1 A.M. Sessions: Snicker

Sometimes I'm awake early in the morning. Sometimes, in the strange in-between of hysterical laughter and exhaustion, I write. These are the a.m. sessions.

The Self-Esteem of Magic

Everyone knew a little magic once. In the old days, the times you've only read about in books, magic was a way of life. It was as vital as air. Magic hummed through the blood of the people, it sang through the streets. Once there wasn't a soul who didn't know the difference between a binding and a warding, who couldn't name Belthazar's Pentacle on sight.

Now magic is forgotten. Not lost, merely misplaced. For it lingers still in the cracks of the world, the in-between places, the neverwheres, the dissonant seconds between dreaming and waking, or even in the shift of dream to nightmare.

Don't think magic sad. It isn't-- magic never pulls a long face when the children of the earth look past it. Rather, magic simply snickers, and moves on.