I was thirty when the stories ran out. I had always been gifted; people would come from miles around to hear me. I had just finished a tale about a talking horse when my tongue dropped, cold and heavy like a pebble, to the floor of my mouth. I struggled to breathe. I fainted and when I woke, my voice was gone. I can play the old tales in my head but they are little more than silent movies, muted shadows of my imagination. The stories are gone forever. How am I supposed to survive in a world without them?

Author’s Note: The tradition of storytelling is ancient and I think a lot of people either take it for granted or underestimate it’s importance. We learn through stories, we entertain through them and we impart morality and wisdom through them. I was thinking about the impact on my sanity if I couldn’t share the tales my imagination cooks up. I can’t imagine I’d be too easy to live with.

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‘You promised you wouldn’t.’

‘Oops.’ Her pupils were blown. She smelled like Magic.

‘Your mother said-‘

‘Don’t.’ Her eyes flashed and bright sparks shot from her fingertips. He was playing with fire. They didn’t need another explosion; the neighbours hadn’t stopped asking questions about the last one.

‘You’re sick. You need help.’

She swayed, chuckling darkly. She could barely hold herself upright.

He was angry at her and her little army of broken promises. The woman he loved had almost faded, the emerald haze from that last hit suffocating her slowly. Another night like this and she would be gone.

Author’s Note: This piece came from a writing exercise I was given. The brief stated I had to write an argument but the theme was left open. I have a fondness for myth and magic and I wanted to see if I could create a plausible conversation around magic as addiction.

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