Moving and getting stuck
If there is such a thing as magic, why doesn’t the world know about it? We’re not in the age of burning witches anymore – the TV’s full of freaks and charlatans because people want these things to be true. If you could actually do magic the film rights alone would be worth a fortune – you wouldn’t sit in a dark room everyday like a mad professor, thinking and tinkering.
What was he doing? I can’t reconcile this room with the man who bought me Christmas presents, cooked my meals, helped out with homework, took me on holiday. It’s impossible that he went from being my dad to a man with books on demonology and necromancy.
Demonology, Angela says, is only as negative as the magician who guides and summons. Her own demon, Tomlin, was courteous and witty, with no malevolence, but a sense of duty. He was very protective towards her. Sometimes he would hide in her shadow, other times he would sit beside her and they would talk through the night. She feels as though part of her mind is missing. As though the world is quieter.
Despite what she says, out of all the types of spellbook she’s described, it’s only astral magic that sounds in any way nice. I thought natural magic sounded okay until she explained that it included the powers of mind control and physical mutation.
The books that are written in code look to be my father’s journals. Why he wrote them in code we don’t know. Angela doesn’t know as much as she likes to pretend when she tells her stories. The tree root with a black stain is a mystery to her. The glass orbs might be looking devices – she doesn’t know where they look to. The gold thing like a fishing reel might be for communicating – she doesn’t know who with. There’s a dried up piece of bark or skin she doesn’t recognise. She hasn’t heard of you.
The journals don’t have any recognisable dates, so I can’t tell when they started. If I could, I wonder if they began when my mother died. I can barely remember those days. I don’t know he changed at all after that. I don’t know why he needed to encoded it – who he was hiding the contents from. Was it from me?
There was a phone call from Miranda, asking if I wanted to go and see her this weekend. I said I’d think about it. What she thinks we’ll talk about I have no idea.
I got another call from Cobber, inviting himself over. I told him I’d rather get out of the house. Norman’s moving his things up to the attic. There are boards over the rafters up there, but it’s hardly a room. It’s full of boxes of my old toys and my mother’s clothes. He’s found a camp bed and cleared some space. I don’t know why he’s turning this into a permanent arrangement.
What was he doing? I can’t reconcile this room with the man who bought me Christmas presents, cooked my meals, helped out with homework, took me on holiday. It’s impossible that he went from being my dad to a man with books on demonology and necromancy.
Demonology, Angela says, is only as negative as the magician who guides and summons. Her own demon, Tomlin, was courteous and witty, with no malevolence, but a sense of duty. He was very protective towards her. Sometimes he would hide in her shadow, other times he would sit beside her and they would talk through the night. She feels as though part of her mind is missing. As though the world is quieter.
Despite what she says, out of all the types of spellbook she’s described, it’s only astral magic that sounds in any way nice. I thought natural magic sounded okay until she explained that it included the powers of mind control and physical mutation.
The books that are written in code look to be my father’s journals. Why he wrote them in code we don’t know. Angela doesn’t know as much as she likes to pretend when she tells her stories. The tree root with a black stain is a mystery to her. The glass orbs might be looking devices – she doesn’t know where they look to. The gold thing like a fishing reel might be for communicating – she doesn’t know who with. There’s a dried up piece of bark or skin she doesn’t recognise. She hasn’t heard of you.
The journals don’t have any recognisable dates, so I can’t tell when they started. If I could, I wonder if they began when my mother died. I can barely remember those days. I don’t know he changed at all after that. I don’t know why he needed to encoded it – who he was hiding the contents from. Was it from me?
There was a phone call from Miranda, asking if I wanted to go and see her this weekend. I said I’d think about it. What she thinks we’ll talk about I have no idea.
I got another call from Cobber, inviting himself over. I told him I’d rather get out of the house. Norman’s moving his things up to the attic. There are boards over the rafters up there, but it’s hardly a room. It’s full of boxes of my old toys and my mother’s clothes. He’s found a camp bed and cleared some space. I don’t know why he’s turning this into a permanent arrangement.
posted by The son of Edward Fold at 11:29 pm
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