15 + 64 points
The Callouses on Your Hands by carry_me_Zaddy
July 17th, 2010 11:14 AM
Following is the story of how, nearly a year ago, I acquired the star-shaped scar on the center of my forehead. This praxis is slightly expounded from the original as related to my six year old niece.
I enjoy night walking. No, I do not turn to ash or sparkle in sunlight. The sun and I, however, are not always on the best of terms. Luckily I live in a beautiful city that takes on a magic all its own at dark (See Night Photography).
After spending the day and evening with friends celebrating my birthday, I found myself still very much awake. I decided to embark on one of my late night strolls. These treks rarely follow the same path, and this particular walk found me exploring a nearby park. I breathed deep the brisk, yet comfortable September air crackling with the final bursts of life before the long winter sleep. The waning half moon hung sharply in the bright urban sky easily illuminating the turning leaves around me. Carried aloft by my farcically optimistic hyperbole, I nearly missed the dark figure slumped against one of the nearby tree trunks, until I heard a deep grunt.
I stopped to observe the shady mass, waiting for it to move or produce any further sound. I did not have to wait long. The figure shifted, a movement of what might have been a bent limb. I cautiously stepped off the paved path to possibly perceive more detail. Nothing. Creeping a few steps further, I suddenly heard an all too human grumbling.
Concerned, I gently called out, "Excuse me. Are you all right?"
Silence, but I could see the right limb moving as if digging at the roots of the tree.
Stepping closer and raising my voice slightly, I asked again, "Is everything all right over there?"
Startled, the figure hopped to its feet and spun towards me. The person was wearing a dark hooded robe which hid all but a large, prominent nose, thin lips and a weak, clean-shaven jaw. Grasped tightly in pale-skinned hands was an opaque sphere which briefly appeared to glow as it reflected the moonshine.
"What? WHAT?! How dare you interrupt my ritual. Were you spying on me?"
"No," I stammered. "I'm sorry. I only wanted to..."
"'Sorry' you will be!" he interrupted. "Marvolo Schmendrick does not suffer spies. You think yourself clever sneaking through night-shrouded trees like some kind of thief? Is that what you are, thief? Think you can steal my prec... oh, I see. Clever, clever. Let's see how well you sneak on beastly hooves of ghostly white!"
"No, you don't..." I started, but it was too late. The robed man flicked his wrist towards me, and with a brief flash of light, the world went dark.
I slowly emerged from the darkness as if rising from the bottom of the lake. A slowness to my movements as my body adjusted to an unfamiliar heft. My eyes blearily adjusted to the light of the moon and nearby streetlamps. I situated my forelimbs beneath my trunk and pressed against the cold ground until I could also get my back legs beneath me and raise myself up on to all fours. To clear the fog from my brain, I gave a great shake of my head, feeling my hair brush against the side of my face and hearing myself snort the chill from my nostrils.
I glanced around quickly for the robed man, but he was nowhere in sight. Relaxing, I started collecting myself. I tried to press my body into an upright position, but I could not. The weight was just too much. I strained again against the ground, but I could not seem to gain leverage. Frustrated, I gripped the earth to release some tension but failed to grip anything at all. I could not feel my thumbs. I looked down, but where my hands should have been, were hooves! Then my eyes began to cross as I realized what should have been the bridge of my nose was instead a long muzzle coated with silken white hair. I cried out in alarm, but instead of a human voice, a whinny reached my ears.
I was a horse. That crazy freak turned me into a horse!
In a panic, I trotted to a small copse of trees to hide from human eyes while I puzzled out what had happened and what I could do to remedy the situation. In my movement, I noticed a gleam of light above my head. I glanced up and saw the night sky but no distinct source of luminance directly above me. Continuing forward, I was once again distracted by a gleam directly above my eyes, but as before, when I looked up there was nothing of note. This time, however, as I lowered my head the gleam flashed a third time. I spun my head to the right, certain that the light source must now be behind me. The view of my snowy, equine body was shocking to say the least, but I still could not locate the gleam. I looked to the left to find more of the same. Annoyed, I again moved toward the copse until the gleam returned. This time I stopped and stood perfectly still. The light remained. Instead of swinging my head around, I slowly rolled my eyes upward. There it was. The light was not above or behind me. It was me, or rather it was reflecting off the long, pointed horn protruding from the center of my forehead. Excellent. As if hiding a white horse in a Chicago city park was not difficult enough, I discover that crazed sorcerer had transformed me into a mythical creature, a figment of imagination, a fantastical beast of ridiculousness and awe, a unicorn.
Son of a…
Come dawn, I found myself on the ground again, but opened my eyes to the welcome sight of my own human hand. I was human once more and fully dressed in the same clothes I was wearing during my evening walk. It must have been a dream. It was all too absurd to be real, and yet, I was definitely in the same park. How did I come to be asleep in the same copse of trees?
