How to forget to remember to forget about magic

By Kristen M Chambers and Viktor H Strangewayes

Laurence P. Cromwell was once like many of us, navigating through life without direction or purpose, eager to uncover some deeper meaning to it all. Out of sheer desperation, and through the influence of a series of strange childhood occurrences, he became obsessed with the notion of true Magic, the ability to manipulate the world aroun

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vaalbara Historical Society
• Release date: Mar 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781952529191

Book preview

The hair upon my arms rose, much as it might have in an electrical storm - the kind that put you in danger of being struck by lightning if you weren’t careful. It was the only notice I would receive of Laurence’s arrival.

Before me sat an odd man - not too tall, not too short, his features slightly more exaggerated than average. His hair, parted to the side and combed backward, seemed to me reminiscent of something from the fifties. How he had come to sit in the chair before me, I could not say. One moment it was empty; the next it was not. A person with more experience in such phenomena might have expected his sudden appearance, but caught unaware, it had truly startled me.

Somehow knowledgeable of my home’s location without having been informed prior, Laurence had left a simple note on my door earlier that day. I was to wait for him alone, with or without transcription tools, and, in his words, refrain from moving the comfortable chair by the window. His agenda: to continue the tale he had begun the day before.

Letting a stranger into my house - one who shouldn’t have known where I lived - could certainly be construed as naïve. Even so, I was intrigued and had done as instructed nonetheless. Seeing him appear in front of me, I came to the realization I had been given no choice; it was five o’clock, and he had arrived as promised.

Good evening, Laurence, I said, attempting to sound well-cultured.

The words thankfully rolled off my tongue far more smoothly than I expected them to. Such a man needn’t know the volatile state of my nerves; I wasn’t in any way accustomed to people materializing out of thin air.

Laurence regarded me with eyes that blazed beneath a brow creased many times from the stresses he had suffered. He might have been the same man I had met a day prior, but he resembled little of the timid person who had stood before our writing class, quietly reading his essay. An entire lifetime’s worth of adventures had seemingly come and gone within the few hours we had been apart, changing him in ways I could not have begun to comprehend.

Viktor, he replied.

The word hung in the air, taking up far too much space and making me uncomfortable. It felt distant, contemplative, as if he hadn’t considered my identity for years. That one word alone managed to further enhance my first impression of him; he had been through a great deal in a very short time.

I cleared my throat, unsure as to how I should continue. So, how would you like to begin? I asked, hoping the question would come across as a courtesy rather than an uncertainty.

Laurence stared absently out the picture window a few feet from where he was seated. A couple strolled down the sidewalk through the snow, unaware they were being tracked by his gaze.

It was cold when I watched her die, he began.

Frantically, I scrambled to open my laptop, surprised that he would jump into any sort of story so quickly. Thankfully, I had booted it beforehand, and began to prattle away at the keyboard, determined not to miss a single word.

Not the weather, mind you, he continued, but the dread that filled my body as I beheld the last traces of life draining from her body. It’s an odd thing, watching someone fade away from the inside. The grim certainty that she was gone had nearly been too much for me to handle. As I reminisce upon it, I see that it still is.

As if the gesture itself pained him, Laurence turned away from the window. His eyes, now filled with tears, pulled me to attention. I think about her often, you know. An insincere, halfhearted smile crossed his lips. "She is still around, of course, laughing and carrying on in her own way, but it is not her - not how I remember her anyway. The person I knew suffered and failed, crushed beneath a burden that should not have been hers to bear. It was through that defeat, slow and painful, that I learned of whom she really was.

"As I look back, I see that it was she who taught me most of life’s purpose, who showed me the missing pieces I needed to collect to become who I am now. She became all I strived for, and through that struggle I was able to accomplish what I thought to be truly impossible.

"Today, my memories of her only serve as an eternal reminder that the person who is by my side will never be her again. All I have left to keep her alive is to share the story of who she once was, so that when I am gone others will remember. It is quite long, mind you, but it is worth hearing - to me, if no one else, if only to relive what I’ve lost one more time before it is too late.

But to tell you what happened, to really tell you in a way you will comprehend, I need to start from the beginning: before I became who I am now, before the world changed forever, and before I became acquainted with Jillian Winters.

Laurence P. Cromwell

Intro to Writing

My Obsession with Magic

I was young, perhaps seven years old. The weather had begun to change; I remember that much clearly. I wasn’t wearing a jacket, but I should have been. I’d be scolded by my mother - doubly so if I caught a cold - but I didn’t care. Jackets were restrictive, and the ones my mother purchased for me were, at best, unsatisfactory. They more resembled life preservers than any sort of winter garment.

I often imagined jumping from trees and rooftops in an effort to test the protective qualities of my absurd winter body armor. That might have been a silly notion, but saving me from perishing would have at least given the clothing a purpose. Until I built up the courage to do so, however, it had no value to me and would thusly be left inside.

The importance of running free and jacketless that day was due to one of my favorite pastimes: model airplanes. My gliders, made of foam or balsa wood, were destined to soar across my yard until the wind took them up higher or pummeled them into the ground.

Something about how they defied gravity fascinated me; likely it was the idea that they flew by nothing other than the force of my own arm propelling them upward through a trillion invisible particles. As they silently drifted through the air, I knew it was I who had created the effect, at least in part. That reaction was magical to me, for I could never take to the air as they did.

Most days the ritual would be performed in the same way. I would sneak out, bereft of my jacket, intent on throwing a miniature flying machine harder and harder, desperately trying to deliver it to a new, unvisited stretch of earth.

