2022 Fiction Runner-Up: "A Certain Kind of Stranger" by Taylor Jamison
Photo Credit: Michael Glazier, obtained and licensed through Unsplash
A Certain Kind of Stranger
There is a certain odd flavor of loneliness that exists in a college town in the summer. The parking lots, once a warzone worthy of a history biopic, have their pick of spots no matter the time. Dining centers and student unions have less than half their sections operating with a single sleepy-eyed server. The buildings are all unlocked, but only a few office lights remain on, the hall lights long gone dark from the automatic timer.
Those stragglers who remain behind on campus – whether by necessity or choice – are left with only the ghosts of college friends, their phones inexplicably unresponsive for the summer.
I sit in the University’s printing department, waiting patiently for an email ding, so I can use my jittery legs to walk over to the printer and wait, wait, wait for the next order to finish. Being a student worker, I don’t even have the gray carpet dividers and actual desk - just a table stuck in the corner, but open enough so that I can’t seek relief from boredom in my phone.
My email dings, and I spring up. The subject line sends my heart leaping.
Delivery pending–Chemistry Dept.
Oh, a delivery. Those are heaven-sent. My brief escape from the ink-stink and whirs of the basement that is the printing department. My chance to interact for one second with another human stuck in this campus, face-to-face. It’s wonderful.
I hurry over to the outgoing-delivery window, a rubberband-bound stack of paper all ready for its departure, compliments of the too-efficient secretary: Sue. I say a thank-you, she grunts, and I’m off.
My shoes squeak loudly on the tile as I pass by each closed, warped glass office door. No one here to even ask where I might find Dr. Sevian.
It’s on these walks that I notice the most meaningful things about my university: the most aesthetically pleasing elm tree, the concentric arrangements of fungus around the library, the differing shades of beige of each building’s bricks, the ongoing war between the mowers and the stubborn dandelion population, how many exact steps from the print house to the chemistry building.
715 is the answer, and I look up.
The chemistry building sits on a remote corner of campus, shielded by a canopy of trees and hugged by vines with dragon-tongue purple flowers. I could see it being a clandestine meeting spot for college lovers, if it weren’t for the stacks of harshly labeled VOLATILE CHEMICALS and bleats of gas.
The lobby is devoid of souls – although that’s probably not unusual for the chemistry building, except in the rush of general chem underclassmen. I glance at my stack of papers: “Differing Color Properties of Flames Produced by Metal Ions....H.D. Sevian, PhD”, then I wander to the directory board, names barely visible under the decade's worth of unwiped fingerprints. Third floor. I say a brief prayer for Dr. Sevian – forced to reside in an uppermost office during the summer heat, and above all the might-explode teaching labs.
The heat grows stuffier and thicker the farther I rise in the chemistry building. It’s an older building on campus, and much lacking the glossy new wall paint and whispering AC units of the well-off business building. My shoes squeak loudly on the tile as I pass by each closed, warped glass office door. No one here to even ask where I might find Dr. Sevian.
I reach the end of the hall. I go back, scan the nameplates again. No Dr. Sevian. I squint, double-checking the paper. Unless they were miraculously fired between the time they put in an order for a print and me walking over to the chemistry building, something’s wrong.
A muffled cough sounds from behind me. I turn, noticing the slightly ajar doors to the student study room. An amber light flickers from within.
Something makes me pause. A certain feeling that tickles the back of my neck. A certain quality to the air that seems to collect in the room and slither out the bottom.
I timidly knock on the door, pushing it open with my knuckles. A young man sits at a table in the center, concentrating on the light – a Bunsen burner, its flame flickering a deep orange. I first note that he has no care for safety precautions: lacking goggles or nitrile gloves, his black hair just long enough to hang dangerously close to the fire, and he’s resting an open flame on a wooden table. He’s dressed in a black turtleneck, plaid capris, fingers covered in rings of silver and malachite; uppity art student aesthetic. I’d think him lost if not for the lanyard that marks him as an unfortunate regular resident of the chemistry building.
Then I look a little closer and notice the loose cord of the Bunsen burner. Unplugged.
I place my foot in the door, readying a lecture about how just because class is out is no excuse to mess around with lab equipment – when he begins muttering. Lowly, guttural. In a language that conjures images of ancient Babylonian priests gathered around a brazier of smoldering herbs and animal organs. A language that both chills and burns my blood.
