He was at the barn and he saw a thin light from the cracks of the angled entrance. He moved forward through the sea of grass and stumbled inside. A figure was seated in the midst of wooden boxes and rubble. It was a young girl.
The girl whipped around and he jumped and he almost screamed. The jet black eyes met the hazel and the blue and the girl’s trembling lips moved, but the man heard nothing. What happened then, the man kept alive in his memory and never forgot and thereafter went home to his shed and wept. For when he met the girl’s gaze, the first eyes, the eyes of a goddess, he was blinded and then he saw a white picket fence and a quaint countryside house with its front yard apple trees swelling and blooming. And then the frame zoomed in and he entered the house and everything turned red, there was a drunk man holding a chipped beer bottle and the drunk man was screaming, and on the other side a woman sprawled across the linoleum carpet and a small boy crying. The woman reduced to a pile of thick blood. The boy’s eyes swollen. The drunk man towering above. And then the frame went black and there was a young man trudging through a vast grassy plain, wearing a thin straw hat and soaking in all the loneliness of the world. There was no wind. The young man dared to look up and he saw something beautiful, a wild hawk slicing through the gaping sky, and he decided right then and there that magic would be his reality and reality would be his magic.
Writing month, day eleven, word count: 11,401