Magic in Costa Rica

With Love

"Good morning, everyone," Mr. Miller grinned, standing in the front of the classroom with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. "And to all you seniors, happy last day of classes!" He raised his mug and the whole class cheered. I clapped too, although it was hard enough to keep my eyes open, let alone cheer along with the rest of class. I had stayed up far too late the night before completing my final writing project.

Sunday morning, I woke up late, exhausted from dancing all night at prom. I searched for inspiration throughout most of the afternoon, but found that every time I started writing something, I would get stuck a couple of paragraphs in and delete the whole thing. By dinnertime, I was in a panic, as I had twelve hours until I had to wake up for school, and still ten more pages left to write. I asked my dad for advice at the dinner table.

"I don't know, Alma," my dad sighed, "It seems a little strange for me to be giving you writing advice. I don't know much about writing," he shrugged, pushing his food across the plate with his fork.

"Dad, come on! I'm desperate," I whined. He shook his head.

"Alma, relax. I'm sure something will come to you. You wrote an entire book, I'm sure you can write ten pages in one night." He had a point. "Oh, by the way," he smiled, "I'm almost finished with Magic in Costa Rica."

"Really?" I sat up straighter in my chair. He nodded. I couldn't believe it. It had seemed like forever since I gave him my book to read, and I honestly forgot all about it. I told him that I didn't want him to tell me anything until he finished it, and he promised that he would keep his lips sealed. Up until now, he had kept his promise, all the while reading it slowly, chapter by chapter, taking each word in one sentence at a time. I appreciated his thoroughness, but I was dying to hear what he thought about it, and I hoped he would finish it soon.

"It's really good," he grinned. I plugged my ears with my fingers.

"Dad, I told you not to say anything until you were done!" I scolded.

"Sorry, sorry!" My dad threw his hands up in defeat. "I will say this though," he raised a finger, "I'm disappointed that I'm not a character!"

"Oh, come on!" I rolled my eyes and he laughed. I smiled; I liked having dinner with my dad. Ever since earlier that year, when I had finally talked to him about Mom, we had become a lot more open with each other. Dinners were no longer silent and awkward, but fun, and filled with lively conversation. It was a wonderful change, and it felt like a breath of fresh air had been blown into our home, sweeping away the dust of old grief. "Fine, then," I said sassily, raising an eyebrow, "I'll write something about you."

So I did. When I went back to my room, I wrote a story about a travelling magician who meets an enchanting sorceress in a small village that he had been hired to perform in by a mysterious employer. Him and the sorceress fall in love, but her father, a powerful wizard who also turns out to be the employer, kills the magician because he fears the corruption of his daughter's magic by the magician's peculiar tricks. In the end, the sorceress revives the magician while sacrificing her own powers in the process, and they both run away together to a location unknown to the narrator. It is narrated by the wizard, who is writing the story in a letter as a plea to his daughter, who he lost many years ago.

I named the story, "A Time of Malevolence," and it clocked in at fourteen pages by the time I completed it at one o'clock in the morning. I thought about shortening it, but the assignment was to write at least ten pages, so I thought it was okay if it was a few pages over. Plus, I was too exhausted to do more than a quick read-through for grammar and spelling errors. I closed my laptop and immediately fell asleep, and although I only slept for about five hours, my dreams were filled with wizards and sorceresses, and most of all, magic.