He finishes, and the flame shoots up in a burst of smoke. It changes from amber to bright, gemstone blue.
My mouth drops.
“Oh my God.”
He notices me then, and shoots out of his chair like he’s been caught, well, performing black magic. His head moves frantically from me, to the burning blue flame, to the open door I stand in.
“It’s not...this isn’t,” he starts, in a voice much more subdued than the bestial one he spoke in.
“What you just did-” I swallow. “Magic. You performed magic.”
His eyebrows shoot up. Like he didn’t expect me to jump to that conclusion.
“No. No, I didn’t. I’m a chemistry major.” He flaps his lanyard. “I’m doing an experiment. The flame can change color suddenly when-”
“Not without any electricity it can’t,” I say, pointing to the dangling cord.
He slowly turns his head, staring at the cord. His fingers tense and loosen, vein popping in his neck. Then he slowly turns to me.
“It’s a new model. It can be charged so that you don’t always have it plugged in. Saves energy.”
“New model?” I squint at the burner. “With rust all around its stand? And I don’t remember the chemistry department being allotted any funds for additional equipment.”
I place my hands on my hips. This, I’m sure of. The spiral-bound annual departmental budget reports were the most exciting reading material that sat on top of the work printers. Something I would flip through as I waited for too many copies of fifty-page reports.
He holds a finger up, words stuck in his throat. I take a step forward.
“Just admit it. I won’t tell anyone. Promise,” I say, grinning. “Can you do it again?”
“You want to...meet with me?” His mouth twists sourly. “Know more?”
He takes in a long, measured breath through his nose. I can practically hear him counting to ten behind his eyes.
“Can you just...walk out the door? Pretend you never saw this, and we never speak again?” He shakes his head, swiping away his bangs ferociously. “Wait, no. Now that you know, I need to keep track of you. In case it does get out, we can trace it back to the source.”
He runs his gaze up and down me, like he’s trying to assess my threat level. I hold up my hands. I probably should be more panicked by the reality of magic, and that this person possesses the ability to warp the elements, but really – it's just a nice change of pace from my usual workday.
“Hey, if I were going to blab to everyone, why would I still be here talking to you? I would’ve just run out the door screaming and summoning a new era of witch hunts.”
He runs a finger along his bottom lip.
“You’re right...” He pauses. “Wait, I – why are you still here?”
I laugh like all my plans were falling into place. Not like I was stalling for time.
So. I just discovered the existence of magic. I was talking to a practitioner of said magic. One who happened to attend the same university as me. One who did so with such casual abandon that the most difficult thing to believe was that magic had never been discovered before.
There were so many questions. He couldn’t flee the university – even the secrets of magic couldn’t rival that of college debt. And with the way he stands: knees locked, muscles tensed...he’s at my mercy. His magic couldn’t be that dangerous, if he was afraid of someone as blandly unthreatening as me.
“I want to make a bargain with you,” I say, crossing my arms while shoving the paper stack under my armpit.
His shoulders slump.
“I can’t give you any power. That’s not how it works. And I can’t grant wishes, or curse your enemies, and so on.”
I raise an eyebrow. Such a rehearsed answer. Maybe he had let the secret of magic slip before.
“That’s not what I want,” I continue. “I want to meet with you, and I want to know more.”
His face slackens.
“You want to...meet with me?” His mouth twists sourly. “Know more?”
My phone buzzes. It had to be work. Even though my job was probably one step below papyrus-maker, the university sure wasn’t going to pay someone for being out of the office (and thus, potentially having fun) on their dime.
Stiff, oppressive heat greets me. But there’s still that certain something that was in the air yesterday. A spice to the atmosphere, like pepper flakes and cinnamon.
It must be the magician’s presence.
“I’ll be back!” I quickly ran through my schedule in my mind. Lunch break. “At 12:30 PM tomorrow!” I pause, glancing at the first name on the lanyard. “Mr. Malachi. Wow, is your family even trying to keep your magic a secret? That’s such a wizard-y name.”
I walk away from his tortured sigh, papers crinkling under the swing of my arms. I pause again.
“Oh, by the way, do you know where Dr. Sevian's office is?”
*
Tomorrow's lunch break comes, and I race through the pollen-laden heat of June to the opposite edge of campus, third floor of the chemistry building. I wipe the sweat from my hairline, return my breathing to sedentary pace, and fling open the doors of the student study room. Stiff, oppressive heat greets me. But there’s still that certain something that was in the air yesterday. A spice to the atmosphere, like pepper flakes and cinnamon.
