schedule this year! The speech is at four this afternoon, and you live across town!”

I bit my tongue against reminding her of dear Cluckers. Sighing, I knew that I couldn’t argue with her logic. The pattern had held truth for as long as she had known of my powers…going on ten years now.

“I’ll be there in an hour and a half,” I muttered.

…………………

I was dressed in faded blue jeans, a turtle-necked blue sweater, and dirty sneakers and in the car by 10:05 a.m. I was singing along to The Steve Miller Band’s song, “Abracadabra,” while bumper to bumper in mid-morning traffic by 10:30 a.m. Rosie lived across town from my apartment. And in between 10:05 a.m. and my 11:02 a.m. arrival at her house, she texted me no less than twenty-three times. In once such text, she had made the suggestion that I use my powers to just appear at her door. Thankfully, I was in fairly immobile traffic so I was able to reply that she was out of her damn mind.

I got out of my little black Volkswagen Bug in her driveway and was met by her frantic form. She was right about one thing. Her long, honey blonde hair did look a fright this morning. It was limp, yet still frizzy. Her slender, six foot form was dressed in a plum business suit with simple black heels adorning her feet as she snatched me up by my arm. Her make-up was done so well that most would have thought that she had had it done professionally. It was only her hair that rebelled against her.

She dragged me past her white and beige living room, down her plain hallway, and into her hair-product-covered bathroom. She had already pulled a chair in front of the large mirror that hung over the sink. She threw herself into it, slinging me around to stand behind her. I groaned, dreading what might come next.

“Okay, just a bun with no frizz, if you please, my dear Fel,” she said, a bright smile plastered across her pale pink painted lips.

“I’d like to take this moment in time to remind you that I will not be held responsible for any mishap that may occur during this spell. And, if you end up dead, it’s your own damn fault!” I said, raising my hands above her head.

“Possible death and destruction…not responsible, yeah, yeah, yeah, I got it. I had it last year. Now, get with the magic. I’m running late, and that college is too damn far from my house!”

“Yeah, understand it like you understood it with Cluckers…” I muttered low.

“What?”

“Nothing. Ready?”

“Dear God, yes, woman!”

I took a deep breath and then began. Now, contrary to some witches you may see in the media, I don’t speak my spells in Latin. Nor do I rhyme. I move my hands over the object I wish to affect, in order to get the magical juices flowing, so to speak. And then, I say aloud what I want to happen, and simply will it into being. And, usually, it works just fine. But, as I was constantly reminding myself as I waved my hands in a circle, palm down over Rosie’s head, this was Friday the thirteenth. I was destined to screw this up, no matter what I willed.

I felt the build-up of magic in the air. I took another deep breath and then resigned myself.

“Into a bun, not a hair out of place!” I said, stopping my movement with my hands directly over the top of Rosie’s head.

And nothing happened. Neither of us moved for a moment. Then, Rosie sighed and stood to face me.

“Cat Nero strawberry hero Arthur?” Rosie said, then looked at herself in bewilderment. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Cat Nero…Blue…Cat Nero strawberry—Cat?”

I stared at her, knowing better than to even attempt speaking myself. My stare drifted off into space as Rosie continued to rage incoherently and, if her face was to be trusted, in a panic. I searched my mind, sure that I knew the name of the spell that had taken the place of my attempt to fix my friend’s hair.

My mind first recalled the story of the Tower of Babel, when God changed all the languages spoken to prevent the people from completing their Heaven-reaching tower. I sighed. It was funny what processes go through your mind in moments of panic and confusion. I recalled that story before my mind flew to the spell that had been named after the incident.

I had cast a Babelmouth spell, unwittingly. I searched my short term memory, trying to figure out Friday the thirteenth’s logic. I had said nothing, nothing, that would have triggered a Babelmouth. Then again, if my long term memory was any good, I had said nothing that would have triggered a chicken exploding in my previous bad luck excursion.

Rosie was still babbling—no pun intended—and was now pacing back and forth. It was this movement that drew my eyes back to her. I had to find a way to communicate with her. I was sure that I remembered a way that you could still communicate, even under Babelmouth. My mother, the fourteenth witch to have been born into my family line, had taught me all about Bablemouth, since that had been her favorite spell with which to exact vengeance. Rosie suddenly grabbed me up by the shoulders, shaking me.

