The Mirror

A short story about longing, magic, and the reflections we find when we're not looking for them.

This story emerged from my UCLA Extension Fiction Writing Certificate program, where I found myself with several unfinished pieces from different workshops and scrambling to come up with a new story for a weekly assignment--so I got creative. Sometimes the best stories come from unexpected combinations , and this one grew from weaving together those fragments and following them to their natural conclusion. (The first draft included some mystical poetry that was... let's say 'a bit much' and got trimmed in revision.)

Reflections

Nearly every mortal that has ever existed knows how incredible it feels when an idea or inspiration dawns. The excitement and adrenaline pulse through your entire body because it is so easy to visualize how it can all work out and change your life. For me personally, I can feel my soul celebrating these “Ah yes, this is what I need to do” epiphanies of brilliance.

People who are truly happy and fulfilled in life are able to take these epiphanies and make them a reality, and if they fail, they shrug it off and wait until the next inspiration takes over. If however, you are like me (God help you), fear of failure soon replaces the euphoria and beats it with a harsh reality stick until your soul screams: Oh crap, party’s over! Excitement and adrenaline are now duly replaced by apathy and self-loathing, soothed by a large serving of whatever cheese is in the fridge. So, I have to ask: why do I and so many other people find it difficult or impossible to follow our dreams to happiness? Why are we paralyzed into inaction and determined to make it someone else’s responsibility?

I don’t know, so I’ll tell you a story instead. Yes, yes, it’s a bait and switch, but it’s the best I can do.

It all started when I was nine or ten, when I believed (hoped) my destiny was tall, dark and handsome on a white horse whisking me off to a happily ever after. How perfectly lovely that would be? I could see my whole life stretching before me with nary an uncomfortable ripple. I’d have no responsibility and no worries, because Mr. Perfect (and drop dead handsome) would make it all okay. We’d live in a real Tudor mansion, have a beautiful daughter that looked like me and a handsome son that looked like him, travel the world, save the poor because we’d be wealthy and generous, end up loved by all, and die together in our sleep at the ripe old age of ninety-four.

Can’t you just feel the happy adrenaline rush I got from that little epiphany?

As I got older, dreams came of the dark haired, dark eyed man I knew could only be my other half. Those dreams walked with me during the day, and sang me to sleep at night. I entered my twenties with all the exuberance and enthusiasm of a child waiting to open the biggest Christmas gift under the tree; confident that he would ride into my life at any moment.

How frustrating—and sad—for me then, when at thirty-five, a harsh reality stick had beaten me into an eighty hour a week Paralegal who was single, and living alone in a four hundred and fifty-two square foot, Ikea decorated condo—with cats. The dreams faded too, becoming nothing more than echoes haunting the shadowed corridors of my middle-aged mind.

Did I date? Sure, but the last one didn’t end well. Oh, he was handsome enough and wealthy, but it turned out the dream guy my co-worker set me up with lived at home with his mommy, and the umbilical cord delivered texts to his cell phone every ten minutes. However, that wasn’t the worst of it. Get this; he took me to a Steakhouse. Me. A vegetarian.

Hey, maybe he didn’t know? You’d think so, right? Nope. He said his mother told him to go where he wanted because it was best not to pander to the hippie whims of an aging spinster.

Ouch. At least, that’s what he said when the restaurant door smacked him in the face. Well, it was his fault for trying to stop me fleeing.

Not long after, fate came knocking. Maybe it was an act of kindness, or maybe it was because she was sick and tired of me trying to drag her into my one-woman pity party about how unfair it was I couldn’t find my soul mate when everyone else had years ago. Whatever the reason, my best friend forever shoved a business card in my hand one day.

“Okay,” she said, “that’s it. You have got to go and see this place.”

I looked at the card. Gold letters in a papyrus font, jumped off the purple cardstock. Written on the card was the name of a shop:

The Twelfth House Cusp

Crystals, Cauldrons, and Consultations

“Are you kidding?” I laughed.

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

She didn’t. The blond woman sitting across the table, with arms and legs crossed with a stubborn glare directed at me, looked quite serious.

“Why?”

“There’s a woman there, one who does the most amazing readings. Michelle, Sarah, Nicki, all of us went a few weeks ago and it was unreal. She knew everything, about the past, the future. In a couple of years, I’m supposed to have twins!”

Cora hadn’t been that enthusiastic about anything since her wedding; but jealousy stabbed at my ego when I realize she went with our other friends from college, and didn’t even tell me until now.

As if reading my mind, she said, “Don’t even…I would have asked you at the time, but you were working.”

Right. The only one who had to work, because I didn’t have a husband.

I think part envy and part curiosity made me keep the card. Whatever the reason, I promised to go, and I did—eventually. It took me a few weeks because I refused to let anyone see how eager I was to have a reading. Every time I pulled the purple and gold fragment of hope out of my pocket, my pulse jumped from the tingling of anticipation. Surely, this was it—my true destiny about to be revealed!

