Living is a Strange Thing
EXTRAS
The Board—Composed of the highest magickers in the entire region of Lyndon (9,000-above), and rules over the magickal world while keeping an eye on the mundane. There’s no real leader of the board, rather, all the members are like a democratic party and vote among themselves to make a decision. To get on the Board, there’s a competition every 5 years, though the current members of the Board never lose.
There are seven members, though there were supposed to be eight, but Rayburn didn’t want to get roped further into…that. Especially, since his aunt is a member of the Board. Rayburn isn’t exactly considered a Greyhead because he was raised in Smallerville with his maternal aunt (surname: Holloway) and by the Burtrom family.
Members of magickal families who have power above or on the score of 5,000-9,000, but not like those on the Board
Members of magickal families who are below average (below 5,000)and near mundane
These places in society are based on what they score on a test held every year by the Board to see who is worthy and who is not, basically. They also mark the scores down and keep them in files along with other information about the person; these files are kept in the Attic.
This place is where all the files of a person are kept. Their most valuable possessions/memoirs that are used to make their wands are kept there as well, but require a special code inside of that file to get to it. Only Higher-Ups have custom made wands as they are the only ones who truly need it; as their line of work happens to be more hands-on because of their stronger magickal abilities.
Creatures of unknown origin, but have a craving for magickers. They have a human shape, with sharp features and cold, black eyes that can see to your soul—literally, well, your subconscious to be more clear; their limbs are long, but they have front legs and hind legs like a dog, the ends of them, though, are sharp and taloned. They use memories (the more prominent ones) to trap their victims and hold them down while they feed off them. After Rayburn was attacked, they disappeared for a while. The BMI thinks because of his magickal power, which is A LOT, they got drunk/full off it.
This is the place where Rayburn works. It is the secondary hub for all magickal busy-bodies. Their work includes murders, new animals, missing people, strange occurrences, etc. All have to be magick related for the Bureau to get on it. If not magickal, the Mundane Police Force will be assigned to it. Most of the people who work here are Lower-Downs, with the Higher-Ups being their superiors. Rayburn, to the disgust of his paternal aunt, is in the place of a Lower-Down. Now, Rayburn, based on his placing in the Scoring competition, is the strongest magicker in existence, but he doesn’t believe he deserves that praise because of what he left behind and he doesn’t want people’s eyes on him anyway. He never knows what they’re thinking; he can’t read emotions that well.
Handpicked magickers who take wood from the oak, ash, and thorn trees, all with magick traces found in them that boost the holder’s magick, and they take a prominent memory from that person. It helps shape their wand (sometimes it turns into an object, a person, an animal, etc) to what is written for them. The wand can also have custom spells created by the holder.
Lower-Downs who work for the BMI with crime scenes or places where they are needed. Their wands are not custom made, and instead a generic apple tree wood. The wood is still capable of magick, but doesn’t make the holder stronger or weaker. (All Lower-Downs are assigned these wands because palm magick is illegal)
To proclaim that I have a single justice in this mind of mine would be a lie. For even the best men have unholy thoughts, and I am one of the worst.
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It was a feather, a brush, a tickle of whisper. The kiss itself wasn’t one truly but, nevertheless, had shattered the well of my concealed feelings for the boy I called my friend and let them run free. Down, down, down into this beating organ I call my heart.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------“Hey Ray,” he said one day as we basked in the sun’s glory, stretching our lengthening limbs in the meadow, “What do you think the meaning of life is?”
I had pondered over it for a few, and, upon coming without a true solid answer, I shrugged. “I suppose we are never to find out, Oswald. If we did, we would try to achieve it and doing so would disturb Life. We would spend all our time trying to achieve the meaning of life that we wouldn’t live Life itself.” Then, realizing what I had said, I laughed.
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And upon those eyes that shone like bronze in the sun, my image was reflected for me to behold. My gaunt face, my chapped lips, the hungry, purple holes that threatened to swallow my eyes. I looked at myself in that reflection and thought: How could someone as great as he love such a human as I?
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“An unspeakable amount of regret you have caused me, Oswald, and it still continues to increase.” I turned away from my old lover to avoid his knowing eyes from befalling upon my twisted face—to avoid him from seeing my lying eyes.
“And is our meeting now what you would call ‘regrettable’? After six years of freedom from me, who you call your devil,” he paused to see if I would deny his claim; when I didn’t he continued, his voice rough and hurt, “is our meeting now going to be piled up with the other regrets I have so left you with?”
“Are you leaving?” I asked carefully.
I heard Oswald rearrange his thoughts behind me in silence, trying to make sense of my question. “In the end, yes, but the length this case proves to be will either expand or decrease my stay with your department.”
“Then I suppose you will indeed leave me with more baggage to carry. Goodnight.” I stayed where I was on the balcony until he left.
Then, I cried and left myself to be swallowed by my disgusting amount of self-pity.