My efforts would typically end with a glider lodging itself into a tree or, even worse, a neighbor’s yard, despite my intention to avoid such consequences. I wasn’t to retrieve anything of mine from another person’s property. When such a catastrophe inevitably occurred, I had to inform one of my parents that they needed to recover it. I was intelligent enough to put on a jacket before I asked, though, lest I be questioned about my lack of one.

That day in particular was different. The air was crisp but not overly cold. The lack of wind was perfect for flight. Wind at the right angle could push my airplane along for a greater distance than I ever could, but to me that was cheating. I would only allow an arm-powered flight into my mental record books, and that day was going to be one of those days.

Disastrously, as my favorite glider left my eager fingertips, it swept upward, only to loop around, soaring back over my head. My heart raced as it gently drifted toward the house. The only tragedy worse than one of my gliders landing in a neighbor’s yard was one of them landing on the roof. For all I knew, I wouldn’t be able to retrieve it until the winter snows had come and gone.

Much to my delight, the glider continued to climb higher and higher on a draft of air. My breath caught as it soared over the rooftop, missing its peak by inches. As the tiny flyer cleared the house and dove out of sight, I let out a sigh of relief; I knew I’d find it alighted safely upon the front lawn.

I immediately launched into action, my mission: to rescue the downed aircraft from its peril. Upon rounding the house, however, it was nowhere to be found. The yard was kept clear of debris. Aside from a few small hedges, there was nothing blocking my view of the entire plot.

I spun around several times, nearly making myself dizzy in futile attempts to locate the flyer, until my eyes came to rest on its final destination: the street. I practically squealed with glee. Not only had I found my glider but it had gone quite a distance. It wasn’t my longest flight, but after climbing so high and stalling for so long over my rooftop, it was certainly one of the most dramatic.

I raced out to save it from the certain doom of being crushed by less lofty vehicles, only to meet such a fate myself. As my hand met the glider, so too did I meet the bumper of a passing automobile. For a fraction of a second, I registered the fatal error my excitement had caused before the impact sent me tumbling across the pavement.

I awoke moments later. My body had become a blood-soaked heap of shattered meat and bones. Breathing and moving were luxuries I no longer enjoyed. As my muscles uncontrollably convulsed from the trauma, I struggled to open my eyes. Sluggishly they responded to my persistence.

Through darkening slits, I viewed a tall, slender gentleman in a black, gold-trimmed robe. Stepping out from the curb and into view, he stooped down to regard my face, as if he were inspecting a poorly-painted work of art. As I stared upward into his visage with blurry, red-tinged vision, he returned my stare with calculating, unconcerned eyes.

Then, without further hesitation, he stood, turned sharply, and walked back the way he came until I lost sight of him behind a nearby tree. It may have just been my perspective, or he may have simply stopped to call the police, but as my vision dimmed, and my life slipped away from me, I never did see him leave.

I awoke several days later in the hospital. At the time, I wished I hadn’t. My body had been broken, and I experienced more pain just from being alive than I ever had before. It wasn’t long until I learned that I had been hit by a driver who was carelessly speeding down our street. I had fractured my skull and three vertebrae, as well as breaking seven ribs, multiple arm bones, one of my femurs, and various delicate bits in both my hands and my feet.

I was informed no less than a dozen times that I should not have been alive. So much emphasis was placed upon that fact that I began to wonder if the staff had even wanted me to survive the accident in the first place. But slowly the lines of doctors and nurses faded away, and I was left to my various casts, slings, and restraints to keep my fragile condition from worsening.

One day, after what must have been a thousand relatives had come and gone, their mission of insincere gifts, cards, and condolences completed, I was left alone with my mother. She sat by my side, holding onto a pair of my few unbroken fingers.

Laurence, she said with tears of concern and joy in her eyes, "I have been so worried about you. I thought… I thought I’d lost you. I have no idea how you’ve pulled through this, but I am so thankful you have. I am truly blessed. Surviving a car accident at that speed, you must have Magic coursing through your veins!"

I laughed as best I could, the bound-up ribs and head restraint again reminding me how badly I had fared, but the comment stuck with me throughout that day and further into the next few weeks. It had been such a strange sentence for my mother to use.

You must have Magic coursing through your veins.

The statement resonated in my mind over and over as I thought back to the mysterious circumstances involved with the accident: the strange behavior of my glider, the peculiar robed man, and my apparently incomprehensible ability to survive the ordeal. I never brought up those concerns to my family - I was sure they would explain away my experience as a side effect of the trauma - but the details continued to haunt me.

…Magic coursing through your veins.

The words burned inside me, kept me awake at night, constantly reminded me that I had been touched by something extraordinary.

Far too much time passed before my parents were allowed to bring me back home, but not all of me departed the hospital that day. Any thoughts I might have had regarding airplanes, flight, and playing in the backyard had been purged from my brain and left in the recovery room to fade away.

The changes that had taken hold within me throughout the ordeal had no correlation with the eventual reprimand I received from my parents. After what I had gone through, their admonishments no longer effected my emotional state. Rather, my brain had been infested, taken over by what would start as a harmless hobby but eventually grow to become a lifelong obsession: Magic.

Finishing the paragraph, my essay completed, I looked up from the paper. Only half the class seemed to be paying attention - unusual for a lesson they had all paid for. Aside from the instructor, only one person clapped: a man named Viktor, who seemed to have been enthralled by my writing.

I must have been truly inspiring.

That was a thoughtfully composed essay, Laurence, proclaimed a middle-aged, stuffy-nosed woman. She wore circular spectacles and an odd, floral-print dress, which appeared so distasteful it could have been hemmed from an old, worn-out couch. She, of course, was the instructor, and her praise meant nothing to me; she was being paid to attend.

