2024 Fiction Runner-Up: "The Brink" by Sarah Troub
The Brink
A tiny apartment is not an ideal location for a forbidden ritual.
I discover this when I realize the only good floor for chalk-drawing is the kitchen tile, and even then I have to roll up Kira’s rug, and even then there is no good lighting at 2 A.M, so I have to be meticulous drawing my symbols and lines.
That’s how Kira would have found me, had she walked in on me then. Hunched over, butt up to the moon, slowly sketching out the shape of Pisces between the fridge and the stove. You’d think that magic wouldn’t involve no numbers or calculation, but I’m doing Pythagorean Theorem up in my head, figuring out where the stars are in relation to this old box I now call home.
It’s important to have open flames for these sorts of things. Needless to say I have to disassemble the smoke detector (Kira is gonna kill me, when she hears) because it kept chirping at me. Four flames for each cardinal direction. The candles don’t match, some are scented with random seasonal blends. Surely that don’t matter…?
Things inside the Brink aren’t meant to be comprehended by mortal minds.
My sweating fingers drum across my thighs. We got the circle, we got the fire, I got the intentions right and clear in my mind. Right--salt. Embarrassing, but I have to get it from the shaker. Kira taught me all proper but somehow I always end up doing things my own way, despite her lessons.
“No demons better come through this time,” I mutter, situating my feet in the center. Demons suck.
The correct chant is in Kira’s grimoire (hers is nicer than mine; illuminated and definitely more forbidden). I repeat the proper words seven times. The air around me takes on a syrupy quality. The candle flames flicker as if in warning. I bring one finger out in front of me and take the heavy scented air deep in my lungs.
Slowly, I trace a hole in the whole of reality.
Keep your breath slow, steady your finger, Kira would’ve said. I make the world’s shittiest straight line, and it works. I worm my fingers inside the cut and pull open the skin of the wound. Cosmic blood and guts spill out onto the kitchen tile and mix with my salt boundary, giving the circle its own kind of life. The chalky constellations start spinning, steering me to the Brink.
I dig into the cut, elbow-deep in celestial viscera. Sticking my hands in the Brink feels like stars brushing against my bones, cicadas buzzing up my veins. I follow the constellations’ guidance, until there! I feel what I came for. I grab on. It’s like dragging a bowling ball through Jell-O, but for a second I allow myself to think it’s actually going well.
I open my mouth to scream, but the Brink devours all sound.
Then something hooks into me, a demon, and it yanks me up to my shoulders into the cut. My head submerges and it's like opening your eyes underwater--everything murky and blurry. I’m aware of the horrid thing trying to pry my hands off of my teacher, who is just a dark lump at the moment. Things inside the Brink aren’t meant to be comprehended by mortal minds. There is no reason for a mortal to be here, after all.
I open my mouth to scream, but the Brink devours all sound. The taste of my own mortality fills my open mouth. I got no idea what the demon’s doing to me and I don’t care, the demon hurts, and I’m so done. In a moment of desperation, I harness that cicada-star-buzz-energy in my veins and extend it to defend myself. It zaps the demon like lightning, and that distracts it enough for me to readjust my grip and twist away.
Lost spirits try latching onto mine like newborns to a teat, and I project my thoughts outward like commands. Not you! No free rides! They’re easier to dispel. One maple-syrup elbow is followed by a shoulder, a hip, two legs. I bring myself out of there and I tug and I pull until the undeniable shape of Kira is yanked out of the cosmic scrape with me and I am collapsing back against our fridge, scattering the salt all over and retching up interdimensional vomit. I finish the ritual in a hoarse moan. The flames blaze once before extinguishing, cauterizing the tear I inflicted upon the cosmos. Stitching it up for good.
Wasting no time, I crawl over to Kira. I knew she’d fight like a dog to keep her soul about her body, but it’s a different kind of relief to see her frown-wrinkles, cloudy coils, and disapproving stare here, in my shitty little kitchen, instead of on the precipice of oblivion. Familiar as ever.
“You,” she sputters. “Foolish girl.”
“Yeah,” I say. A hysterical laugh tumbles out from deep within me as I collapse onto her in an exhausted hug.
Sarah Troub is a senior in Art (Printmaking) and English with a minor in Spanish. She is originally from Omaha, Nebraska. When she is not involved in student organizations and creative activities, she fills her free time with a range of hobbies such as book clubs, D&D, travel and group fitness at the rec center!