Write or share something you’ve already written that, to you, shows the nature of magic. It can be an excerpt from your WIP, something you’ve written especially, poetry, whatever strikes your fancy. It just needs to show the nature of magic as it exists for you or for those you write about.
EDIT: Unless you’re writing poetry, try to keep the entries somewhere between 250-1000 words.
Mind you, we’re not professional editors… think of us as thorough proof readers, lol.
“All we need is a spell.” I whirl to the bookshelf and select my favorite spell book bound in leather and well worn from multiple readings. The pages are sticky—that’s what I get for reading it while eating a candy apple that one time—and they crinkle beneath my fingers.
“Don’t be silly, Anne. That stuff isn’t real.”
I ignore her comment and flip through the pages, searching for a pact spell. It allows the members to dodge questions and keeps intruders from getting suspicious. What we’re planning must stay secret. No. Matter. What.
The oily scent of ink mingles with the pungent leather and wafts toward my nose. I take in a deep breath of it and smile.
“Hey, I was looking for this.” Mary finds the scarf I borrowed and checks to see if it’s still intact. Geez, I’m not that careless.
“Yeah, sorry. I meant to give that back.” I bat my eyelashes.
“Uh-huh. In what century?”
I barely hear her. The spell I want is staring me right in the face. “Here it is. Look.” I hold the book up so she can see.
She frowns at the page. “Great. Now what?”
“Now we chant it.” I set the book on the floor and gather my collection of pillar candles. Within seconds, I have them arranged on the rug, one for each direction on the compass and one for each element. “North, south, east, west. Earth, fire, wind, and water.”
“It just looks like a circle. Does it really matter where you put them?” She joins me on the floor, folding her legs under her.
“Yes. It really matters.” I glare at her and strike a long stick match. The bitter scent of sulfur tickles my throat. I light each wick, calling out each name as I go. “North, south, east, west. Earth, fire, wind, water.”
Our puggle puppies, Polly and Cass, stare at us from their beds. They don’t like fire, even if it’s from a small candle flame.
“You already said that.” Her tone sounds flat, like she’s already bored.
“Shhh. It helps organize the chant.”
Mary folds her arms. “Like you know about organizing.”
“Don’t block yourself off. It won’t work if you don’t believe.” I blow out the match. Smoke streams from the tip in a serpentine dance.
“But I don’t,” she complains.
I lean back on my heels. “You promised.”
“Ugh, all right.” She slaps her hands on her thighs.
“Good.” I shift directly opposite her and read from the book. “Take my hands and close your eyes.”
We hold hands and I chant.
“Four elements of life, I beseech you. Hear our plea.
Let our thirteenth birthday be a great assembly.”
“Is that really in the book?”
I open an eye to see Mary peering at me. “Shhh. I’m personalizing it.”
She sighs.
“Close your eyes.” I continue.
“Four elements of life, it is our wish, it is our plea,
That our birthday planning stays under lock and key.
Four elements of life, it is our wish, it is our plea,
That our birthday is filled with magic and revelry!”
“Now, say it with me.” I squeeze Mary’s hands.
“I don’t remember what you said.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shrugs. “What?”
I let go of her hands, snatch a notepad and pen from the desk drawer, and scribble the chant. I pass the paper to her. It smells like bubble gum.
“Gee, thanks.” She holds it by the corner. Her eyes scan the page. “Your handwriting is terrible.”
I frown. “We can’t be fighting while we do this. Something might go wrong.”
She throws up her hands. “Oh, great. Now you’re telling me something bad will happen. You shouldn’t mess with this stuff anyway. It’s dangerous.” Her mouth puckers.
“How can you be afraid of it if you don’t think it’s real?” I resist the urge to fold my own arms.
She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “Just get on with it, okay?”
“Say the spell with me. Repeat it three times, that’s all.” I hold out my hands and give an encouraging smile.
Her hands are cold and clammy, though the room is warm.
We close our eyes and chant the spell. At the end of the third round, I open my eyes and let out a long breath. “Wasn’t so bad, right?”
“Yeah.” Mary nods. She rubs her hands together. “So, is that it?”
“I—”
The room goes ice cold. The beds, desk, chair, light fixtures, everything starts shaking. Our cell phones ring and the alarm clock buzzes. A gust of wind whips our hair into knots and sends a stack of loose papers swirling in circles. The candles blow out, darkening the room. Cass and Polly howl and dash under Mary’s bed.
“Oh, crap, we did something wrong.” Mary’s voice tremors with fear. She dives for the floor.
“Ack!” A paperback novel swoops for my head. I duck. It ricochets off my mattress and slides toward Cass. She leaps in the air, smashing into the box spring above him. Polly barks at her, then the book.
“Stop it, Anne!” Mary swats an airborne sweater before it wraps around her face to smother her.
“I don’t know how.” I grab her arm and drag her toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”
We huddle by the door and Mary keeps watch for random projectiles while I jiggle the handle.
“It’s locked.” I twist and twist, but the thing won’t turn.
By now, the swirling wind, wonky electronics, and yelping dogs have fried my brain. I can’t think beyond, please stop, please stop, please stop.
“Anne? Mary? Knock off that racket. I need to concentrate.” Mom’s bellowing voice is louder than the commotion in our room. “I mean it. Don’t make me come up there.”
What’s worse, a poltergeist or Mom?
I stand and put my hands up. “Four elements of life, hear our plea. Stop destroying our room, I beseech thee!”
The chaos intensifies. The dogs go crazy. Mary cries.
“Stop it, stop it, stop it!” I slam my fists against my thighs.
The wind stops. Everything falls to the floor as gravity once again takes over. Our phones stop ringing. The alarm clock dies.
I smooth my tangled hair—like it’s possible—and try to catch my breath. Mary is still whimpering by the door. I kneel next to her. “It’s okay. It’s over.”
She gulps. “We’re never doing anything like that again.”
Author Laura Diamond--Lucid Dreamer 