I walked home at a quick clip. The temperature had dropped significantly, and my all too human form was beginning to shiver. It was Sunday, and I was able to spend the day at home remembering, pondering, analyzing and imagining what the dream, as I had convinced myself it must have been, had meant.
As dusk approached, I finally gave my brain a rest and settled in at my computer to play my favorite online video game. After several hours of play, I began to notice I was frequently striking the wrong keys. At first I supposed fatigue was beginning to take hold, but when I looked at my hands, I discovered they were transforming. My thumbs were shrinking and shifting up my forearm while my fingers were solidifying into one solid mass. I raced for the bathroom mirror. My nostrils and mouth were stretching as my mouth began to elongate. My eyes were widening and moving further apart to the sides of my head. My mohawk and stubble were blanching as they grew longer. And in the center of my forehead, a dry wound was opening as shiny keratin sprang up from the skull beneath.
Fortunately, it was already past midnight, and my roommates were already snug in bed. I fled the apartment building as quickly as my awkwardly converting legs could carry me. By the time I reached the park, I was once again galloping on four long unicorn legs.
This was no dream. The sorcerer had place a curse upon me. Each night, or rather each early morning well before sunrise, I would transform into a unicorn. As the park was the only place I felt safe and hidden, I would spend these hours wandering through this tiny slice of nature, contemplating reality, magic, and how I could break myself free of this enchantment.
During the day, I would do my best to move about my life as usual. Often my mind would stray, and I would feel both fatigued and restless. Some days I would dread the sunset. Some days I would long for it, for the freedom from human restraint and propriety. Even when I would try to block thoughts of the curse from my mind completely, there was the constant physical reminder, the wound. After the second night, the horn left its mark on my human forehead. The mark would form a large embarrassing scab which I would attempt to hide with adhesive bandages and a scarlet baseball cap. Then at night, the wound would reopen as the horn once more took center stage.
This cycle continued for about a month. On the twenty-ninth evening after my initial encounter with the wicked magician, I found myself once again sitting in the park awaiting the transformation. My only companion was the waning half moon peeking boldly through shear cirrus clouds. I sat. I waited. I waited, and I sat. No transformation came. When the sky brightened with the approaching daybreak, I was still very much human. Apparently this punishment came with an expiration date, and my sentence had been served. Served, but not forgotten. The wound on my forehead scabbed over and eventually healed, but it left behind a star-shaped scar. This is the tale of my memento that magic is neither illusion nor trifle.
I enjoy night walking. No, I do not turn to ash or sparkle in sunlight. The sun and I, however, are not always on the best of terms. Luckily I live in a beautiful city that takes on a magic all its own at dark (See Night Photography).
After spending the day and evening with friends celebrating my birthday, I found myself still very much awake. I decided to embark on one of my late night strolls. These treks rarely follow the same path, and this particular walk found me exploring a nearby park. I breathed deep the brisk, yet comfortable September air crackling with the final bursts of life before the long winter sleep. The waning half moon hung sharply in the bright urban sky easily illuminating the turning leaves around me. Carried aloft by my farcically optimistic hyperbole, I nearly missed the dark figure slumped against one of the nearby tree trunks, until I heard a deep grunt.
I stopped to observe the shady mass, waiting for it to move or produce any further sound. I did not have to wait long. The figure shifted, a movement of what might have been a bent limb. I cautiously stepped off the paved path to possibly perceive more detail. Nothing. Creeping a few steps further, I suddenly heard an all too human grumbling.
Concerned, I gently called out, "Excuse me. Are you all right?"
Silence, but I could see the right limb moving as if digging at the roots of the tree.
Stepping closer and raising my voice slightly, I asked again, "Is everything all right over there?"
Startled, the figure hopped to its feet and spun towards me. The person was wearing a dark hooded robe which hid all but a large, prominent nose, thin lips and a weak, clean-shaven jaw. Grasped tightly in pale-skinned hands was an opaque sphere which briefly appeared to glow as it reflected the moonshine.
"What? WHAT?! How dare you interrupt my ritual. Were you spying on me?"
"No," I stammered. "I'm sorry. I only wanted to..."
"'Sorry' you will be!" he interrupted. "Marvolo Schmendrick does not suffer spies. You think yourself clever sneaking through night-shrouded trees like some kind of thief? Is that what you are, thief? Think you can steal my prec... oh, I see. Clever, clever. Let's see how well you sneak on beastly hooves of ghostly white!"
"No, you don't..." I started, but it was too late. The robed man flicked his wrist towards me, and with a brief flash of light, the world went dark.