It must be the magician’s presence.
Malachi starts in his chair. Still in the same spot at the table, sans any Bunsen burner, V-neck black tee instead of a turtleneck. The heat and this building’s ancient AC must’ve been too much for him to make a fashion statement. His back is ramrod straight. I grin.
“Hello,” I say, and fling my lunch box on the table across from him.
He steeples his fingers, looking between me and the lunchbox.
“Did you eat?” I ask.
His brows fall flat.
“No.”
“Any peanut allergy?”
He tilts his head, eyebrows making a deeper, frustrated crease.
“No.”
I extend half of my sandwich.
“Here, take it. Or does PB&J offend you?”
He opens his mouth for another no, shakes his head, then gingerly accepts the sandwich. He stares at the table beneath him, fingers pressing hard enough to indent the bread. I silently hand him a napkin. He readily accepts, placing the sandwich half down.
He stares at me as I eat.
“What?”
He frowns.
“Are you...going to ask me anything?”
“Right. Magic.” He flinches at the word. I continue. “So, what is its prevalence in our society? Do you have an estimate of your population? Oh – is there a secret question in the census, asking in code if you possess magic? Is the government in the know?”
His eyelids shutter; filing each question neatly, no doubt.
“Rare, as it’s always been. Notable enough that stories and legends circulate, but not so widespread that it’s easy to find others of your kind or gather together. It is not kept track of formally, outside of families, so I can’t give you an exact estimate. I’ve only met two people outside of my family who possess magic, and I’ve travelled to multiple countries. For the specific purpose of finding others.” He takes a breath. “There is no secret question in the census. The government’s knowledge goes as far as fables and fairytales. It is a fairly well-kept secret.” He sends a pointed look at me. “Despite the impression you might have, now.”
I nod, wiping crumbs from my mouth.
“So it’s hereditary. What’s your family’s story, then?”
He wrings his fingers. Still eyeing the sandwich like it’s laced with nightshade.
“We were alchemists, supposedly stemming all the way back from Akkad. The Mesopotamian capital.” He pauses, and I nod in recognition. “Not much has really changed since then. Magic is resistant to change - dominant in the genes, but only manifesting in certain children of the bloodline. Our family spread out. We moved on from alchemy to chemistry.”
“Ah, so the color changing fire is a traditional magic of yours?”
He groans, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes.
“No. That’s...it’s just...I’m trying to help my uncle with his research. He doesn’t want me to, though.”
I chew, thoughtful. Uncle. Research. Color changing fire.
“Oh, is Dr. Sevian your uncle?”
He raises his eyebrows.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“The paper I delivered yesterday had something similar in its title, by a Dr. Sevian. Not too hard to draw the connection.”
He narrows his eyes.
“Where do you work?”
“The print shop. As a printer watchman and Bonafide taskmaster. My summer companions are the stapler and paperclip jar. Anyway, back to more interesting things. Why doesn’t your uncle want your help?”
He picks at the bread. Likely swallowing the bile that seems to stem whenever I bring up the more personal side of his magic.
“There’s a bit of a divide. My immediate family branched out and studies organic matter. Plants and the like. They’re involved in pharmaceuticals and medicinal manufacture. They want to use our magic to be productive to society. A miraculous gift that shouldn’t be squandered.” He runs a hand through his hair. Black strands catching in one of his ring’s sculpted like a coiled snake. “On the other side, there’s parts of the family who like to stay true to our roots: experimenting with raw materials and studying their properties when mixed with magic. Knowledge for knowledge’s sake. The two sides...disagree quite a lot. I came here to study under my uncle, but he still tries to discourage me. He likely has my mother talking in his ear.”
“Oh, I get it.”
He pauses.
“You do?”
“Sure.” I begin peeling an orange. “It’s like if your Mom and Dad were both doctors, and then you come here to study under your uncle who's the black sheep of the family – a liberal arts professor. Maybe they’re nervous because they don’t clearly see the path you can take after you graduate, the paths that they’ve taken – which have worked, to be fair. But your uncle’s a testament to that, right? He has a good job and is clearly doing something interesting with his research.”
He sits, frozen. All stiffness wiped from his face and replaced with wide surprise. I stare back. Then I extend an orange section. He breaks his stare and pops it in his mouth.
