This drawer is full of magic –
I have witchcraft stored here –
tangled in the twisting scents of nutmeg
and vanilla, waiting to be stirred
into life with my long spoon –
all the colours of the desert,
and a slow line of camels
making their way westward –
and I have dreams, too,
dreams that crunch through
the snow, sugar under foot,
dreams that pirouette
across the table –
dreams of gingerbread,
and the fresh scent of pine trees;
and memories – these warm
memories, fresh from the oven –
the scent of cloves on Sunday mornings,
the smell of cinnamon, crisped with sugar –
a street bazaar that scatters
cumin and coriander
through the morning air,
the hot taste of chai
as the mist rises
and the first train pulls in –
this drawer is full of magic
waiting to be set free.
Gina is tending the bar at dVerse tonight and asks us to look for the magic in ordinary things. Christmas is coming, and the spice drawer is being raided on a regular basis in our house. I’ve always liked the idea that these exotic commodities manage to make their way to my muddy corner of Devon, bringing the sunshine with them.
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.