I slowly emerged from the darkness as if rising from the bottom of the lake. A slowness to my movements as my body adjusted to an unfamiliar heft. My eyes blearily adjusted to the light of the moon and nearby streetlamps. I situated my forelimbs beneath my trunk and pressed against the cold ground until I could also get my back legs beneath me and raise myself up on to all fours. To clear the fog from my brain, I gave a great shake of my head, feeling my hair brush against the side of my face and hearing myself snort the chill from my nostrils.
I glanced around quickly for the robed man, but he was nowhere in sight. Relaxing, I started collecting myself. I tried to press my body into an upright position, but I could not. The weight was just too much. I strained again against the ground, but I could not seem to gain leverage. Frustrated, I gripped the earth to release some tension but failed to grip anything at all. I could not feel my thumbs. I looked down, but where my hands should have been, were hooves! Then my eyes began to cross as I realized what should have been the bridge of my nose was instead a long muzzle coated with silken white hair. I cried out in alarm, but instead of a human voice, a whinny reached my ears.
I was a horse. That crazy freak turned me into a horse!
In a panic, I trotted to a small copse of trees to hide from human eyes while I puzzled out what had happened and what I could do to remedy the situation. In my movement, I noticed a gleam of light above my head. I glanced up and saw the night sky but no distinct source of luminance directly above me. Continuing forward, I was once again distracted by a gleam directly above my eyes, but as before, when I looked up there was nothing of note. This time, however, as I lowered my head the gleam flashed a third time. I spun my head to the right, certain that the light source must now be behind me. The view of my snowy, equine body was shocking to say the least, but I still could not locate the gleam. I looked to the left to find more of the same. Annoyed, I again moved toward the copse until the gleam returned. This time I stopped and stood perfectly still. The light remained. Instead of swinging my head around, I slowly rolled my eyes upward. There it was. The light was not above or behind me. It was me, or rather it was reflecting off the long, pointed horn protruding from the center of my forehead. Excellent. As if hiding a white horse in a Chicago city park was not difficult enough, I discover that crazed sorcerer had transformed me into a mythical creature, a figment of imagination, a fantastical beast of ridiculousness and awe, a unicorn.
Son of a…
Come dawn, I found myself on the ground again, but opened my eyes to the welcome sight of my own human hand. I was human once more and fully dressed in the same clothes I was wearing during my evening walk. It must have been a dream. It was all too absurd to be real, and yet, I was definitely in the same park. How did I come to be asleep in the same copse of trees?
I walked home at a quick clip. The temperature had dropped significantly, and my all too human form was beginning to shiver. It was Sunday, and I was able to spend the day at home remembering, pondering, analyzing and imagining what the dream, as I had convinced myself it must have been, had meant.
As dusk approached, I finally gave my brain a rest and settled in at my computer to play my favorite online video game. After several hours of play, I began to notice I was frequently striking the wrong keys. At first I supposed fatigue was beginning to take hold, but when I looked at my hands, I discovered they were transforming. My thumbs were shrinking and shifting up my forearm while my fingers were solidifying into one solid mass. I raced for the bathroom mirror. My nostrils and mouth were stretching as my mouth began to elongate. My eyes were widening and moving further apart to the sides of my head. My mohawk and stubble were blanching as they grew longer. And in the center of my forehead, a dry wound was opening as shiny keratin sprang up from the skull beneath.
Fortunately, it was already past midnight, and my roommates were already snug in bed. I fled the apartment building as quickly as my awkwardly converting legs could carry me. By the time I reached the park, I was once again galloping on four long unicorn legs.
This was no dream. The sorcerer had place a curse upon me. Each night, or rather each early morning well before sunrise, I would transform into a unicorn. As the park was the only place I felt safe and hidden, I would spend these hours wandering through this tiny slice of nature, contemplating reality, magic, and how I could break myself free of this enchantment.
During the day, I would do my best to move about my life as usual. Often my mind would stray, and I would feel both fatigued and restless. Some days I would dread the sunset. Some days I would long for it, for the freedom from human restraint and propriety. Even when I would try to block thoughts of the curse from my mind completely, there was the constant physical reminder, the wound. After the second night, the horn left its mark on my human forehead. The mark would form a large embarrassing scab which I would attempt to hide with adhesive bandages and a scarlet baseball cap. Then at night, the wound would reopen as the horn once more took center stage.
This cycle continued for about a month. On the twenty-ninth evening after my initial encounter with the wicked magician, I found myself once again sitting in the park awaiting the transformation. My only companion was the waning half moon peeking boldly through shear cirrus clouds. I sat. I waited. I waited, and I sat. No transformation came. When the sky brightened with the approaching daybreak, I was still very much human. Apparently this punishment came with an expiration date, and my sentence had been served. Served, but not forgotten. The wound on my forehead scabbed over and eventually healed, but it left behind a star-shaped scar. This is the tale of my memento that magic is neither illusion nor trifle.
