The Summoning

You know, I always make it a point to be positive and so, despite this crushing exhaustion, I really don't look that bad and I am even still writing and being all magical and stuff. However, I am tired and so, I will now have an excuse to avoid children's birthday parties and also, contemporary art exhibits where you see that painting of the big yellow circle with the big black dot in the center of it and shudder to think that is somehow oh gawd help us all, inexcusably deemed a great work of art.

I have even had to put on hold dancing under the light of the silvery moon as my witches' pointy hat is still at the Cleaners' and my darling Wizard is too busy these days to do any sorcery with me and he’s somehow lost his magic wand in the back of his car. For now, I have only rebel angels, uncountable brothers causing trouble in the after world. Too many brothers in the shadow worlds. I would like to have a sister someday… maybe.

I am trying to keep a smile on my face as a tired and tortured artist and a magical being but there is one thing getting in the way of that; I am just too busy throwing witch fire around these days like the wrath of God instead of making some spell. I even have trouble picking up the telephone as it could be the dragons of England. I am not certain I can even handle the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, nor can I avoid Mondays, the work week, bill payments, fake friends, people who ignore me, narcissists, and dead ends—and there is despair as well. Can you die of it? Well, it is a special affliction of human beings trapped in bad circumstances. One will just have to be braver. I don't get it Mama, after all the good deeds I've done!

Despite life's many crushing disappointments, the mists will rise up and I will move up in the world someday soon. Just gimme me some time to accomplish amazing things. My magic is to summon. My spellcraft runs to summoning souls, and the deities I serve shall fulfill their promises to me. But I haven't gotten the trick of it yet, the summoning, for I curse. It's not easy when the thunder rumbles in the distance. I am a terrible worrier and then the clouds rain down on me.

Despite it all, I will someday again turn into a bubbly, funny, energetic person which is just as valid as being the dark, brooding, and tortured artist that society has always been so badly in need of. And we tortured artists are a very lonely bunch of souls who may only attract some fame or notoriety by cutting off our ears in public. But despite all the rain coming for me, there will be a downpour of favor. I will bloom, blossom and flourish once more. I am going to jump back into the fire and rise but just warn me if you see any demons behind my back. For instance, I asked the last so-called friend to comb her hair so her horns didn't show. Was it my flaws that bruised the thorns? I pick flowers so there is beauty in my house. But if you really hate me that much we can even be friends and as tortured artists exclaim together, "Oh gawd it hurts. When will this ever end?!"

As for other setbacks, there is my writing career and oh gawd what a damn career it has been as it's going nowhere it seems. I can't be a failure just because I am not where I think I should be now. Or can I? Love me, love my art.

Breathe. The path is nothingness. Find your center. You are a drop in the ocean and the entire ocean in a drop. Nothing can derail your progress after you've found inner serenity.

I think I am just frightened by the sound of beggars that want to beg and who wish to be a man or woman that have never truly had the touch of a magic hand. I am learning how to summon success, banish drama and raise hell with my coven. You can summon me with 5 cups of coffee surrounding a pentagram of coffee beans on Monday morning and we shall be the best of friends!

Yet, I am afraid to dream due to this feeling that I've become the damned. I never found the solace of untroubled dreams and stood in my own solid strength for long, but I've survived the tangled dream world of fears and desires in the featureless landscape of demonesses swooping over my head, like bats.

I can see a silver cord, thin and strong as a spider's web, reaching back from my spirit to my body and I remembered then. I sighed and obeyed the shadowy foe or friend. I resolved to dare to dream again beyond the midnight, moonlight surrounded by death.

THE END

Bio: Alexis Child hails from Toronto, Canada; home to dreams and nightmares. Besides having rare mystical experiences she hopes are not just short circuits in the brain, she offers Tarot Readings and writes poetry and fiction, starving in the garret with her muse. A starving child is a frightful sight. A starving vampire is even worse. Please donate non-perishable food items and B-negative blood (and make it a double!).

Alexis’ poetry and fiction has been featured in numerous online and print publications. Her debut collection of horror poetry, Devil in the Clock, is available on Amazon, followed by Singing the Bones (Cyberwit Publishing, 2022). Her third collection of poetry, Exquisite Corpse, is coming soon. You have been warned...

E-mail: Alexis Child

Website: Alexis Child's YouTube Channel

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