A Spark of Magic: Magical Short Stories, #3

A Brief Introduction from the Author

Magic defies space and transcends time. These stories reach into the past, open up the present, and imagine the future.

Magicians, peep show dancers, lonely men, lost girls, and Death Herself walk through these magical tales.

Every single story in this collection comes from my wishes for a more magical world. These stories evoke the longing of a broken heart, a whispered prayer, a candle lit, a heartfelt wish, and the sort of retribution sometimes only magic brings.

And we all know, that life without magic is a life without wonder.

Here’s a collection of five stories, all written with the support of my amazing Patreon friends. Some of these short tales have appeared in other collections, some not, but nonetheless these five stories all wanted to live together beneath one cover.

So here they are: past, present, and future.

I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I enjoyed writing them.

Make a wish.

T. Thorn Coyle

Portland, Oregon

2020

1

The Magic Around Her

a Ron McGee Magical Association Story

The day she walked into the bar, I was hurting. And I had been, for a very long time…

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in Pasadena. The bar was only half full because Terry was working the barbecue, drawing people to the tiny concrete patio out back. The men wore straw trilbies to shade their eyes, and light shirts to ward off the heat.

The women? They stayed in the bar, in the cooler shadows, sundresses fanned around their pretty dark legs.

The front and back doors were both open to the late afternoon summer sun, casting wedges of golden light on the scarred wood floors, shimmering across pristine bottles on the shelves at the back of the wood bar. There was no mirror there, but I swear Johnson had eyes on the back of his head if trouble walked through the door.

I’d been outside earlier, sipping on a beer, waiting for my late lunch to be done cooking. A few of the usuals were in the house, the ones I hung out with, playing cards, catching the occasional show. Bill. Jones. Carmine. Louis. Were they friends? I think so. Did I really know them? Not so much.

Didn’t really know anybody much these days.

The men’s voices rumbled and rose as the cards snapped onto the round wood table where a game was in progress. They were likely warming up with a friendly round of gin rummy.

Everyone else must have taken the Big Red Cars to the beach. Or they were working, like I should be. Instead, I was sitting at on the burgundy leatherette bar stool permanently dented by my muscled posterior, down near the end of the long sweep of mahogany bar.

My brown fedora took up the barstool next to me.

The low murmur of voices from couples at some of the two tops was punctuated by the sharp laughter and muffled swearing from my four friends.

Usually I would be with the game. Not today, though. My heart just wasn’t in it. I’d declined the invitation, once I’d gotten my barbecue, and taken some teasing about my dark moods.

Today, my mind was full, and my belly? I was stuffing it, too. Stuffing away regret along with barbecued pork. If I wasn’t careful, my six-two frame was going to fill out around the middle in ways that would just slow me down.

I didn’t need to slow down any more than I was these days.

The brand new Filben Maestro clicked and whirred, long arm grabbing another black disc from its stack of 78s. Dinah Washington started crooning. Johnson was so proud the day the delivery men hauled that jukebox into place, he’d bought everyone in the house a beer.

My fingers sticky with tangy sauce, I made short work of the pile of pork ribs that were always cooking on sunny weekends outside this tidy joint in the old part of Pasadena.

The thin paper napkins weren’t quite up to the job, but I wasn’t willing to leave my bourbon in order to go wash my hands.

Johnson was filling a pint glass from the tap. He occasionally glanced at me, like he was worried about something. I hoped it wasn’t me. Bartenders shouldn’t worry about their customers, even regulars. But Johnson and I had been friends ever since I walked through the front door of his bar six years ago, asking if he’d ordered two kegs or just one.

These days, I was a paperhound, writing columns and news for the Pasadena Voice, the local black rag that kept up on community gossip, music, police reports, and sometimes, actual news. The kind of news the LA Times didn’t care to report.

There was a concert I was planning to take in later. Our Arts reporter was out of town and all the odd jobs still fell to me. I didn’t much mind. A concert would keep me away from my bed. Away from the nightmares dogging my brain with images I couldn’t quite decipher, but could feel to the marrow of my bones.

I was trying a third round with the crappy napkins, shredding them over my fingers as they caught on Terry’s special sauce, when a shadow cut through the oblongs of sunlight coming through the door. All I could see at first was her shape: substantial thighs wrapped in a slim skirt, long legs, sharp padded shoulders, and a hat perched on waves of hair.

I could also tell that she was radiating power. The kind of power most people only notice as a sort of charisma. They know they’re drawn in or repelled, but they can’t quite tell you why. It has nothing to do with looks, or how much cash and flash a man has, and everything to do with magic.

Shit.

As she entered, I could see she wore a navy suit that skimmed her impressive figure, cupping those thick thighs and a little mound of belly before nipping in at the waist and tapering out again to skim her breasts. Gold-plated brooch on one lapel. Red pillbox at an angle on those dark, dark, waves of hair. It matched the red of her T-strap shoes.

Her skin was deep, with rich undertones picked up by that hat, and by the red stain that traced her round lips.

She glanced around the bar, not like she was looking for anybody, just assessing. Then she walked right toward me.

Her heels struck the wood floors like castanets. I wished I had clean hands.

Mr. McGee? Her voice was like honey pouring over gravel.

Swiping at my mouth and hands with yet another napkin, I shoved the stool back and stood. She was smaller than I’d thought at first, but she still loomed large. The magic crackled around her, and once again I wondered how the hell nobody saw it.

And I wondered where she came from.

She held out her hand.

I gestured toward the basket of pork bones with my sticky hands, fingers splayed in explanation. Her red mouth quirked up to the left.

I’ll wait.

Okay. An order to go wash my hands. I didn’t usually take orders from anyone, but my momma taught me not to be rude, either. Besides, I wasn’t sure yet that this woman couldn’t fry me where I stood.

In