In reality my story was mediocre at best. We had all been assigned the task of writing an essay which might inspire others to consider one of our own hobbies, interests, or professions. I had meant to write my story on the topic of magic - a magician being what I had spent most of my life studying as both a hobby and a profession - but had clearly drifted off course.

The essay barely met the given requirements. Starting with airplanes, it had only changed to the topic of magic near the end, and clearly required several more pages to prove its point. If I were grading it, I can’t honestly say I’d have let it pass. That being said, it did fit the skillset of the hobbyist it mirrored. I had neither a compelling stage presence nor was I adept at sleight of hand magic, but a magician I was, and a magician I would be for the rest of my life.

One might feel compelled to ask why I would attempt such a profession considering my lack of skill, and they would be justified in doing so. Simply put, it was impossible to ignore the true belief in Magic that my experience had forged. I assumed it existed, I assumed it had to exist, and I assumed, someday, I would find the secret which proved its existence to not only myself but everyone who saw my Magic being performed.

Given all the ideas, theories, and research I'd exposed myself to over the years, one might also feel compelled to ask if I had stumbled onto a potentially rare or unique item or met some unusual being - anything which might have informed me as to whether or not I was on the right track. My answer, however, would have been bleak; I had found absolutely nothing.

That fruitless search was the reason I wasn’t a convincing magician. There have always been convincing magicians who don’t use Magic, but they don’t expect to, either. I, on the other hand, believed my tricks didn’t need to be tricks at all. I believed I should have been able to make a handkerchief disappear from existence altogether, rather than stuffing it into a fake thumb. Instead of focusing on fooling others, I had been focused on fooling myself.

After years of failure, I finally settled on writing a book - some sort of desperate attempt to prove stage magic was founded on a long-lost belief or ability. Throughout its pages, I’d try my best to convince people of that ideal, but that wasn’t my true goal. Ultimately, I wanted to attract those who might have had such abilities, those who might have hidden themselves, waiting for a person such as myself to come along and reach out to them.

However, judging by the praise - or lack thereof - that my first attempt at writing had garnered, it seemed I had a lot of work left to do. But there were still several weeks remaining of the rather expensive course I had paid for, and who knew? Maybe I’d manage to learn something by then.

I think I’ll call it The Life and History of Real Magicians.

Yes, that sounds good.

Perhaps I’ll even use a future version of my essay as the starting chapter for my novel, as a way to invite others to share their Magical experiences.

As for this version, though…

I crumpled my essay into a ball as class let out, and tossed it into a waste bin by the door. I hadn’t been graded on my work - in that class you weren’t - but I filed it where it belonged anyway.

Hey, why’d you throw that away? a voice called out from behind.

I turned to find Viktor standing just a few feet from me. By his expression, he wholeheartedly believed he had just initiated a conversation with me, but I had no interest in socializing at the moment, especially after such a dismal reading.

I, uh, have it saved on my computer at home, but it looks like no one here enjoyed it, so it’s likely to be scrapped, I replied. The statement was a lie, of course; for better or worse I had decided to use the piece in my future novel just moments ago.

Viktor shook his head. My opinion probably doesn’t matter much, but just like you, I’ve always been fascinated by Magic. You know, whether real Magic exists and whatnot. Seriously, I thought it was a very compelling story, and I can tell you weren’t making it up. When you were reading the part where that man entered the scene of the accident, your face changed. I could tell you were… His expression took on a thoughtful air, as if he were actually picturing me standing up in front of class again. Well, if you ever expand on it, let me know; I’d love to hear more.

I forced a smile in reply to his compliments, unsure if they were genuine or simply an attempt to make me feel better. Considering none of the other people in attendance had been roused from their hibernation, I suspected the latter.

Thank you, I replied, attempting to at least appear confident in my own ability to write. I will let you know. It is going to be a long, difficult journey, and I’ve got a lot to learn along the way.

Until then I had never been convinced when someone prophesied about the future. I suspected anyone with the ability to do so wouldn’t bother announcing it to the public. But the words I had uttered that day couldn’t have been closer to the truth. It would be a long, difficult journey, but not in the way I expected it to be.

As I made my way home from class, I decided to cheer myself up by visiting the local role-playing and comic book shop: The Green Dragon Emporium. I had been there often, as it always seemed to stimulate what I considered to be the correct parts of my brain - or, at the very least, the parts of my brain I enjoyed having stimulated.

As I pulled the heavy glass-paned door open, a bell jangled. Its sound signaled the release of a cat, who launched outward as if fired from a cannon. Moments later it would want back in; I knew so from experience. A tortoiseshell cat who appeared as if he lived in a chimney, Gorbash was seemingly unhappy with either side of the door he found himself on.

Stepping inside the establishment, a lighting fixture flickered above me. Soon its glow would fade to match its muted partner. But that was only one of many maintenance casualties incurred due to the carelessness of the owner, whom I had never seen move from the front desk.

Good day, Frank, I called out to the man in question.

With horn-rimmed glasses, a squared-off goatee, and a balding pate which ended in a ponytail, Frank was the quintessential nerd's nerd. He could quote every line of every movie and bore you to death with trivia of which even the nerdliest of nerds were unaware. But Frank’s true passion was comic books. I suspect he had secretly opened his store as an excuse to feed an out-of-control addiction.

The majority of the building’s real estate had been taken up by what could only be described as six long feeding troughs full of comics. Each slim article was numbered, sleeved, unofficially graded, and more than likely read personally by Frank himself before begrudgingly being put up for sale. Bolstering that idea, Frank could occasionally be observed shooting suspicious glances toward the handful of potential customers perusing his collection.

Heaven forbid they buy one of his babies.

Mmph, Frank responded in a near inaudible grunt from behind a newly delivered comic.

