The Wall
“Mother, why do you believe in magic?”
I remember, while growing up, thinking how silly it seemed that mother would place a saucer bowl out for the pixies, and whisper a prayer thrice while tossing a pinch of salt over her shoulder whenever she needed some extra luck. Ours was an age and a kingdom of reason, though superstitions seemed to be growing every year and an acceptance of magic became almost commonplace. Finally at the age where my curiosity and frustration could no longer be held in check by mere politeness, I asked her outright.
She blushed deeply, turning her normally rosy pink cheeks a more crimson shade as she did. “The Wall, honey. Everyone believes in magic since the Wall appeared.”
“What wall?” I huffed. I had heard of this ‘wall‘ whispered of before, but every time I asked for clarity, I was met with blushes and giggles and all manner of infuriating silence. More often than not, I heard the words my mother then said to me:
“I’ll tell you when you’re older, honey.”
Posted under Short Stories