“What’s your major?” he asks. His voice different. Somewhat gentler. A gap in his armor.
“Business statistics. But I’ll probably change it again.” I check my phone and curse. 12:54. I need to sprint back to the print shop. “Let’s meet somewhere else tomorrow. I think this place functions as a reliquary for the AC units. And this feels too secretive. We need a more public place to maintain our cover. If anyone asks, we can pretend like we’re roleplaying in an urban fantasy setting.”
We both wait. In this moment, there’s potential. He could ask where to meet. I could demand a location. We could exchange phone numbers.
But the phone numbers feel too wrong. Too early. Not befitting the ancient arts of magic. If letters and owls weren’t too slow, that’d be a more appropriate method.
And for some reason, after everything I’ve done, I can’t work up the courage to ask for it.
“How about the Student Union?” he says finally.
I nod.
“Perfect. Maybe then you can find something suitable for your refined palate?”
I jerk my chin to the uneaten sandwich half. He flushes maroon.
“Ah, yes. I...I will.”
“Great.” I stop at the door, pointing a finger. “And remember, if you don’t come, the entire magical world’s existence is out. I’d hate for that monumental change to our society to be on your shoulders.”
I hear his rough sigh as I shut the door. I smile as I leave the magical boy and the horrible heat of the third-floor chemistry building.
*
I make it to the Union in better time. Partly because of the distance, and partly because the promise of ice-cool, modern air conditioning makes the July temperatures seem less lethal.
I find the perfect spot: a booth, pressed flat against the wall. All adjoining ones are empty, but enough ambient conversation floats in from the single open food joint inside to cover up anything we might talk about. I fling my things into the seat, satisfied.
Then I wait. I look around. I see the same souls stuck here. Unfamiliar, yet familiar in our plight. Some of them alone, some of them with other unfortunate, tired acquaintances.
Someone meets my gaze, and I quickly return my attention to the table.
It’s been a few minutes. Did my magical acquaintance decide talking to me was worse than letting the secret of magic get out to the entire world? I hadn’t brought a book, my phone was low on battery and my friends in different time zones, and I had picked such a viewable area. People were far too sensitive in the summer, alert to any anomalies – those milling about were already looking at me, I could feel it. I couldn’t sit alone here.
I begin shoving things around in my bag to look like I’d just gotten a frantic call and had to leave suddenly, then swung my legs outside the booth.
And I see Malachi standing in front of me. My frantic thoughts fly out my ears, replaced with him. I breathe in that same energy: electric-charged cardamon. It must be magic.
Today’s look is turn-of-the-century punk: purple flannel tied around black corduroy capris. And of course, he couldn’t leave the house without his collection of antique rings. They’d be more fitting on an eighty-year-old woman’s crepey fingers, but somehow, he makes it work.
“Sorry. I wasn’t sure if we were meeting at the same time, or...” His eyes dart across my face, cautious. He holds up a paper sack, dotted with grease on the bottom. “And I got food.”
I quickly slide back into the booth.
“Great. That’s good. Good.”
I want to chomp down on my tongue. He slowly sits across from me, not setting his food fully on the table. Not committing.
“Did you need to go somewhere?”
“What? No.” I straighten my fingers, lining them up like a fence. “I have questions-”
“Wait, one second. Before we start.” He twists in his seat. Then he sighs, forcing the words out with a rough rub of his eyes. “What’s your name? It feels...unbalanced, not knowing.”
I nod slowly.
“I suppose I can risk giving you that information.”
He peers past his fingers. Flat.
“Really.”
“Jamie,” I say, and I don’t like the way it comes out of my mouth. Too heavy. Like the pound of an official, inky stamp.
“Jamie,” he repeats, mouth drawn as if he’s using an unfamiliar language.
“Yep. Not as exciting as yours, I know.”
“No, that’s not...” He tilts his head. “It’s fitting. I think. Somehow.”
“So.” I slam my hand down on the table, willing away this talk and the pinpricks that rise in my stomach. “What did you get to eat?”
He carefully extracts the contents of the sack.
“Panini. Ham and cheese.”
“Ah. Can’t go wrong there.” I pinch my thigh. Stupid. I should’ve never chosen the Union. Too casual. It’s throwing me off. “Do magic users have any dietary intolerances? Weaknesses? Like vampires and garlic?”