That could have been a greeting… perhaps not.

If I was being honest with myself, Frank’s lack of enthusiasm might have been caused by my own actions, or lack thereof. Despite having stopped inside his store at least twice a month for over a year, I had never made a meaningful purchase or engaged in the type of witty banter which might encourage an upwelling of emotion to pour out from a man like him. I’d always had the intention of buying something intriguing, of course, but hadn’t settled on anything of merit. In my defense, I had yet to find any authentic Magic relics lining his shelves. If I had, I would have been more apt to open my wallet.

But today will be different.

Stepping up to the counter, I prepared myself by pulling down my sleeves. Frank, I have something to show you - something that will surely cheer you up. Watch closely.

Frank, clearly unappreciative of being pried away from his favorite hobby, slowly lowered his comic onto the table. Peering out from above glasses which sat perched upon the tip of his nose, he stared up at me with dull, disinterested eyes.

Reaching into my jacket pocket, I produced both a silver ring and a shoe lace, motioning to the objects. Would you like to inspect these items to verify they are indeed ordinary?

Frank’s eyes shifted from item to item before trailing back to my face. With all the enthusiasm of a person dredging up a chunk of potato from the bottom of a bowl of chowder, he eventually replied after several long, painful seconds.

Mmmm... no. I suspect you wouldn’t offer them to me if they were fake. Instead, you’re only trying to misdirect my attention from something else you’re planning to do.

Clearing my throat in an effort to recover from his absolute lack of enthusiasm, I quickly tied a knot onto the ring and let it dangle in front of his eyes. Would you like to… I started, but Frank appeared to be on the verge of drifting into a coma.

Sweat began to form on my palms. Making a fist, I stuffed the ring down into my hand before quickly yanking upward on the lace. The ring had mysteriously gone missing from the knot.

Now for the coup de grace.

I extended my fingers, revealing that the ring had also vanished from my hand. Tadaa! I exclaimed, waiting for his response.

Frank barely raised his thick, caterpillar-like eyebrows. I’m no expert on knots, but you must have tied the string into one which wasn’t what it appeared to be. That allowed the ring to slip into a secret pocket in your sleeve. He ended the last sentence with a smirk, knowing full well he had crushed my magic with his logic.

I cleared my throat, sweat beading on my forehead. "Well, how could it be in my sleeve when it’s behind your-" I began, but as I reached forward, the ring slipped from my cuff, hitting the glass countertop with a tinging sound.

We both remained motionless, watching the ring wobble around for what seemed an eternity. Breaking the silence, Frank made another of his famous Mmph sounds. Retrieving his comic book, he propped it back up, ending the magical demonstration without another word.

I have failed to impress Frank.

His opinion meant little to me, but the failure was still painful. That was not the first time I had flubbed a trick for Frank - or countless other audiences, for that matter - and I was beginning to suspect it would not be the last.

I slowly turned away, a frown cutting harshly across my face. Trying my best to ignore a bruised and bleeding ego, I refocused my attention on a series of short aisles in the back of the store, behind Frank’s feeding troughs.

As I waded waist-deep through a near-infinite sea of cartoon imagery to reach them, I couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t completed his hostile takeover of the store and eliminated those rear aisles altogether. After all, Frank didn’t appreciate his customers. If the Emporium’s threadbare blue carpet had been an angry ocean and the troughs had been lifeboats escaping a tragedy, I’d have been swimming next to the only survivors.

Perhaps Frank does have other interests in his life.

Eh, more likely, he knows that for every item sold from those shelves, it will enable him to hold onto a few of his dear babies just a little longer.

Glancing back at Frank’s partially obscured head gleaming out from behind his latest romance, my latter assumption was only reinforced.

Reaching the end of Frank’s collection, I came face to face with what had once fascinated me: four free-standing shelving units filled with rubbish. Not literally, of course; the items were new and had price tags affixed to them. Even so, in my eyes they held the same value.

Aisle one was filled with incense, candles, carved wooden busts of random deities, and ritualistic mumbo jumbo, which had been hastily produced en masse in some far-off land by an army of what I pictured to be strange mystical men who had long since developed carpal tunnel from many a long day crafting their wares. For their sake, I also imagined they had all lost their sense of smell years ago, allowing them a reprieve from the vast array of overwhelming aromas assaulting my nostrils.

Aisle two had been stacked floor to ceiling with various books, magazines, and novels. Large portions were devoted to role-playing games, while other shelves took on a more legitimate air, presenting topics that ranged from spells claiming to conjure your own hair, to busy mom-witches who needed help incorporating witchcraft into their hectic routines, to recipes for actual consumables you couldn’t have paid me enough to try.

In the past you’d have found me paging through countless publications, scanning for that one real Magical spell which might have started me off on my journey to wizardom. If there was such a book, however, it wouldn't have had a fancy dust jacket or an ISBN on the back. I had given up on that delusion long ago.

Aisle three gleamed despite the dim fluorescent lighting. It had been piled high with goblets, dragon-shaped salt and pepper shakers, tiny, barely-clothed fairy statues holding brightly-colored orbs, portraits of wizards who stood zero chance of existing, and other useless paraphernalia.

As I paused, staring down aisle three, I reflected back upon my life.

If I had filled my apartment with such worthless junk, would the Magical world have taken notice of me?

Probably not. But my creditors would have.

Lastly, aisle four had been split in two. On the right stood a long row of clothing and armor in various sizes and shapes. If anyone felt the need to transform into a level four wizard from the magical realm of Mordoria, or a ghastly witch, shooting spiteful words from her mouth to singe the soul of even the toughest fifth grader, aisle four was certainly for them.

