Practically Magic

Now, this would be a pleasure to burn. 

The thought seeps in midway through the final page. Garbage. No wonder this keeps getting rejected. Four years of my life and … rubbish! Ohh, I’m a writer—read my little story. 

What a flipping joke. Should’ve been a rockstar—probably easier. I’ll take this godforsaken manuscript downstairs, strike a match, and kill the misery. Enough.  

I snatch up the stack of paper refuse and dash toward the stairs, ready to get this reminder of wasted time gone. I see the pen at the exact same time my foot rolls across it on the first step. Just like that, I’m flipping head over feet, a whirlwind of word vomit on sacrificed wood fiber all around me. 

No life flashes here. All I see is next week’s newspaper headline running through my head: “Wannabe Author Meets Untimely Death, Pen to Blame” 

Perfect. 

***

It’s suddenly so bright, blinding bright. Where am I?

“What light through yonder window breaks?” someone shouts—wait, isn’t that Shakespeare? 

“Belt up, Willie! Can’t you speak like a normal man?” a British female quips. 

 “All that we see and seem is but a dream within—”

“Really, Ed—every time? Quiet!” This voice sounds faintly familiar. Is that—my eyes open. I see thick glasses, a Red Sox cap, and no less than Mr. Stephen King in front of me. No way! 

I look around. We’re not alone. A balding man in Renaissance-style clothing sits at a small table, eying me suspiciously. An older, grey-haired lady sits in an armchair, knitting. A shadowy, thin man is crouched in the corner, holding a … is that a raven? Slowly, I realize who these people are: Shakespeare, Agatha Christie, and Poe. 

“I don’t understand—how are you here? You’re not dead ... right?” I say to King. Laughter and raven squawks erupt. 

“Neither are you, dear,” Agatha says, smiling. 

“Boundaries which divide life from death are at best shadowy and vague,” Poe mutters. 

“The bigger question is, why are you here?” King says. I reach down and pinch my arm. Just as suspected, nothing. “Apparently, I’m dead … or … dreaming?”

“All that we see—”

“Edgar, seriously?” King groans and looks back at me. “Maybe so, but you must have a question.” 

I search my brain. What do I ask? Do I only get one question? Then the words spill out, involuntarily. “What am I doing wrong? My story—there’s no spark. No magic.”

“All humans are storytellers. No magic in that, my dear,” Agatha offers.  

“She’s right. BUT, books are a uniquely portable magic,” King says, grinning slyly. I immediately recognize the quote, the same one that’s been on my office wall so long the edges of the faded poster are curled.

“Pfft. Mine’s definitely not magic,” I scoff. “My manuscript’s been rejected six times already. The more I tweak it, the more it looks like fire tinder and nothing more.”

“NEVERMORE,” quoteth the raven, apparently. 

“O, slow-wing’d turtle, shall a buzzard take thee?” William announces, now standing on his chair. Geez, dramatic much. 

“Well … let’s see. How do I say this?” King rubs his chin. “Got it. Look at us, what do you see?”

“I see great writers, three of whom are dead.” What does he expect me to say? I’m confused. 

King laughs. “Sure, OK,” he says. “But mostly we’re just a bunch of oddball storytellers. You’ve got Willie back there, he literally dramatizes every word. Agatha, her characters are predictable, shallow even—stories a bit tame. Sorry, Aggie.” Agatha pokes her tongue out, still knitting. “Don’t even get me started on Ed—he’s got a thing for dead girls. Me? I’m just a little, well, twisted.”

I chuckle, but I’m still confused. “I don’t get it. I’ve read y’all’s work. It’s incredible.” King looks around. Everyone’s strangely quiet. One by one, they give nods expressing some unspoken permission. He steps forward, pulling something from his pocket. 

“The magic’s in your hands now. Next time, sign it,” he says.

“What do you mean? How’s that going to change anything?” I shake my head, forcing a laugh. 

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” Willie proclaims, jumping to the floor. Wow, this dude needs a valium.

“William!” Agatha threatens him with the point of her knitting needle.

King reaches to shake my hand and I feel the object against my palm. I try to look at it, but the ground shifts, the room goes black, and I feel myself falling. Just when panic hits, there’s a sudden jolt, my eyes flutter open, and I’m sprawled on my back at the bottom of the stairs.

“What the actual fu—” When I feel what’s in my hand, my voice freezes. I shoot up from the floor, in spite of what feels like pressurized brain matter beating against the back of my eyes. “Impossible.” I pull my hand out in front of me. The freaking pen. 

I scramble to gather all the pages from the floor, stack them, and then, right across the top page, I sign my name. Can’t hurt, right?

***

“I don’t even know how to say this,” my agent says from across the desk, my prominently signed manuscript sitting between us. He’s more unsettled than usual—the pompous signature assuredly making rejection more awkward. Why did he even call me here for this? A quick, “Hey, just burn this,” text would’ve sufficed.

I fiddle with the pen in my pocket. I knew I was delirious. I mean, of course, I was. There’s no such thing as a magic pen for crying out loud, not to mention a random meetup with King and his three dead author friends. I squeeze the pen, hoping it snaps. Maybe a giant ink stain would be my reminder to get on with my rockstar plans.

“Yeah, well ... I’m done with this writing thing. I’ve wasted enough time,” I say, waving my hand at the manuscript between us. 

“What do you mean done? This is incredible! I was up all night. Your plot, that big twist during the climax—perfection! The characters, the foreshadowing, the pace … I literally reread the last chapter five times. Trust me, this is The One. I swear, what you’ve done here, it’s ... practically magic.”