The Magician

We didn’t know each other that well, Jerick and I. Some could call us passing acquaintances — I resent that. I know of him and, I believe, he knows of me. No one has taken the time to introduce me to him. Perhaps they think that, by some subconcious, superkinetic energy, all men know each other. Sure, I see him walking around the park, drinking around bars, hanging around, chatting up girls.

Normally, Jerick and I would fly far away from each other’s radar. I was dating Leya (with a ‘y’) back then; Jerick was a single vixen. Barely a month into my relationship with Leya, Jerick slept with her. Neither of them bothered to tell me — I had to hear of it from Lea (with no ‘y’).

Many months after, I was in a relationship with Ghiselle (the ‘h’ is necessary). One day, we were drinking milk tea at some darkened place among a major street. Ghiselle was just telling me about her 1.75 grade and how much she resents it when Jerick comes in. He came to our table with a smile.

“Hey, it’s you, right?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“And who is this?”

“This is Ghiselle.”

“With an ‘h,'” the pipsqueek added.

Jerick glanced at Ghiselle up and down, appraising her body. He turned around and left. That was to be the last time I saw Ghiselle who would, for many weeks, pine over Jerick.


Jerick’s wrists were red from the ropes. The soft noise made through his gag sounded through the air; it didn’t matter. The room was soundproof. I pace around the room, staring at him, wondering what secret power his body has. To be honest, and this is not me being arrogant, he cannot be hotter than I am. He’s not smarter than I am. What magic does his body have? I roll his briefs down, staring at his dick. Nothing to be impressed with. Decent, sure, though.

I touch his body, feeling the ice cold tension of fear. “So, it ends here,” I whisper. I cannot believe that after all this time it ends here. This is the guy who has made my life miserable and I don’t know why.

“Tell me what your power is?” I demand of him. I sit beside him, holding his naked frame. “Tell me!”

I run my fingers over his lips – a slight quiver. Perhaps, perhaps, there is one way I could find out. I don’t necessarily want to do it — but I have to know.

I start to undress.




THIS IS THE TAROT CHALLENGE, a 78-day writing challenge where everyday I pick out a random card from my tarot deck and write something about, against, inspired by, based on the card by the day’s end. The works can range from poetry to fiction to drama. When the card is from the major arcana, the title of the work should be the card name. When the card is from the minor arcana, the title can be different but the card drawn should be revealed at the end.