He wrinkles his nose.
“Only the usual, I guess. No undercooked meat, raw egg, heavy metals, et. cetera.”
I nod seriously.
“Is there any food that you hate?”
He pauses mid-bite. Eyes looking to the far right, somewhere else, back in time.
“Shrimp. Only because I had some bad ones when I was little, and I spent the next two days throwing up. That's all I can think about when I see them.”
“Right. I get that.”
He sets down his panini. Then he interlaces his fingers, peering at me over those winking silver rings. They make me freeze. Maybe they’re enchanted.
I frown and stare at his hands. One of his rings is a fox-head, its eyes deep garnet. I look at my hands. Bare.
“Can I ask something about you?”
The pinpricks come back, icy.
“...why?”
“What do you mean why?”
“We’re here to talk about magic,” I say shortly.
“What does my least favorite food have to do with magic?”
I run my fingers along the table. Admiring the long squeak they make on the laminate.
“I said so – it could be a source of weakness. You’re doing experiments on elements and their magical properties, why couldn’t the same apply to food? Wouldn’t you consider a potion a consumable, an edible?”
He thoughtfully folds his napkin. His eyes aren’t narrowed in annoyance anymore. The bottom of one creases up as I speak. Like he’s halfway between a sneeze and a smile.
“Okay, you have a point.” His rings sing as he stretches his fingers along the table. Much more elegant than my squeaky antics. “But I can't help notice you’re diverting the conversation away from yourself.”
I frown and stare at his hands. One of his rings is a fox-head, its eyes deep garnet. I look at my hands. Bare. Except for the random freckles.
“I don’t want to talk about me,” I say quietly. “I’m boring.”
The fox stares at me. I stare back. I can feel the stare of Malachi, beating down on my downturned scalp like the naked rays of the noon sun.
“That’s not fair,” he says, just as quiet.
I remove my gaze from the fox. I can see the whole rims of his irises, gray around cool brown. Too open, too fast.
My phone stays immobile in my pocket, but I yank it out of my pocket as if it electrified me.
“My work. I have to go.”
He leans out of the booth as if to follow.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Where are we meeting?”
My eyes dart around. At the people. At this terribly color-coordinated and suffocating Union.
“Outside. The garden behind the plant sciences building. Later, after I get off work at 5:00. It shouldn’t be so hot then.”
He nods, sliding back into the booth. To his half-eaten panini. My lunch sits heavy in my bag.
“Okay. I’ll be there.”
*
I trudge to the plant science gardens, beaten down by the day’s routine, by being monotonously awake, by the lingering evening heat. The sun glows orange-pink through the assorted browns of native grasses and flowers. They’re the prettiest thing in the garden, except for the colorful, shattered glass stepping stones.
Malachi sits on the stone bench just outside the path, face flushed and slick with perspiration. Credit of his all-black wardrobe. Surely he must know that darker colors absorb heat.
I plop down beside him. One bent stalk of grass splitting the space between us.
He looks at me from the side. Waits. Spins a matte gray ring around his knuckle.
“Hello,” he says.
“Hi.”
The cicadas begin crying. A couple walks through the gardens, car keys jangling and ready to go back to their lives.
I straighten.
“Can you show me something? Like what you did with the fire? Anything magic will do.”
He blinks, then nods once.
“I’m really only good at fire. It takes a lot of practice to control any element, so usually people specialize...” He clears his throat. “Anyways, you’ve already seen the color changing, so I’ll try to do something different.”
He rummages around in his pockets, producing a paperclip and crumpled sticky note. He wraps the sticky note around one end of the paperclip, the end he grips, while he shields the pointed one with his fingers. Then he mutters in that other language. One with many harsh s’s and h’s, making it sound like the hissing of a snake, a knife slicing paper.
“It’s as I thought. It’s lost its effect.”
His smile falls. The fire on the paperclip goes out with a sad, small whine.
The air around him bursts with the scent of singed spices. So potent it fills my nostrils, makes my arm hair stand on end.
The free end of the paperclip pops and glitters. A tiny flame bursts out, swirling playfully like sparklers on the Fourth of July.
Malachi smiles. Proud. My stomach twists, my breath stutters. A heavy warmth overtakes me.
He looks at me. I shake my head. Willing the coolness I’d prepared to overtake me.
“It’s as I thought. It’s lost its effect.”
