There’s a story to be told here, you know. You’re sure of it. That student there, with the heavy backpack and the very tired eyes, maybe it’s xir story, and it’ll be your job to suss it out.

Maybe. Not sure yet. Xe could just be tired.

See here’s the thing about people like you, you don’t get to have stories, only tell them. Watching and waiting until a hero passes you by (if you’re lucky) or maybe the worlds next monster (if you’re not).

The problem is picking out which is which, who’s who, what stories are worth telling.

(Not yours, apperently)

Hey there, star child. Are you listening?

Pay attention. You’re the result of a supernova, star child.  There’s cosmic death writ into your bones. You cannot escape that part of yourself.

You love. You love so deeply it aches. There’s a being of the void in your bed, and you should have never trusted xir. But you love.

Are you listening? Hey, star child. Stop ignoring me- dammit, no, let the void being sleep. I’m trying to talk to you. Hey. Hey. God. You’re so frustrating I have a point-

“We think of ourselves as endless,” says the void-born god “As immortal.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Anything can be unmade if you cut it thin enough.” xir voice is as empty as the vacuum xe lives in “There are things much worse than death, on the precipice of existence.”

Breathe in. Exhale. Breathe.

Are you in here? Are you thinking? Hello, witchling. Breathe.

Do you feel the rain? Do you feel the lightning? There is thunder behind your eyes.

Do you know what this is? Do you know where you are? Hello witchling. Hello.

This is the cry of a newborn babe, left by a rivers bed. This is the screaming of a thousand cicadas at night. This is the endless expanse of the night sky on a dark moon. This isn’t magick. Do you know where you are?

Breathe, witchling. I am not here to harm you.

The cougar kills the deer. The moose tramples the coyote. I am here, offering you a hand. Do you know where you are?

Coil the yarn. Snip the string. Pour the wax into a candle mold. Move your hands, witchling. Breathe.

Hello witchling. Do you know where you are? Do you remember?

This is the dark of a mothers womb. This is the warmth of the heart of a star. The cold expanse of a melting tundra. This is the end. This is the beginning.

Set aside your knitting, put away your paintbrush. Look. This is the un-made, the forever end. This is not magick.

Why did you wander here, witchling? How did you find your way here? No- eyes on me. There is no way to leave this place. You have walked too far.

The chicks follow the duck. The cat eats the pigeon. You are not preparing dinner; you are here, at every beginning and at every end. This is not a magick place.

Come with me.

Breathe. Feel the air in your lungs. Feel the feathers under your skin. You are star-dust and cosmic grit. Inhale. Exhale.

You are the wind in the lungs of young lovers. You are the dirt through which green things grow. You are the sounds of a thousand crickets chirping in the darkness. Inhale. Exhale.

This is magick, witchling. Inhale. Breathe in the pattern of a thousand knitted hats. Breathe out the pain of a thousand embroidery needle pokes. This is magick, this is Craft. This is the art passed from a thousand witches to a thousand children.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Feel the sunlight on your burned skin. Feel the rain drip on sodden hope. There is kindness here. There is pain. There is balance. There is focus.

There is me, and there is you. Inhale. Exhale.

The softness of a wolf’s fur. The gaze of a gecko’s eye. The sound of a heart ceasing to beat. This is magick. This is you.

There is an infinite amount of space below you- the ground is no longer solid, but vaporous, full of stars. You balance on a self made shelf of magick and space dust; smile at the people you speak to. They know naught of the realities fragile breaking- you are alone.

(You are never alone)

(someone is watching you)

(You can feel their greedy eyes)

(they are taking the ground away, the air away, the sky away)

(You must build your own world to stand on)

There are only a few rules to this game. The first is: Never. Ever. Talk about it.

There’s demons in the sewers calling out to cats and lost children, mermaids swimming in muck with song like grief and hatred, angels over by the bus stations offering peace to the ill and eating the fever warmed marrow.

There are those who can see, the young and curious and old and unlucky, those who know, but you must never talk about it.

The second rule is: There are a lot of things worse than death. Be ready to get it over with if one of those things turns it’s eyes on you.

It’s not as fancy as war spies with their false teeth- knives hidden in the folds of your jeans or a syringe of contaminate drugs in the lining of your bra will do just as well, really. It’s better. And if you’re in the know, you should be beyond fear, anyway.

The third is: that kid over on fifth street should not exist.