The left side was equally useless, albeit more dangerous. It featured rack after rack of wizardly weaponry. Swords, staves, daggers, wands, and strange metal claws all signified some sort of vain attempt to recreate the visage of a mighty warrior of old. Heaven forbid someone purchase rubbish from the left and right sides of aisle four. Songs of the fatalities caused would have been sung for hours to come.

But alas, not even the gleam of badly stamped-out, butter knife-sharp battle cutlery could hold my gaze on that particular day. Aisles one through four were just for amateurs; I knew because I had been one. The real treasure - or so I hoped - lay at the rear of the establishment.

The back wall of Frank’s store was neither grand nor attractive. It hadn’t been numbered, sleeved, or graded. Rather, it consisted entirely of a crooked old table covered in a teetering heap of clutter that Frank bought up in large quantities to outfit roleplayers for their adventures. Most of it likely came from garage sales and who knew where else... and I loved every bit of it.

The items were meant to be used as cheap, disposable props, of course, but you never knew what might turn up. It was, after all, old clutter, and most of it appeared as if it could have been used for some sort of Magical purpose at one time or another.

Frank only has to make one lucky find… and so do I.

There at the back of the store I’d begin to feverishly dig while other customers tossed me suspicious glances from the corners of their eyes. Working from left to right, I’d sift through the piles of salvage, never sure of what I was looking for. But I remained content by telling myself that I'd know it when I found it.

First up on that day was an old oil lamp. Rubbing it three times resulted in no effect.

Is it broken? Perhaps the previous owner spent their third wish freeing the genie.

Either way, it didn’t work and was tossed back onto the pile as I continued rummaging.

A few more minutes of searching resulted in the excavation of a clear, golf ball-sized orb from beneath a pile of golden plates. It sparkled in the light and, when shaken, turned opaque, but my disappointed reflection was all that stared back at me. Despite its apparent lack of usefulness, it was dropped into my front jacket pocket for later consideration while I employed both hands to dig even deeper.

Half spent candles, some sort of magnifying glass attached to a stand, an incense burner on a chain, a cracked mirror, a magician’s wand in worse condition than my own - all were clearly junk, but I soldiered onward undeterred.

Soon, a congregation of various bottles cluttered at the end of the table caught my eye. Some even had their contents still intact. Cautiously I uncorked a murky, twine-wrapped flask before taking a whiff, instantly regretting the choice.

Whew! I exclaimed, garnering another odd expression from a nearby stranger.

An effective concoction for clearing one’s sinuses it may be, but Magical, it is not.

Setting the horrific bottle aside, I continued onward. More rummaging resulted in a curious book, and one that had neither a dust jacket nor an ISBN. In anticipation, my face distorted into what was surely a comical expression. As I cautiously opened the brittle cover to reveal its true identity, however, I let out an audible sigh.

The Worm Ouroboros?

I split the volume, quickly scanning through one of the pages.

…with cunning colubrine and malice viperine and sleights serpentine…

Literary magic for some, perhaps, but definitely not for me.

Getting desperate, I sped up. Powder in a vial… garlic. A secretive little case filled with… nothing. An ancient chest full of… bent silverware. A large round box with a cryptic silver label… a moth-eaten hat.

This is all completely useless!

Out of frustration, I called out across the store. Frank! Your inventory is beginning to look more and more like thrift store junk!

Mmph, Frank mumbled in response before once more delving back into his comic.

I often found myself wondering if Frank had ever left that counter. I couldn't recall a single time I had seen him do anything else but read. I mused that perhaps his body died long ago, and he had yet to notice.

Drifting back from my reverie, I recalled the orb which I had secreted away. Retrieving it from my pocket, I shook it again, considering the purchase. It was impossible to determine what purpose it held.

Well, I'm never going to begin my journey if I don't start somewhere.

Turning the orb over, I checked the price tag. Twenty-four ninety-nine! I cried aloud.

Mmhmm, Frank responded.

Directing my attention back to the orb, I continued to inspect it.

Perhaps if I peel off the label, Frank won't remember the price.

Twenty-five dollars for a bonafide Magical artifact might have been a steal, but in that shop there were neither Magical guarantees nor refunds.

I began to peel the label backward, only to discover lettering carved into the orb.

T... A... I... Taiwan.

I’m sure the Taiwanese wizardly elite could craft a Magical artifact just as deftly as the rest of those with the Magical know-how, but I doubted they’d emblazon a country of manufacture on the genuine article. Feeling let down, I decided to toss it back onto the table and leave.

Perhaps next week Frank will uncover something other than the contents of old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.

As I reached out, intent on returning the orb to where I had first spotted it, I paused. The empty space it had previously occupied had been filled by a curious, dark-purple, faceted crystal.

I had once told myself that I'd know it if I found it. The moment my eyes made contact with the object, I was overwhelmed by its very existence. I had found it, and I knew it. The artifact had not been there earlier, I was sure of it. And it certainly wasn't like Frank to leap up from his vegetable-like coma and restock the shelves in the millisecond it took me to blink.

This has to be the real deal.

My fingers practically tingled with anticipation as I reached out to retrieve the object from where it lay. Upon grasping its smooth exterior, I was not disappointed; it was heavy. Despite a length of only eight inches or so, and a diameter of nearly two, it had to weigh close to four pounds.

The crystal’s weight, however, was the least curious thing about it. It also hummed, sending vibrations of Magical energy throughout my entire arm. At least, that's what I guessed it might have been doing. For all I knew, it was an extraterrestrial back massager. But that in its own right would have been fascinating.

Spinning the artifact around in my hands, I could see that it was flawless. Even so, I suspected it had been cut, as it bore a pavilion at both ends, unlike natural crystals. Every facet was perfectly smooth and reflected its surroundings without distortion. Not a mark or scratch could be found on its surface, nor could my fingers leave a smudge.

