I may look young, but I’m really over one hundred years old.
What’s my secret?
I drink nothing but the fluid from snowglobes.
You see, they fill those things with water from The Fountain Of Youth.
That’s where the sparkle comes from.
Ambrosia. Nectar of the Gods.
Oh, sure, it looks like ordinary water.
But it’s not. It’s powerful magic.
And it’s kept me alive for over one hundred years.
Crack it open… drink right from the snowglobe, don’t pour it into a glass.
Feel the tingle. Feel the burn.
Live forever.
Just try not to choke on the snowman.
Tag: magic
Induction Core
I slice a lemon in half, open it up, and scrape out pulp with my fingernail.
It takes a long time to finish a lemon this way. Takes a lot of patience to do it.
Every few tries, the pulp bursts and sprays.
Slowly. Patiently.
A delicate touch helps.
I watched the old man scrape the other half of the lemon with his thumb as we watched the sun set, his eyes never leaving the horizon.
An hour later, he hands it back to me, picked clean.
“Tomorrow, bring a lime,” he says, and he walks back into the shadows.
Potion of Sleep
You’ve got troubles, I’ve got troubles, we’ve all got troubles.
Tell me your troubles, and I’ll make you a potion for them.
Got a cut? Got a scrape?
Pour this on it.
Losing your hair?
Rub a little of this one on your head. (And be sure to wear gloves. Trust me on this.)
Love? Pain? Joy?
This one’s special: sleep and death.
Just depends how much you take.
Careful, kid.
I got ’em all in these bottles, every color, every flavor.
Sip this, rub that, some drops in your eyes.
Give me your arm, this won’t hurt a bit.
The Dead Bird
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I’ve had this bird for years.
Used to be pretty with bright white feathers.
One morning, I lifted the cage’s cover and it was lying there on the bottom of the cage, ugly and dead.
I was about to open the cage when I saw it twitch.
I’d seen this in the news: zombie birds.
If it hadn’t have twitched, it would have bitten off a finger or two.
I padlocked the latch to keep it from escaping.
Now, it just claws and bites at the bars of the cage, getting scrawnier and uglier over the years.
Fifty bucks? Deal.
The Arch
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I watched as the Gateway Arch came to life.
It pulled at the anchor pads, legs straining and buckling from the effort.
People were streaming out of the emergency exits as one foot broke free and stamped at them.
A few people got crushed before the Arch pulled up its other leg from the ground.
Free at last, it roamed the city, crushing cars and buildings while news helicopters circled it.
The Arch couldn’t do much to them, being an arch without hands or laser-beam eyes.
So it rampaged on as the generals watched and said “It’s only St. Louis.”
What do we charge?
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What do we charge for a love potion?
Only ten bucks. They’re pretty cheap and easy to make, when you think about it.
Heck, the bottle costs more than the ingredients, which are just rainwater and a little salt.
This is why we try to have you drink these things in the store, or we ask that you bring the empty bottle when you want the antidote.
Why do we charge a thousand bucks for the antidote when the love potion costs only ten?
Because we can.
And based on how desperate people are, they’ll drink it out of anything.
Octoberville
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Jenny and I leave the turn-of-the-century town for the woods, watching for signs of Octoberville’s return.
It fades into existence at September’s end, and returns to the void after thirty-one days.
The buildings are worn and run-down, but comfortable.
The residents are the same, shabby but content, shambling around the paths from shack to shack.
Merchants bring food from the harvest.
“What happens when you go away?” I ask the mayor.
“Go away?” he says. “Octoberville doesn’t go away. What are you talking about?”
To them, October is all there is.
Just as to us, the century is always turning.
Scarface
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Al Capone claimed that his facial scars were a war wound, and his bodyguard would chuckle at the comment.
“What are you laughing at?” said Al, and his bodyguard went silent.
The bodyguard was the one who had slashed Al for insulting his sister.
Years later, after Al died in prison, the bodyguard went out in the streets and found a kid in a gang.
“C’mere,” he said, and he slashed the kid’s face three times.
The kid’s mouth hung open, and then a familiar sneer came over his face.
“Nice knifework,” said Al. “Got a cigar and a light?”
Cave Paintings
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I am sitting in a cave, scared.
It is cold, damp and dark.
Every Winter solstice, the sun’s rays illuminate the wall so that the figures appear to dance.
I’ve tried it with flashlights, spotlights- but it has to be sunlight on this specific day.
I say it’s a magic spell, cast by a long-dead shaman.
Light peeks in through the cave’s entrance… and then it gets darker.
I hear thunder.
Damn. Awful time for a rainstorm.
Except… there’s no rain.
It gets darker, the figures dance, and I hear chanting.
Raising my spear, recognizing faces- I rejoin my tribe.
The Candles
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When Bobby turned five, he wanted his cake decorated like that “Harry Potter” series of books he’d seen, but was too young to read or watch the movies.
“No,” his mother said.
(When you’re five, you don’t take no for an answer.)
So, his mother made a cake with a demon made out of chocolate cookies inside an icing pentagram, a candle at each star point.
At the party, all of Bobby’s friends sang, and then he blew out the candles.
“What did you wish for?” his mother asked.
The demon on the cake opened its eyes.
“That,” grinned Bobby.