We lie best when we lie to ourselves.
It, Stephen King
We lie best when we lie to ourselves.
It, Stephen King
What if you could do it all?
What if you could raise mountains out of coal drawings?
What if you could fly to the moon?
What if you could turn water to fire?
What if you could do it all and even more?
What would you do?
He was healthier than the rest of us, but when you listened with the stethoscope you could hear the tears bubbling inside his heart.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The night was falling heavy on their little village. The Magician could not remember when the last time this occurred was. Excited about the magical event he decided to spend the night on his rooftop, along with his equipment and take notes on his book of magnificent observations.
What a day to be alive. According to his data the night was weighing 40 kilograms today, and if that was true, then they had a new world record. He could not wait to go to the Mage’s Guild tomorrow. The middle aged man could see with the eyes of his fantasy his colleagues. Glad with in their long robes of different colors, they would make the golden hall look like it was lit up by a rainbow. He would ring the bell on top of the podium and with a suave flick of his wand, he would start the presentation.
“The night was heavy…” would be his first words. Or maybe not. He had to find an opening phrase that enabled him to show off but not come across as unprofessional. He tried to work on his presentation, but excitement led him to the day his won the Nobelisius Prize in Magic and all the glory it would be bestowed on him and his descendants.
The Magician’s fantasy of a dinner consisted of salmon and attended by the most disguised men of his field, was interrupted by a noise in the backyard. Damn you! He thought annoyed. He was about to get funding for researching spells for avoiding flying water balloons. The cat, Mr Kippis, must have been playing around again. He had specifically told him that he was not allowed outside at night; maybe a passing troll would eat him. The cat of course gave him the middle finger and went on and on for about half an hour of how cats now days were oppressed by magical families.
With a sigh the Magician climbed down the ladder to check on Mr Kippis. A softer thud reached him again. Maybe a troll was indeed trying to eat the cat. For a moment he considered the possibility of letting the cat been eaten, but then he decided against it. His daughter would be mad at him.
Slowly he moved from the front of the house to the backyard, thinking of a good remark to tell to the cat. But it was not Mr Kippis who found lurking in his back yard, but a man dressed in black. Despite the warmth of the night he was wearing a black hat. The noises came from his efforts to open the kitchen door, that thankfully had locked himself a couple of hours ago.
With range bottling inside him the Magician lifted his wand and casted the first spell that came to his mind. The burglar (because what else could he be?) turned to a grasshopper in a cloud of blue light and red glitter.
Triumphully, he picked the grasshopper from the ground. The grasshopper tried to escape but the Magician pulled its little black hat over his antennas. Unable to see or sense anything of its surrounding, the insect-burglar stopped moving.
Once inside the house, the Magician flipped open the lights and shouted for his wife and daughter. “Pumpkins!” he yelled “Come down”.
“What is wrong darling?” his wife yawing from the kitchen door.
“I got a burglar!” he showed her the grasshopper in his hands. “He tried to open the kitchen door and I transfigured him to a grasshopper” finished his narration with pride in his voice.
His teen daughter joined them at that point. Mr Kippis trailed in the kitchen behind her. The cat looked amused and his whiskers moved with silent laughter. His daughter on the other hand looked puzzled at first, but then angered was evident on her face. With a sudden movement she grabbed his arm.
“What have you done?” she shouted while snatching the grasshopper away. She tacked it carefully in her hands. “Turn him back how he was”.
“No!” he protested. ‘He tried to break into our house and we will turn him to police”.
“He did not! Why would Dan try to break into our house?”
“Because he is a burglar”.
“Dan is not a burglar. He is training to be a Knight.” She explained to her father.
“Why would a Knight try to break into our place?” asked the Magician perplexed. His wife rolled her eyes and the annoying cat was laughing on top of the kitchen counter.
“He is my boyfriend, dad” told him with fury his young girl. “Now turn him back to normal or I will turn you to a frog and let Mr Kippis play with you
There had never been a death more foretold.
Chronicle of a death foretold, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Let me see you stripped down to the bone.
Let me see you make decisions without your television.
Once the bombs went off, everyone knew. It was not the sound of the blast, or the crashing of the buildings. Not even the horrific screams of the people with crashed bones and melted faces alerted the rest. The thing that made everyone aware of the beginning of apocalypse was television.
The few people that lived back at that time, that now were old and wrinkled and weak on their knees, loved to talk of all the technological advances they had at their disposal, especially of television. How beautiful were its colours and sounds. People had the privilege to enjoy cultures and wonders of the world without moving a hair’s length from their couches. According to my grandfather though, the most astonishing feature of television (or TV in short) was the news broadcast. You could learn about everyone’s gossips, politics, music, wars and scientific advancements right at the moment they happened.
Hearing this narration the first thing that comes to your mind is that our grandparents learned of the catastrophe through the news broadcast at the TV. The TV would be bustling with urgent noise, showing flashing images of suffering people and dead civilizations. The horror of the moment would be covered by a reporter for everyone to realise its full significance while sitting on a sofa.
However, it was not like that. What happened was that the magnificent machine went silent. No images invaded their homes, no sounds either. TV went blank. Then people realised that more of the sounds that were part of their lives since they were small, have been silent as well. No low humming of the refrigerator, not the sound of boiling water or the noise of the washing machine. Everything had been silent.
Me and the rest of my generation cannot fathom how that must have felt, being cut from the reality you knew, being disconnected from the world. After all we have been raised without knowing what was beyond the ruins our community lived in and our only news of the rest of world were the few pieces the brave and foolish wanderers of the wilds told us. But our grandfathers still got the same horror in their eyes when they thought of the day humanity’s destiny have been altered forever. The most horrific part of it all, according to my grandfather, was still not knowing who caused all this, because there was no way to get the news anymore.
AN: The first two lines are lyrics of the song Stripped from Depeche Mode.
Before she obtained her weapons, she would have never been able to imagine what she could do with them. Once a pen and a paper were in front of her she was capable of everything.
Dragons would crawl out of the tip of her pen and mountains of ink and words would feel the page. She would let her imagination run wild and conjure up castles, prisons and give flesh to happy faces.
Did she dream of clouds made out of marshmallows and flying chocolates? It was done.
Did she dream of a princess in high heels humiliating a prince wearing pink skirts? It was done.
Did she dream of bony witches slowing draining the blood out of young animals? It was done with a stroke of her pen.
Whatever she could ever dream or think of, it could be turned into reality. All she needed was a pen and paper.