Day Two: Thoughts on Magic

This is more like it.

 No time this morning to summarize Fred's pre-exercise meditation, but here's a direct quote:
"Magic in varying degrees is elemental to all art. As writers, we ought to think about the ways in which magic might manifest itself into our fiction and poetry. Magic is not incompatible with reality; in fact, magic (say, in the form of strange discoveries, rare natural phenomena, serendipitous encounters) can add spice and wonder to reality.

Try this:
Compose a story steeped in gritty reality--a homeless person struggling to survive in Boston or Montreal during the winter, let's say. Inject an element of magic into that grim scenario. For example, have your homeless character discover, quite by accident, that she has the ability to predict which stocks are going to rise and fall the next day.

My note to self and those of you doing this with me: Remember to moodle and make it fun. The "story" can be a paragraph long, something that makes sense only to you, a draft, whatever. I'm not committed to finishing it, but I am committed to trying.


Later   

CO2

by Laurie Guerin

            Agreeing to carpool with Ross Birkman, Executone’s Top Sales Representative for not four, not five, but six—count ‘em!—six years running, had been a mistake. Seconds after closing the passenger door he starts lobbing phrases like: “Relationship building” and “Niche Market” and slogans such as: “Redefine the word no” and “Plan your work and work your plan”

            “You know, Cassie, anyone can sell and I don’t care what your product is but you need to care. You need to believe in whatever it is you’re selling, whether it’s a bottle of water, or a private plane. And if you have even the slightest doubt about whether or not your product is triple-A-number-one, you better find a way to turn that doubt into …clout. Haha! I just thought of that!” He pulls a memo pad from his coat pocket, clicks open his pen. “Sometimes these things just come to me.” He jots something on the pad, shakes his head before tucking it back into his pocket. “Turn that doubt into clout, or the customer will smell it on you. Now, do I believe that Exectone systems are the best in the world?  No. Do my clients know that? Not on your life.” He pauses, a satisfied smile on his face and takes a sip of coffee.  

            “Right,” Cassie says, easing her car onto the bridge. “Must be tough, though. Hiding that from them. I mean if…”

            “Not tough at all. Know why?” He doesn’t pause. “Because I know better than they do what’s best for them. And that right there is what I’m really selling. Now, they don’t know that. No one knows that but me…and well, now you, Haha! What they know is…”

            And he keeps going. Droning on and on in his nasal, monotone. Pausing every so often to scribble something down, or search for the perfect word. Cassie’s sure that the reason he’s top sales rep for six years running is because people buy what he’s selling to shut him the fuck up.

            “You show me a man and I’ll show you someone who’s got a need. It’s up to me to make him aware of that. Take the last call I made…”

            Cassie resists the urge to floor it and make a sharp left, send the car sailing off of the bridge into the Listerine blue water. Lately more than ever, she finds herself in situations where she feels trapped. Her marriage, her job at the school - even during lunch with girlfriends.  And now, in the car with Ross. Why had she agreed to it? Not once in the two months they’d been neighbors had she enjoyed a conversation with him. In fact, after their first meeting she had dodged him in the grocery store, darting from aisle to aisle like a cartoon spy.

            It was her husband, Brian and all of his talk about minimizing their carbon footprint that lead to this moment. This moment of Cassie being exposed to toxic levels of C02 with every word Ross emits.

            “Tell me, Cassie,” Ross says as they come to a stop at a red light. “What is it that you need?” Cassie has the physical sensation of her skin actually tightening, her lungs shrinking. She takes a deep breath and turns toward Ross. Instead of answering, she purses her lips together and exhales in the most peculiar way. Not a long, steady stream of air, but a burst, a puff a gust directed right at Ross. And here’s what happens:

Ross disappears.

He doesn’t leave of his own accord. He doesn’t fade away.  He vanishes. Like the flame on a birthday candle once you’ve made your wish. 

Poof.