Bev Vines-Haines
I found the dusty grimoire in 1987 on a littered bookshelf in the furthest corner of BOOKED UP, a series of bookstores in Archer City, Texas.  They’re owned by one of the greatest writers of our time where he leads a pretty solitary life far from the glitz of Hollywood lights.

The book contained a treasure trove of magical concoctions, recipes and nebulous ideas for conjuring up departed spirits, casting spells on enemies, and even a few techniques for time travel.  I carried it back to Store #1 where one finds the only cash register.  I had to drive all the way back to Dallas before I could delve deep into those musty pages.  The book was entitled Magic.  Just Magic.  The cover featured a simple top hat.  Nothing more. 

Time travel is my thing.  I loved Somewhere in Time and I admit I’ve tried to copy every move Christopher Reeve made in that hotel room.  I want to go back to the 40s.  New York City.  Brooklyn.  I  want to be Jewish, a member of a loud, loving Jewish family.  In my dreams it is a sepia colored world.

My room is stark.  Could exist in any decade.  Nothing in it to sabotage my plan.  I read the chapter on time travel.  Twice.  Nothing new.  I check the book’s copyright.  1940.  Perfect.  I put Benny Goodman on an old gramophone and close my eyes. With a smile and a nod to Saint Christopher, I take flight.

First published: November 2016
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