His smile falls. The fire on the paperclip goes out with a sad, small whine.
“What? What do you mean?”
I stand quickly.
“It’s nothing against you, or your skill. I’m sure you’re wonderful at it.” I clench my bag strap tightly. I stare down at the sunlit stepping stones. “Now that I’ve had a few days to come to terms with the existence of magic, it’s not a novelty anymore. It is an ordinary facet of life. Thank you for exposing me to this side of the world. I am better for it.”
I bite my tongue before I can continue to uselessly fill the air with words. “I’m afraid this is our final meeting. Goodbye, Malachi. I hope the summer with your uncle goes well, and your family accepts your interest in non-organic elements.”
I turn to leave.
“Wait!”
Malachi reaches out, not quite taking my arm, then roughly shoves the charred paperclip in his pocket. He wipes away his sweaty bangs. The full color of his eyes are much too visible. Too sharp. Perhaps I shouldn’t have indirectly insulted a magician.
“You’re leaving, just like that? You’re one of the few people in the world who know of the existence of magic, and you’re...uninterested now?”
I run my gaze around the sunset rim of the sky. Anything to avoid his.
“I wouldn’t put it like that...”
“Then what is it?” He leans forward, nostrils flaring. “Or is this even about magic at all?”
I cross my arms, sticking out my chin. Cheeks hot from the accusation.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He lets out a flat laugh.
“You know, I don’t think this was really a bargain. A bargain is give and take. You know about me, about magic, and I know nothing at all about you.” He narrows his eyes. “Somehow, you’re the more mysterious one here.”
I snort.
“This wasn’t ever about me. Why do you keep bringing that up? Besides, my side of the bargain was not telling the world about magic’s existence. Not giving out details about myself.”
He clenches and releases his hands. Looking more frustrated than when we first met.
“I don’t get it,” he says lowly.
The air simmers. I feel like I need to give an explanation, an apology, but I don’t have any of those. I sigh.
“This is the summer, Malachi,” I say. “These exchanges, whatever we talked about, exist only in this summer. It’ll fade away into something as good as fiction, eventually. Magic, you, me. It’s best to stop it now, before it even begins.”
I see his fists ball within his pockets. The scent of spices burning.
“You’re deciding that,” he says.
“I’m not. The summer ends. It always does.” My neck falls back and I look up at the now crimson sky, its edges undulating from the heat. “We only met because we’re stuck in these limbo positions: me as the print shop delivery person, and you helping your uncle. Come fall, we’ll be back to our regular lives. Where we never would’ve intersected.”
“But you’re keeping it that way.”
I snap my head back down, meeting his gaze full-on.
“Why does it have to fall to me, then? I’m tired of it. I can’t keep it up.” I shake my head, turning. Tomorrow, I’d be back at the print shop for work. Sue would grunt a hello, I’d be left alone with my wandering thoughts, and there would be no magician boy keeping me on my toes. “Goodbye, Malachi.”
He lets me leave, then. The smell of ashy coriander lingers in my nostrils.
*
The beginning of the school year rushes in, like always, and the loneliness of the summer college campus is just a miniscule memory. My life isn’t absorbed by the print shop, but by assignments, the stories friends bring of their own summer adventures, the promise of exciting plans when the weekend finally arrives. I’m myself again. Not so conscious of my aloneness. Not when I’m easily surrounded by people. By the regular pace of life. By distractions.
I don’t think of magic. It doesn’t exist in my life.
I’m heading back from the dining center, pulled along with my throng of friends, when I see Malachi. He walks alone, black-skull earbuds stuffed into his ears and frown planted firmly on his face. A book titled Applied Methods of Colored Plasmas is stuffed under his arm; some light reading material for lunch. I stare openly, protected by the chatter of my friends.
We pass, and he glances to the side. I wave. Only because he’s alone. He nods once. Barely detectable.
Yet a couple of my friends catch this exchange.
“Who was that?”
“A wizard,” I say, and because it’s me, they all laugh. The comment dismissed without further thought.
Magic flickers out with the arrival of fall. With the chance passing-by of that stranger. Its embers remaining forever in that summer.
Taylor Jamison is a senior in food science, but since she was a child, she has always loved contemplating the possibility of magic and the stories born from her imagination. She hopes to continue to share her stories with the world in the future and looks forward to reading Touchstone even when she graduates from K-State this May!