And how about that? Not a single price tag, barcode, or Taiwan label!

Shortly thereafter, my foolish schoolboy grin drooped into a concerned frown. Much to my surprise and dismay, I found it impossible to remove the artifact from my hand. I could slide it around my palm, I could even drag it to the tip of my finger, but in similarity to a powerful magnet, it refused to let go, even when left to swing freely from its culet.

I pulled with all my might. I shook it as hard as I could. I even attempted to pitch the crystal across the room with little concern as to what I might break in the process. But as I flailed around, likely appearing to have gone insane, an odd thought crept into my mind.

If this crystal hadn’t been placed here before my arrival, and it appeared in a spot only I would notice, and it is now clinging onto my hand despite my desperate efforts to the contrary... could it have been meant for me?

Could it have chosen me?

Could it be… mine?

Dude! That is badass! exclaimed a high-pitched voice from my right.

Whirling on my heels, I came face to face with a heavy-set boy, his hair unkempt and skin oily. In his early to mid-teens, he wore both a Lord of the Rings T-shirt and a Star Trek communicator pin - two items that should never have met.

What did you say? I replied, my mind not entirely focused on the intruder.

"It’s like, from that Dark Crystal movie!" he announced with wide eyes, stretching a hand out toward the object I had just found.

I took a step backward, withdrawing it from his hungry grasp. Yes, I agreed nervously. In truth, I did understand the reference, but discussing the details of a movie that had no connection to the object I had just found wasn’t of concern to me.

This person needs to move on.

"I uh, brought it in for Frank to appraise. It’s an authentic and fragile movie prop," I quickly added, seeing he wasn’t about to take a hint.

The boy’s eyes grew even larger, but he seemed to acknowledge that it was at least mine, and likely far more expensive than anything he could acquire with his allowance. Well, it’s pretty badass, he repeated.

Thank you, I replied, turning to leave him behind.

The crystal didn’t belong to him. It didn’t belong to Frank. Technically, Frank didn't even know about it. I felt it had chosen me; I felt it belonged to me. I felt like it was my duty to free it from the store so it could fulfill whatever purpose it might have had. And I wasn’t about to fail in that duty because of someone as vacuous and sedentary as Frank.

But how can I hide it from his sight?

Its size alone would prevent me from sliding my hand into my pocket. Nor could I avoid looking suspicious with a Napoleon-like arm protruding from my jacket. No, I suspected the only solution was to pay Frank for the item, even though it wasn't technically his.

I did find it at his store, after all.

Instinctively reaching backward for my wallet, I paused, having pressed the crystal against my buttcheek instead. I may very well have looked like a fool standing there, expression blank, slowly numbing my haunch with its odd thrumming, but it did represent a larger issue: if I never proved capable of removing the crystal, I’d have to accept it as a part of my body, impediments included.

That doesn’t matter right now. I just have to pay for it and get out of the store. Besides, weeks from today I'll probably levitate my wallet out of my pocket instead!

Sadly, after awkwardly dropping my wallet several times, I was greeted with a new problem. The aforementioned writing course had cost me dearly; I was closer to penniless than I thought. My wealth had been boiled down to only seven dollars and an additional sixty-three cents in a small zippered pouch.

Accepting the cards fate had dealt me, I hung my head dejectedly, trudging my way back up to the front counter.

Frank, I called, not at all enthusiastic about what was to come. I found this piece of glass under some merchandise on the back table. It didn't have a price on it. I'll give you five dollars for it.

Without looking up, Frank pointed to a sign which had been hung on the wall next to him.

Please do not peel the price tags off of the merchandise. All untagged items will be valued at… twenty-four ninety-nine!

What rotten luck!

Inside my head, frustration had begun to build, but outwardly I tried to remain calm. Taking a deep breath, I began again.

Frank, I... I do not have nearly that much. Surely, we can work something out. I can pay you on a different day, perhaps. We’ve known each other for so long, and-

Frank let out a long sigh and dropped his comic book. Extending pudgy, sausage-like fingers only years of lethargy and fast food could create, he mumbled, Lemme see it.

I’m not sure what stunned me more - the fact that I had finally found what I believed to be a real Magical artifact, or the realization that I was required to hand it over to a vegetable-like person who might decide to keep it for himself.

That is, if I can even hand it to him in the first place.

I resolved to let Frank visually inspect it and, if he absolutely needed to, touch it. For the first time, I prayed that it would refuse to detach itself from my hand; I could not risk losing it.

I will run out of this store if I have to.

Extending the crystal outward to meet Frank’s sprawling meaty digits, my palms and forehead began to sweat profusely. My mind racing, I hoped and prayed that maybe... just maybe...

The instant the crystal contacted his finger, Frank's eyes swelled to other-worldly proportions. Staring at me for what felt like minutes, his jaw slackened, threatening to dribble saliva onto the glass countertop below.

Unsure of what to do next, my brow knitted together from impatience. The exchange had taken far longer than I had anticipated, and I was beginning to consider less than honest ways of ending the transaction.

Well?

Frank inhaled sharply, as if he had forgotten to breathe for quite some time.

Uh, he mumbled, looking first down to the crystal and then back up to meet my irritated gaze.

How much, Frank? I repeated in a hostile tone.

Oh. Um. He again stared at the crystal, his eyes growing wider. It's really nice. I couldn't possibly sell it for less than… seven sixty-three.

Stunned by his words, I said nothing in response. As I emptied the contents of my wallet onto the counter and walked away, Frank continued to stare blankly into the distance. Neither the jingle of the door nor the meow of Gorbash as he raced back inside pulled him from his passive state.