Leap

It turned out to be a hot, sunny day in mid-July when I went. As soon as I parked my car in the alleyway and looked at the storefront, I felt a spark of déjà vu. Had I been there before? No, but the building plaque said circa 1948. Ah, that’s why. It reminded me of old Lucy’s Candy Store where Grandma used to take my sister and I every second Sunday for five-cent treats.

The glass door with a golden palm and Eye of Ra outlined in purple glitter, gave me an irresistible urge to press on the shopworn handle. Jingling bells signaled the wafting wave of acrid sweetness that made my nose twitch from the blend of patchouli and Egyptian sandalwood, with a touch of Tibetan Amber for Buddhist wisdom.

Once inside, the deep melody of ethereal, orchestral arrangements and Tibetan Singing Bowls drifted louder. It was a sensory onslaught of incense, music, colors, and textures. I didn’t know where to look first. Cheerful streams of sunlight competed with furniture buckling under the weight of New Age clutter; tables draped in velvet black to highlight glittering crystal and tumbled stones of Amethyst, Aquamarine, Onyx, Turquoise, and too many more to mention. Each one promised health, wealth, love, or wisdom.

The walls were relegated invisible behind black bookcases hosting thousands of titles on Mythology, Astral Travel, ESP, discovering your psychic potential, Astrology, Palmistry, and Tarot. Running my hands along the visual feast of kaleidoscope designs, I scanned the book covers: a guide to the planets, the Arabic meaning of stars, or the image of nebulous clouds promising the keys to hidden consciousness if one just peeked inside their pages.

Interspersed in and around the books and gems were candles, crystal balls on iron claws, and Wiccan altars to honor the Goddess. I saw more than a few ornate, carved diaries too; those tomes destined to become a cherished book of shadows—a witch’s lifetime chronicle of secret spells, recipes, and rituals.

A clerk, wizened with age, entered from a back room and offered a radiant smile. She had to be over sixty, but a purple-blue, tie-dyed headband tamed her frizzy, white curls in a way that made her seem younger than I felt at half her age. The fabric matched her flowing, gypsy dress, and gold and amber bangles chinkled and clinked with the arm sweeping welcome.

I picked up a stone and smiled with a nod to the woman while glancing around. Eyes were on me. I rubbed a black onyx gem between my thumb and forefinger. Why was I there again? I didn’t remember what I was supposed to be looking for, or why I’d chosen that day to visit.

No. I tossed the stone back on the pile. That wasn’t true. This was about the psychic who Cora said could see a person’s past, present, and future with startling accuracy. But, there only seemed to be one clerk. Maybe it was the seer’s day off.

“Can I help you?” The clerk’s voice was melodic, even soothing.

“Thanks, I’m just browsing.”

“Are you interested in anything in particular?”

“Well, I’m here to…well, actually, do you have those new Angel Cards? It’s my friend’s birthday tomorrow and she mentioned something about them.”

As I lied, I realized I was embarrassed to want a reading, and embarrassed to admit I wanted and needed someone to help me achieve my dreams—to be happy.

“Yes, they’re very popular. I have one deck left, but I also have a very special item, The Raven Oracle.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with the cards my friend told me about.”

“Why not let me demonstrate it? It’ll only take a minute, and that way you can see the amazing artwork that speaks to the subconscious so you don’t even need to study their meanings. Trust me, your friend will be grateful to you for finding something so special. Everything you need is here.”

“Okay sure, but I’m on my lunch break so I’m in kind of a hurry.” I lied again so I’d have an excuse to bolt.

“Let’s see.” From a shelf, she took a black velvet covered book. From her pocket, she took a pair of translucent purple dice and pressed them into my hand. “Here, give them a roll.”

I did. Twelve--two sixes.

“Wonderful,” she said and opened the book to page twelve. “This is your page. What do you think?”

Rapture

It was a beautiful hand painted image. An artist’s rendition of silver moors and pale clouds swirling past a winter’s moon, where its ghostly glow cast shadows from the ravens perched atop a Neolithic stone circle. Inside the circle, a woman in black, hooded garb stood at the center between two stone towers. Her reflection, a perfect mirror image in the pool of water at her feet.

In that moment, I stood beside the gypsy woman at the occult shop and ran my fingertips over the lithograph. In the next, I blinked and transported somewhere else—a wooded clearing bathed in a halo of moonlight.

I thought it had to be a dream, because I heard a voice that brought the ache of wanting it to be him calling out from the mists of clouded dreamtime memories. The familiar seductive voice that felt like a velvet caress: alluring, comforting, compelling, and irresistible. I couldn’t remember a time he wasn’t with me, and yet, I’d spent a lifetime searching for those soulful eyes in every passing stranger.

Elation that my search may be at an end ignited a brilliant flame of hope, one that quashed alarm bells ringing from impossible, unbelievable circumstances. I closed my eyes; desperate to hear him again through the silence, but the frantic flapping of wings echoed through trees and sent a shower of debris spiraling down towards the frostbitten ground. Fear, cold and crippling, fought with the internal voice of panic screaming RUN! But to where and to whom could I run, and why couldn’t I wake?