“Cat straw bracelet pig? Mickey?” she said, whining.

I was sure she had just asked me what was going on. I signaled her to calm down by putting my hands up in a stop motion, shaking them once for emphasis. I tapped my head to indicate that I had to think, and then I drew an imaginary zipper across my mouth to tell her to shut the hell up.

She nodded, letting go of me and stepping back. I retreated once again into my memory. I could hear my mother’s gentle voice, in lecture mode, as she brought up the subject of the Babelmouth spell.

“Now, Felicity, Babelmouth can be a dangerous spell, depending on the circumstances. However, it's mostly just annoying and quite funny. But you must always be sure what the situation is with the person you cast it upon,” my memory mother said in my head.

I could hear myself asking her various things about it. I stopped my train of thought when I reached what I had needed: a way to communicate.

“Writing. You can still write as clearly as you can think under Babelmouth. And Babelmouth doesn’t affect either writing or thinking.”

I snapped my fingers and took off from the bathroom. From behind me, I heard Rosie shout, “Mickey! Cat?”

I went into her kitchen and grabbed the magnet shopping list pad, with attached pen, off of the refrigerator and dashed back into the bathroom. I jotted quickly down in a note that writing was the only way to communicate. I then handed Rosie the pad and pen.

She wrote back, What the hell happened? Why can’t I speak right?

We’re under Babelmouth, I wrote back. It’s a spell that turns all speech into gibberish.

Once she had read that one, her eyes widened in horror, like she had been shot. Her handwriting was jagged from a hurried scribble when she replied.

Oh my God! Felicity, my speech is on good communication! How can I give it if I can’t talk? Fix it! Fix it quick!

I hissed as I read the note and gave her a good, long, scathing glare before I wrote back.

Rosie, first of all, this was your damn idea! Second of all, I have that phone interview for my new job today, so you're not the only one with a problem! Third of all, how the hell can I fix this when I can’t speak right either?

To make sure she got the point, I tapped the pad hard as I handed it back to her. She screamed, making me jump. Then, she shook her head.

Then how do we fix this? she wrote back.

I shrugged. And when I replied back, I wrote only six words.

Friday the 13th. Ends after midnight.

.....................

It took another hour to calm her before I was finally able to escape back to my apartment. I stared at my phone, dreading the call that I knew that I couldn’t answer. The call finally came at six that night, long after I had had lunch, and soon after I had finished dinner. I sighed as I awaited my answering machine to get it.

When it clicked, I closed my eyes, muttering words that I was sure were not the nasty, swear words I was thinking towards my dear Rosie. A woman’s voice, very professional and very clearly not under Babelmouth, came over the recording.

“Miss Clair, I thought you understood that this was a one time opportunity only. I’m afraid that we’ll not be calling back. I hope that no misfortune has found you.”

The machine clicked, ending the message. I growled into the pillow I had been hugging against my person. I then shouted incoherent words that were not what I meant and hurled the pillow across the room.

I piddled away the rest of the night, utterly destroying a half-gallon of chocolate ice cream in the process. At 11:45 that night, I decided that I would check my email before finally retiring and putting this wretched day behind me. In my inbox was a single new email—from Rosie, no less. It read as thus:

You would never believe this! I had to do the whole presentation with only my PowerPoint and writing on the dry erase board that had on the stage. It was a HUGE success! I got complemented by the attending professors, saying that I was so “innovative” by not using any speech at all. They said it demonstrated that communication can be more than just the spoken word. This was the best messed up spell that you’ve ever done to me! I’ll call you tomorrow!

I screamed. Long, hard, and loud enough to shatter glass. I stood, ranting aloud.

“Purple, red, popsicle, phone, shout, bowl, Cup! Bag purple, red, marker!”

I grabbed some random item off my desk and hurled it against the wall, not caring if I was upsetting any of my neighbors. Somewhere in my ranting, the clock ticked over to 12:01 a.m.

“I hate Friday the thirteenth!” I screeched.