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Magic Spell

I think you might know the story of the fox who lost his tail in the trap and who told all the other foxes how wonderful and stylish it was to be tail-free, until the old wise fox announced the fable’s moral — misery loves company?  I grew up on Rugby Road, I was satisfied with my mother’s roast chicken, with flirting with the little girl next door, with my father’s books, my grandmother’s piano, the profession they raised me to.  I should never have read the book on magic.  I should have never have looked in the City for someone who could explain the book on magic to me.  And I most shouldn’t have never ever have read the Magic Spell.

What the Magic Spell promised was precisely and precisely the opposite of what it delivered.  What it promised was a portal to new experiences and a life totally different from my mother’s chicken, my father’s books, the profession I was raised to, the flirting girl next door with the red-hair.  It was called The Never Satisfied Spell and you just had to say the words at night with no one listening to you, that was all.  I mean you did not have to wink with one eye or reflect the new moon in a bowl of silver or wear only white.  Just say the words.   And it would send you through a world to completely new experiences.  And it was from the grimoire of a genuine wizard, Isaac De Carlo who lived in Acco and sold ginger, five centuries ago.

I said it.  Rugby Road looked like a dull street in an outer borough of New York City.  My mother’s chicken was dry and she did not know how to use oregano.  The profession, the books, the little girl, let’s just say in all three I could do Better.

I took the subway train to Better and never looked back until I did.  Because the Never Satisfied spell, needless to say worked best and most upon itself.  What was so terribly satisfying about never being satisfied?

Lingering in the doorway of the New World of Magic I looked for the counter-spell which when I said it would cause me to wake up and look with normal eyes on the books, the chicken, Rugby Road and the girl next door who flirted and had red hair.  It was, don’t you know, the same solution as the fox had in the fable.  If I could get others to say the spell until everybody said it just as I had I would be back where I started.  I would have walked through the ultimate new door and gotten back to my little Rugby Road.  But everybody would live there — and if everybody lives in your house or at most down the street, who would need to take the subway to the City?  The City would be in your own living room — maybe built out of blocks but capable of overwhelming you all the same.

Here it is:

Tiffy taffy

Spiffy spuffy

Shumma dumma

Zow

Imlo-t’bimlo

Yakitori

Emretenaktanatapatana

Ow

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5 thoughts on “Magic Spell

  1. The thing is, what if you were already under the effects of a spell to begin with? In fact, what you’d cast was more a counter spell?

    And ‘do better’ really just meant not to be kept by a system like a pet is kept by its master?

      • Yeah, I mean the proffesion, the chicken, the girl – these were all decided by someone else. Ones own capacities and decisions had no effect on it.

        Of course with a booming human population, what places aren’t decided by someone elses decisions? And who’s really gunna go and live like a mountain man to go to a place where their own capacity and decisions decides their life?

        So possibly the ‘could do better’ is a malaise of modern life.

  2. Mikey says:

    This is the story of Adam and Eve eating the forbidden fruit, right? You gained the knowledge of good and evil. Was it worth it?

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