Dance of Magicks

         It all began when someone left the window open. The coolest, most gentle of breezes blew across Christie’s face, waking her. In the morning light she dressed, shadowed by the rippling white drapes of the window. White doves soared on the walls of the third-floor bedroom like angels in a baby blue heaven.

         Once the room belonged to a child named Anne, now Christie and two others of her kind inhabited the plain 32nd street apartment. Nothing changed about this one room when they took residence here, three years past. Something in this room brought Christie to life: the breeze on her skin, the sun in her eyes, and the doves hovering about her.

         The air carried with it a soft tune drawing Christie to the window. The strums of an old lyre met her there as it had centuries ago in an ancient world. That world lost itself to history books and stories long before. Only beings such as Christie recall it now.

         From the third floor window Christie still recognized the sounds of individual footsteps on the concrete, the coughing of lung polluted men and women, and all the other quieter noises of the bustling city. She let the noises fall away from her, one by one, until only the instrument rang in her ears. The song flowed through her.

         Her body became one with the song it bent, it drifted, and it fell like a rainstorm in thriving springtime. Two tan less feet glided across the carpet toes bare to its cream colored softness. The first inklings of magick trickled into Christie, giving life to her step.

         The music played louder: not for all the people on the street, not for the beggar playing, pleading with dark eyes, no, not for them. The song came alive for her. She spun, mind dancing, and a small beating began in her mind accompanying the song. She hopped to it, heat rising in her body. The white of her skin became the white of winter. Her body glowed a brilliant color, much like fallen snow. Light glittered rainbows on her skin.

         Christie, Christiala of the fey, reached out to the magick surrounding her. She opened her mouth and her palms, hands outstretched, beckoning the power. The sensation ran wild throughout her, caressing with a sweet, loving hand. She let it spill into herself. Like a stream it flowed, warming her skin and blood.

         Her once blue, human-like eyes, changed. The blue intensified, expanded, looking as if contacts covered her entire eyes. Then, a second color emerged from her pupil, an icy blue. The color swirled about her eyes, thick nectar in a swift ocean.

         Just as her heart began to thump loudly in her ears, the music stopped. Christiala crossed the floor to the window and looked out. Down below the beggar ceased his playing and the bustling city returned to sound in her ears. She shut the window, closing herself from the world. She released her hold on the magick, letting it trickle from her, taking back her skin’s radiance and her eyes beauty.

         Christiala bowed her head into her knees and lamented: for the song, for her past, and for all the things that still remained to be taken from her. Her heart faded quietly into her chest, and so began another day.