Bloom

by Delilah S. Dawson

The modern world is severely lacking in magic, and those who crave it are at a constant disadvantage because they are desperate and it’s in short supply. Some places—amusement parks, country fairs, museums, old bookstores—can temporarily fill the void, but there will always be people who check every armoire for a door to Narnia, every rabbit hole for a road to Wonderland.

I feel like a balloon bobbing about along the ground. Untethered. There’s something in social media that provides a lifeline, even if it comes with a heaping helping of anhedonia.”

“It started with Shel Silverstein and advanced at a troubling pace. My mom threw her back out for the first time helping me carry my haul of library books. I always preferred books to other children. People are difficult—they don’t always tell the truth, much less know the truth—but books are honest.”

Why hide weird, she has always assumed, since it’s going to come out sooner or later?

There is a gravity to this—to them—that she hasn’t experienced before. A realness, a vulnerability, a…question. With guys, there was an unspoken understanding that they were out for sex and would push and needle and nudge for every inch of skin they could conquer. Even the shy ones, even the sweet ones, wanted something of her that she wasn’t always willing to give but knew was expected of her. It was like constantly ceding land to a country with a more powerful army. She always knew she would be left with less than she originally possessed.

She misses Ash with a physical ache, as if there is a long, long rope tying them together, a hook tugging at her ribcage.

Perhaps she told herself she could live without Ash, but that doesn’t mean she wants to. Every writer, after all, needs a muse.