If that wasn’t Magical power, I don't know what is.

With or without the help of Taiwan, I had claimed my first Magical artifact, and it only took years of rummaging through refuse to pull it off.

Laurence: The Magician Who Brought Magic Back to the World!

That’s a much better title for my book.

My eyes opened to reveal my backyard. Not my current backyard; I didn’t have one. I lived in an apartment. Rather, it was a backyard I never expected to return to: the plot behind my childhood home. In fact, it was the yard I had featured in my essay earlier that day, where I had once enjoyed throwing airplanes. I had just stepped out of Frank’s shop moments before, yet the location where I stood was a far cry from his building.

How did I get here?

Am I dreaming? Have I just passed out?

I had no memories of making my way home, let alone all the way to a location from my past. For all I knew, I was still out front of The Green Dragon Emporium, lying unconscious on the cement; I honestly had no way of knowing for sure.

My line of questioning was interrupted by the familiar creak of my parent’s rear screen door. To my surprise, out stepped a much younger version of myself, still preserved as the child I had once been.

So I am dreaming, then - a lucid dream.

Silently I watched my doppelganger step out, glider in hand, coat missing. It was truly remarkable what the brain could imagine, having never seen my own body from that perspective before. Every nuance had been recreated with remarkable attention to detail. The experience was far more realistic than any dream or memory I had ever recalled. In fact, it might have been a little too real to be natural.

Has the crystal caused me to relive an event I’d been desperate to remember more clearly for my essay?

While considering what that might imply, I watched my younger self double-check to see if my parents were watching. I knew of his intentions, as I’d done so myself a thousand times before. There was no way I would wear that cumbersome jacket my mother had purchased; it was far too restrictive. With it on, I could barely move my arms, let alone throw an airplane.

As if I had summoned that exact thought into reality, my younger counterpart raised his arm, leveled the glider, and pitched it into the air. Exactly as I had remembered, it curved up and back over his head before racing toward the house.

Laurence let out a gasp. No... he whispered as I, too, mouthed the words from memory.

The vision forced me to relive the expression, but with it came the realization that I had forgotten that detail entirely. I must have been terrified to lose my glider, but from my new perspective, I couldn’t help but be amused. The sight of myself, wide-eyed, frozen in fear over the prospect of losing a piece of balsa wood - frankly, it was hilarious.

And better yet, the glider is completely safe. He has no idea where...

I paused in my humor, the memories flooding back to me one after another.

I’m about to be hit by a car!

Once more, as if on cue, my younger self took off, sprinting around the house. Quickly I made my way after him until we arrived in the front yard.

The airplane was exactly where it should have been: in the street. I had no choice but to watch Laurence peer around before his eyes came to rest upon it.

You shouldn’t do that. Don’t you dare! It’s going to hurt more than you can imagine!

Within seconds my prediction had come true. Lost in the excitement of retrieving the glider, Laurence found himself knocked down the road by a late model station wagon. But my attention had only been drawn toward his injured body for a moment before being pulled to something else.

I found myself enthralled by the stranger, who had stepped out from behind a nearby tree as the accident took place. A person whom I had once fought to believe was more than a figment of my imagination, somehow brought on by horrific trauma, stood mere feet from me. Enshrouded by a black robe, ornately trimmed with gold, the mysterious man was far more peculiar and out of place than I had recalled when writing my essay.

Tall, slim - bordering on malnourished - he walked toward my body with long, slow-motion strides while the driver fumbled to get out of his vehicle. Gliding downward, as if on a gust of wind, he came to rest near my convulsing torso. Inspecting my face as if he were searching for something - something he appeared not to find - he frowned.

The stranger then stood and began to turn, but paused, his eye catching something of interest. Slowly, his shroud parted, revealing an angular face and a disturbing, cold gaze. His eyes focusing in on the exact spot where I stood, he remained motionless, his brows drawn together in thought as he regarded me.

After what seemed an eternity, his attention returned to my young counterpart, lying battered in the street. As his lips parted, words ready to tumble forth from his mouth, he was interrupted once more as the frantic driver exited the car, colliding with him. Or rather, he should have. I watched, astonished, as the driver ran through the mysterious stranger, only briefly disturbing his robe, like a gust of wind.

Wincing, as if the avoided interaction had somehow managed to cause him discomfort, the stranger glanced in the direction of my younger counterpart one last time before exiting the scene exactly how he had done in my essay.

Did he really see me, or was he looking at something else nearby?

I certainly hadn’t remembered the stranger pausing for a moment, nor could I recall the driver somehow passing through him. However, considering the bloody heap laying before me on the pavement, it might have been easy for me to miss a few details.

I was correct; he really did exist. That detail is what matters.

Continuing to reflect upon what had just taken place, I was startled to find my surroundings beginning to dim. Seconds later I fell into darkness.

I woke up in my bed, cold. The sheets had been soaked with sweat. My clothes, which hadn’t been removed, clung to my damp body. Confusion overtook me. My eyes darted around my sparse bedroom in a zig-zag pattern, as if I had never seen it before. I had neither memory of climbing into bed nor any recollection of the trip I must have taken from the Green Dragon Emporium back to my apartment.

What could possibly have happened?

The last thing I remembered was walking out of Frank's store, wallet empty and crystal in hand.

No, that isn’t the last thing I remember!

My mind began to recall the vivid dream I had experienced, which had played out upon leaving the Green Dragon Emporium.

Now I’m certain it wasn’t real.

But then, had the event at Frank’s shop also been a dream?

Have I even read my essay to the class?

Was this all a cruel trick my whimsical imagination decided to play on me?