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To think that such a man as I deserved any kind of love was idiotic—hypocritical on my part. I should have screamed at him for his misguided steps towards me that day; I should have pushed him away from my aching chest and explained to him that I was not one deserving of his love. But I was still a man, teetering on the edge of Hell itself or not, and I kissed him back with such overwhelming passion that one would think I was trying to save my soul through his love. I would have been even more of an idiot if I had believed that Oswald could save me from the grave I had dug for myself.
Perhaps he could have?
No—not at all.
A short little excerpt, ‘cause why not?
Oswald was a pest.
An utter pest.
He seemed to believe that I wanted his presence with me—I did not—and he further indulged his delusions by creating this fantasy about us two as friends.
Oswald Alexander Burtrom was a delusional, goofy-faced pest.
And I was utterly enamored with him.
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We were sitting outside one day right on my aunt’s porch, our legs dangling off of it and right in front of the chicken coop. It looked cheery on the outside with its red paint and black tipped hinges, but I knew what sort of monstrosities lived inside. I had suggested sitting where we were because of it; I did not wish to be in close proximity to the creatures. The wooden railing in front of us would protect me, mostly anyway.
Oswald didn’t want nor need protection, but he did as I asked.
A chicken poked its head out the coop door warily, and clucked periodically as it strutted out onto the untamed ground. Oswald noticed it and pointed. “Look.”
“I see it,” I say dryly, “You don’t have to point at it.” He didn’t get mad at me. Instead, he stood up and took the steps down from the porch and to the coop. “What are you doing?” I asked hesitantly, my voice rising in volume as my eyes tracked his path to the chicken coop. Oswald tossed me a grin over his shoulder, but otherwise ignored my distress.
Oswald crouched down low and stalked slowly to the now frozen chicken, who was leveling him down with a side-eyed stare. Suddenly—quicker than I could comprehend—Oswald launched himself at the bird, doubling over himself and wrestling the chicken to the ground. After a frenzy of feathers, angered hisses that were matched with determined grunts, Oswald stood up thrumpriantly, clutching the chicken’s head tightly against his chest with one hand and the other holding its legs together.
I noticed that my mouth hung open wide in shock. I closed it immediately and stood with haste when Oswald started to come back to the porch.
With the chicken.
Honestly, to question the mind of the mortal man is to spiral down a deep well in the shadows of the night—for one to comprehend the thinkings and thoughts, they would have to stumble around in the dark, thrashing their hands out to grab at the passing answers. If there are any answers at all.
I say all of this to make you understand, on some note or level, that all men, no matter race or religion, are elaborate and inhibit complexities that defy all natural things in Nature. It is our being; it is, and I am sorry for my words if they cause offence, the religion of all. To want something more than we need is abnormal in the face of Nature. Human Nature is opposed to Natural Nature.
Just the other day, as I went to the park for my weekly stroll, I happened to pass by a family of three—a mother, a father, and their son. They seemed to be well off, though, “well off” is an understatement. They were rich. You could tell it in the way they walked, in the way they talked, and their clothing. Their son was having a tantrum, no doubt about something trivial. The mother had her gloved hand covering her face in shock, the other trying to hold her child still. The father just shook his head in disappointment.
“Oh, my dear!” The mother cried, wrestling her son in her arms. “Whatever is the matter? What do you want from mommy, dear?”
At the word want, the child stilled and looked up at his mother with an innocent smile. “I want…a candy.”
I grew bored of the scene after that and continued my walk with thoughts swirling in my mind. That, however simple and small of a scene it was, is an example for the greater things that could happen with the word “want” in the human mind.
For instance, a king could just want to get more land for his kingdom, killing off thousands upon thousands of people; destruction of life, a Natural Nature. Or, on a lower and personal scale, a husband could just want to have a different woman, leading to infidelity; destruction of trust, also, a Natural Nature. Honestly, there are a many, many things one could derive from this one word that disturbs Natural Nature. Of course, it seems my time with you, journal, is running to a close.
It is, again, five ‘till nine.
I would have thought myself bored by now. Four—no!—five years; for five years I have been watching the interactions of man and still, still, fascination holds me captive.
I know you may find my entries rather…eccentric, journal, but, to defend myself, I must tell you my mind runs at its own pace and speed. It sees one thing and thinks about it while looking at another. Nature—Natural or Human I have not figured out yet, but I shall—has given me strength to do such! Although I cannot look man in the eye, or understand the metaphors and riddles they speak in, the negatives do not compare to the positives as I am able to hide—as they say—in plain sight as occurrences that interest me happen.
My own personal play—The Glare of Humanity! The shine of the light they execute and the dark swirling in the back of your eyes when the bright light leaves. For others, they are blinded by the glare from the truth. But I—and only I—am shielded from the blinding light. It’s truly wondrous what you can see when you avoid their shield….
I apologize for my moment of…glee. This, strangely, is the only thing that makes my heart pound. Not physical pleasure. Not extracurricular activities. No regular hobbies; to call my fascination a hobby is disgraceful to man themselves.