We’re fresh out of magic –
used it heedlessly,
thinking there’d be more –
frittered it away
on ball gowns, slippers,
golden apples –
now we need it –
just a pinch
would be enough,
but look –
the jar is empty
and the world is dark.
Linda is hosting at dVerse tonight, and the quadrille word is “magic”.
Maddie approached the stick, fascinated. It had just been left, jutting out of a snow drift, glowing softly – as if it wanted to be noticed. She picked it up and shook it.
Snow started to fall, gently at first, then faster – snowflakes whirling under the street lights. Maddie laughed, delighted. She waved the stick like a conductor’s baton, wanting more snow, but it stopped almost immediately.
She shook the stick again: snow. Waved it: no snow.
She tried over and over again. It worked every time.
Maddie grinned. She was going to have a lot of fun with this…
Photo prompt by Dale Rogerson. 100 words of flash fiction For Rochelle, at Friday Fictioneers.
The old magic
carried the scent of herbs,
and woodsmoke. It furled
pale fingers round
distant hearts, coiled
its shimmering length
round lovers, twined
breath and death, into
This new magic
shines and glistens,
pings and tings,
snaps. It moves fast,
fizzing blue lights –
it slings itself
around the globe,
whirring into space.
We gaze, jaw-dropped,
reaching out our monkey paws,
touching the shiny,
discarding that old
smell haunted stuff,
that lizard brain stuff,
that visceral, polysensual stuff,
stretching our brains
into new conformations,
feeding our eyes
and yet, that old magic
lingers, in a whiff of
of rose, that waft of something
that takes you back
to your mother’s mirror,
a kitchen somewhere.
We are earth
we are electric
we are atomic
we are the magic.
For Paul Scribbles, at dVerse, who is asking for something magical tonight…
The wild hare
“Show me your magic” said I to the hare
Crouching before me, wild and strong and free –
She turned and was away before I reached her –
Why should she stay and show herself to me?
The rabbit is a soft, domestic thing,
The crow brings death, the fox, they say’s a liar,
The lark calls up the summer and the spring
But the wild hare runs towards the fire.
We make a story up for every creature
We give them tales we’re not prepared to own.
We turn a moral out of every feature,
Forget that we, and they, are flesh and bone.
They say the hare’s a witch. I think it’s true:
I’ve seen the grey hare leaping to the moon.