I Don't Usually Dream... BuT wHeN i Do

Black Magic

Around me, I feel a familiar environment. My feet continue trotting along the sidewalk as I observe the blue sky and luscious, green grass. I am in a standard suburban development; though, it is one I seem to recognize. On my right, I begin to approach a driveway with an intriguing cardboard box on it. As I get closer, I observe its contents. It appears to be strewn with a few figures of varying origins; there are a few special figurines next to the box. Some are basic hero figurines; others are small, gothic tchotchkes. There are no markings on the box to signify whether these are for sale or even free to take. I am too anxious to go to the door to ask.

A man walks behind me, slowing for a second to peer into the box.

"This guy has an original," he scoffs. "Haven't seen one of those in a while." He continues walking away.

Though, as he walks away, another woman approaches. Her style reminds me of a mother who is super into classic rock and hair metal. She crouches next to me and picks up one of the items in the box.

"Wow, look at this. Isn't it gorgeous?" She shows me the item. In her hand laid a pale turquoise stone that was roughly shaped like a heart or perhaps a dolphin from a certain angle. It was surrounded in what resembled a black nest of frayed yarn. Though the piece itself was entirely solid, it appeared deceivingly light and malleable. "I think I'm gonna go up to the door and ask how much they want for it."

I felt my soul heave for a second as I considered the owner would know I was looking at their stuff. Though, I remembered the sense of intrigue I felt and followed her to the door. Worst case scenario, they yell at us to leave. At least she is taking the initiative.

The man who answered the door was likely nothing I expected. He seemed young and slightly grungy. He had cool-brown hair that slightly tufted out of his dark beanie. His pale and lanky stature seemed to tower over me despite being roughly average height. He sported very unsaturated colors with an oversized t-shirt and dark jeans. Had I not assumed better, I would have thought him to be a heroine junky.

"I see you're looking at the figures," he said, smiling at the lady beside me. "Any of them particularly intriguing to you?"

"Yes, how much would you like for the turquoise stone? I can offer you five dollars for it," rocker-mom says.

"Sure, sure. That'll do."

Gracefully, he steps out of the doorway and strides to the box. The woman follows him with her money pinched between her thumb and forefinger. He bends over, tossing all of the figures in the box and scooping it up in his arms. He walks back up the driveway with the box, setting it on a white folding table behind his vehicle.

"I like that one," the woman says, pointing at the aforementioned figurine and handing him her money.

"Ah, but that's not how this works," he explains. "You must select your object by fate."

He turns and wanders shallowly into his garage, retrieving a peculiar thing. They open like handcuffs, but they seem to be made of thick, black wire. The only comparable thing that comes to mind is a black crown of thorns for the wrists.