Black Magic

Lacy’s shop is packed with found objects. Townpeople claim magic hides within them. Some say good, others whisper wicked.
Mamma says, “Nope, you ain’t goin’ in!” Today I disobey. The bell above the door jingle-jangles. Lacy shoots me the stink-eye. Don’t care. Her store smells like magic: dried rosemary, old books, mouse droppings. I rattle a bowl of colored shells, rub the forehead of a human skull. Lacy raises an eyebrow. I shuffle on.
When Mamma finds me, she shakes me hard. Twirls me towards a mirror. My eyes are purple cowry shells and my curly blonde hair has vanished.

The Rest Are Locked Outside

Auntie June arrived wearing a blue checkered skirt and sparkly red stilettos.
Couldn’t tell if she was Italian, Mexican, or a plump Irish woman who’d seen too much sun.
Her merlot-red hair smelled of seaweed. Neither unpleasant nor compelling.
And we knew her onyx-colored eyes held secrets.
“Not your real Auntie,” Father whispered.”She’s your new tutor.”
We rolled our eyes.
June was otherwordly. Taught us magic tricks and spells.
June began an exercise routine. We grew strong.
Our June made us laugh. At our elders.
Our June divided us. Kids against parents.
My June chose me to continue her plan.

A Grandmother’s Love

Grandma collected geodes. When she cracked them, instead of crystals, the stones contained small, exotic worlds.
Some called her a witch. I call them jealous.
Who could reject a tiny world occupied by three sleeping owls? Or a beach littered with sand dollars the size of a baby’s thumbnail?
She gifted her treasures to people with wounded souls.
Until today, I’d never received one.
Papa hands me a velvet-coated box. “She saved this one for you.” He nestles the box in my shaky hands.
Inside the geode? The scent of lilacs and a wee fairy with Grandma’s enchanting smile.

Careful What You Wish For

Today, What Pegman Saw takes us to Cirque de Navacelles, suggested by JS Brand. A big thank you to K Rawson for posting Pegman each week. Choosing one’s own picture for a 150-word story is such a treat.

Sophie tilted the box. The tiny houses rattled, wood against tile. Mama said, “Gentle.Those were my mother’s and her mother’s. They make wishes . . .”
Hoping Mama would be quiet and leave, for she was allowed to play with the magical set only when Mama was gone, Sophie shouted, “You’ve told me before!”
“Six-year-olds don’t speak that way to their mothers.” Mama raised an eyebrow; shut the door.
Oh, the excitement of watching Mama, enfolded in her lavender cape, disappear into the woods. Sophie had hours to play with the wooden houses while eating all the bauernbrot bread with milk. No one knew these two were tucked deep inside the forest so no one would disturb her play or glutinous behavior. Looking through the tiny isinglass window of the church she whispered,”Wouldn’t it be grand if Mama never came home?”
Four days later, Sophie, hungry and cold, still listened for Mama’s footsteps.

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Magic (or trouble) is in the Air

This story was written for What Pegman Saw, a delightful writing practice started by K. Rawson where the writer has 150 words to write a story from beginning to end. Thanks, K!

 

Raised Catholic, Angela could barely believe she was wandering the aisles of Sonora Market looking for – what?
Voodoo magic? Mysticism? She wasn’t sure.
At last, she found the table of colorful plastic figurines she’d been searching for all morning.
“Santisima Muerte will always be there for you.” Grandma Sophia had said these words hundreds of times.
“Black Muerte for cursing rituals. White Muerte for spiritual cleansing. Red for love. In times of trouble, go to the Santisima.”
Of course, Grandma was a bit of a kook. The entire village knew that. On the other hand, Angela needed help. No matter which Muerte granted it. Black? White? Red? Who cared. Shrugging one shoulder, Angela scooped one of each on top of the magic soap, holy water spray and dried skunk bunched together at the bottom of her bag.
Tonight Roberto would either fall in love with her, or he would die.

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Sarah’s Magic

The smell of wood smoke scents Sarah’s world. Fragments of shattered glass, collected near the castle and arranged in neat rows along the top of the rock wall, bring it color. Her bed is made of gathered moss. She sleeps beneath the stars.

The silken strands of Sarah’s flax-white hair weave themselves into tangled knots and drag upon the ground. She festoons the ends with feathers. Her dresses are nothing more than collected rags, pieced together in patches of variegated browns and occasional pieces of red.

Why would the queen want to see her? Has she heard? Sarah can weave straw into gold.

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