One second of eternity passed, then two, and then a thundering rush of adrenaline pumped by a pounding heart gave me the strength to wind my way through the midnight forest, where silvery wisps of my frozen breath vanished amidst the goblin shadows of Beltane fires painting the trees with dancing light. Hooded faces of horned Gods, Dragons, and Fae, surrounded white robed novices whose murmuring chants carried on the wind—strange incantations rising and falling to the tempo of an ancient tribal beat.

But, was it malevolence or merriment?

Each step of my bare feet on damp moss began an endless circle with no escape, and the sting from hidden pebbles served sharp notice it couldn’t be a dream.

Dying leaves high above the forest floor broke free from withered twigs, and drifted through the dark to find a final resting place near an ancient circle of stones; its crumbling pillars etched with the symbols of a magic long forgotten.

In the center stood a man dressed in hooded black, and when he turned to me, I knew—I couldn’t breathe as I watched him close the distance between us.

The fire in his eyes lit the flames of passion within my soul, and I took a deep, trembling breath. Those intense, dark eyes, the irresistible aura of seduction and strength, and the spicy scent I’d yearned for since the very first dream, sent a tingling heat rippling through my entire body.

Reaching out to touch my hair, he arched a brow and smiled. Tipping my chin with his thumb and forefinger, he leaned closer until I could taste his warm breath on my lips.

My racing heart skipped a beat and then, he swept me into his arms and let his hands glide through my hair before claiming me with a kiss that left me breathless. It was a hard, bruising kiss of total possession, demanding and unrelenting.

Grasping his face with both palms, I returned it with a desperate hunger, fighting back tears of agonized longing, and releasing the agony of a lifetime knowing him only in dreams.

He softened the kiss to a soothing, nuzzling intimacy that melted away my sorrows, and then whispered against my ear that it was time...the time of reunion.

After waiting through the ages, the veil between dreams and knowing lifted, and I heard the words he had recited in my dreams for as long as my soul could remember but my memory forgot...

Loss

“So? What do you think of The Raven Oracle? It’s a special gift, is it not?”

He was gone and I was back in the shop. My knees buckled, my heart plunged into the pit of my stomach, and I screamed, but no sound came out of my mouth. I was frozen, rooted to the floor and gasping for breath as much for oxygen as fighting the urge to throw up. He was gone. I had him, and he was gone. I was numb, empty, and the entire scene dilated out like slow motion nightmare.

I could hear desperate sobbing sounds as I snatched the book from the gypsy woman’s hands and flipped to page twelve. The lithograph was still there but it had changed. In the center of the stone circle, the woman still stood between two stone towers, but the in the pool of water at her feet, a different reflection—a perfect mirror image of a man and woman face to face, holding hands to make a circle of their own.

The gypsy woman knelt in front of me. “Is something wrong?”

Warm hands cupped my shoulders and soft grey eyes looked at me with concern, but white-hot fury rose up inside me until it filled the void that numbness brought. What had she done? How could she not know?

“Oh dear, you look pale. Let me get you a glass of water.”

Reflection

That’s the last thing I remember before waking up in my own bed the following morning. I didn’t brush my teeth, and I didn’t have my coffee. Anxiety and fury made the idea of eating or drinking anything, impossible. Instead, I drove back to The Twelfth House Cusp to buy that book.

I arrived at the building, but the building was empty. I reached into my pocket for the business card, but my pocket was empty.

Tears came and went. People came and went, and ignored. How long I waited, standing outside huddled in the alcove like a homeless person, and staring at a foggy, butcher paper covered window, I couldn’t say. The sun was low in the sky when a man came along. He was in his sixties with curly, white hair held off his face by a headband, and a radiant smile. He wore a blue and white, tie-dye t-shirt, and matching pants. He looked like a hippie painter.

Can I help you?” His voice was melodic, even soothing.

“I’m looking for a shop. I thought it was here, no, it was here.”

“Are you interested in anything in particular?”

“Pardon?”

“I have the keys, would you like to see inside?”

“Yes,” I said, certain I couldn’t nod my head emphatically enough, yes.

It was dark inside. There were jingling bells and I could smell patchouli and Egyptian sandalwood, with a touch of Tibetan Amber for Buddhist wisdom, but it was faint and it didn’t make my nose twitch.

Overhead fluorescent lights flickered to life, casting a sterile glow that bounced off the blank walls and concrete floor. A bright flash caught my attention. On the floor was a small oval mirror with a black Onyx frame carved with images of Ravens.

“Been empty for a couple of weeks. Great space though, at a good price.”

He thought I wanted to lease it. Laughter bubbled up and my shoulders shook, but more tears came instead. I picked up the mirror. Dark hair and dark eyes stared back at me. I looked old, too old to believe in dreams and happily ever after.

“You’ll be grateful you found something so special. Everything you need is here.”