It wouldn’t be the first time…

I had been under a lot of stress while focusing on my writing, and I was prone to envisioning imaginary conflicts within my own mind. Delusions seemed especially likely considering the pressure I had heaped upon myself to not only complete the essay but build up the courage to read it aloud in front of an audience.

Though that hypothesis might have had at least some merit, I soon took notice that something had accompanied me into bed. Creating a geometric tent as it pressed up from under the sheets, a familiar object rested in my hand.

Is that what I think it is?

Slowly, I raised my arm and looked down. There, clutched in my fingers, was the very object I had worked so hard to liberate from Frank’s store: the purple crystal.

I did find it!

My excitement, however, was short-lived. Something had changed, something which disturbed me greatly. When I had first retrieved the crystal, I could freely move it around my palm, but now I saw with growing panic, my fingers no longer opened. Instead, they involuntarily clung to the artifact like talons, squeezing with enough force to turn my knuckles white.

As I stared at my captive extremity, a thought burst into my mind - one I had never considered before.

What if I’ve found a Magical artifact which was created with a malicious purpose in mind, something I can’t use myself but instead uses me?

Some sort of… Magical trap.

It was a logical conclusion. After all, the artifact hadn't shown any signs of doing what I wanted. There had been several instances within Frank’s store which might have been easier had I been able to pocket the artifact or, at the very least, set it down.

Had it listened? Not at all. In fact, it’s doing the exact opposite: forcing its own will upon my hand!

That being said, I didn’t necessarily consider corruption or malicious intent as deal breakers. A person of my conviction would never have passed up on the opportunity to study such a prize, no matter what sinister purpose it might have been created for. Even so, watching helplessly as it bound itself to my hand was an event I could have done without.

What if it’s absorbing my lifeforce, or slowly trying to take control of me… or worse!

My mind began to flood with horrific possibilities, as a person of my mentality is apt to do when presented with a mystery of dubious origin. But through it all, despite the crystal’s malicious plans, or lack thereof, I settled upon one conclusion.

This has to be removed from my hand before it continues any further.

Sitting up in my bed, I brought the object to within inches of my nose, carefully inspecting how tightly my hand gripped it. My fingers practically shook with the effort of holding the crystal, and pulling on each digit had no effect other than to make them sore.

What I really need is something with leverage.

Grabbing a pencil from my nightstand, I attempted to pry under my index finger. It cracked within seconds, proving to be useless. Frustrated, I tossed it across the room.

Maybe I’m overthinking this. For all I know, this could be similar to a muscle cramp. I’ve been through a bunch of stress. Maybe I just need to relax.

Swinging my legs out of bed, I stumbled into the bathroom, intent on taking a long soak in a tub of hot water.

Nearly an hour later, nothing about my hand’s condition had changed, but the warmth from the bath water had served to calm me down. Feeling confident I could find a solution, I stepped out and awkwardly wrapped a towel around myself.

Walking down the hall and into the kitchen, I rummaged around under my sink until I found a bottle of residue remover. I knew from experience it was potent, as it had taken off far more than a few old stickers from several of my projects. Liberally soaking my hand, I grabbed a butter knife out of the silverware drawer. With some effort, I managed to slide it under my palm, between my index finger and thumb, where its curvature created a slight gap. Sadly, it too bent before I had applied nearly enough force to budge the crystal, nor had the chemicals done any good; I needed something more aggressive.

Moving to a nearby closet, I located my toolbox far in the back. It was a rusted, battered old thing I had been given by my father just in case. Regrettably, I had learned years ago that just in case meant embarrassment and self-loathing. Just in case meant making the problem worse. Just in case meant I should call a professional to fix what had broken. Only this time there were no professionals I knew of who could handle such an issue, so just in case would have to do.

Flipping its latches, I opened the lid, forcing a groan from its stiff, crooked hinges. Inside, resting on a heap of well-worn tools, sat a framing hammer. Pausing for a moment, my eyes trailed from the hammer to the crystal. A single blow may very well have ended my troubles without much effort, but I felt I owed it to myself to try less destructive options first.

How can I destroy an object I’ve been searching for my whole life?

Directly under the hammer lay the thickest, dirtiest, most unsightly screwdriver I had ever seen. For whatever mad reason it had been forged, I could not honestly say, but the last time it had seen use was to pry open my car door after it had frozen shut in a blizzard. The screwdriver had survived; my door had not.

"Let’s see you bend!" I exclaimed triumphantly.

Painfully sliding its shaft through the same gap my knife had occupied, I pried as hard as I could until both of my hands were red and swollen. Nothing had changed. If the crystal was indeed separable, I wasn't applying enough force.

I need to anchor it in place so I can pull against it with all my weight.

Looking around for inspiration, I concocted a brilliant plan. Walking up to the nearest kitchen window, I opened it a few inches before sliding my hand through the gap. Turning the screwdriver, I positioned it so its tip and handle caught against the window and frame. As I pulled backward, the driver would be held in place while my hand was free to pull loose from the crystal - or so I hoped.

Balancing on one leg, I lifted my other foot up and placed it against the window sill. Carefully I began to pull backward while also pushing with my leg. The crystal remained stubbornly glued to my hand. Undeterred, I leaned back further, applying as much muscle as I could. The window frame groaned and popped as I forced my will against it.

My body shook with effort. Come on…! I growled through gritted teeth, pulling even harder.

With a noise not unlike a small explosion, the window frame gave way, splintering into a dozen pieces and shattering the pane it held within. Bits of wood and glass peppered my face as I was sent hurtling backward, over a chair, and into the kitchen table.

My eyes opened to reveal my backyard. Not my current backyard; I didn’t have one. I lived in an apartment. Rather-