Vernacular Magic | Michelle Reale

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She lit the votive candle. Spires of red shadowed the wall. She closed her eyes, felt a surge. She drew her limp, green skirt around herself and shuddered. She felt caught between the solstice and the equinox. He watched her then stood up, touched a thick finger to a vein in her neck. He wore a gold cross that hung from a chain, nestled in the thick hair of his thin chest. He wore the dust of a long day on his clothing, eyelids. She had kaleidoscopic ideas that only needed the right time and place. On the table the bitter herbs, still with pieces of earth clinging to them; the bitter drink. His shoes, forlorn at the doorway where he abandoned them as he walked over the threshold grew in size. Her best ploy was to always be offended. His best defense calling it tradition. On paper, it all made sense.

In the real world, less was usually more.

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