He wondered if she tired of waiting, delaying what she knew her fate and inevitable destiny; and so he asked.
Before the flame in whitewashed heart, form and column made of brick, antlered skull upon the hearth in symbol-sign of crooked way, he asked, “Are you ready to make your magic?”
She was an artist—writer, creator, and dreamer. She was born of a magic line and within her blood was strong though she hid behind a life of normalcy and fronts. But there were nights she didn’t sleep, saw visions not of dream, and the spirit of her line arose a restlessness in hers; and when it did, her spirit would not quell, present awakened to her pasts.
Even in veil and guise of normalcy, there shone from such signs that others could not help but see: her penchant for pointed boots she believed of draw for fashion and style but were perhaps of other source, her love for candles—black and white and long-stemmed red in choose and illume of her nature-spirit in their burn; the last, her favorite, in seduction’s romance-flame; her love for fires, woods, and solitude—secret places in the trees—and for stories told and written, made of enchanting words.
Iridescence of her skin, fair and white; translucent, almost, at times as angel, ghost, or whole-spirit being; its tan-mask in summer’s touch. The change of her lips in paint of rouge, fine lined delicate to luscious full in spell of sensual-hue.
All were signs she lived and shone, that others could not help but know, and she believed they couldn’t see.
She was of a magic line. Her blood was waking, alive again—histories restored in present. Paling of the summer mask, in brick hearth-flame, she lit—iridescent once again. Translucence, he saw through into the magic that she hid.
“You are a creator, a writer, an artist. Why do you wait? Why don’t you make your magic? Why do you wait?”
Shiver of sense in mirrored of air, as she noticed often came in happen-living of the way, wind emboldening the flame as fire climbed into the stack, speaking in voice of a deep-wind bellows.
Fire’s tingle in her flesh, over arms and legs and sides, awakening over front—all of her in feel—magic blood and line alive. Light’s catch on pointed toe of polished black, way of light she’d never seen.
All of her snd world were changing, becoming, into magic and her fate.