Sandy always thought that a school of magic would be found in some fantasy place as a child. Some medieval environment on a secluded island where people flaunted their wardrobes and showed off their paraphernalia. She thought magic would utilize special effects like dazzling lights and shocking sounds. In those days, she went everywhere with this silly diary of hers, jotting down magic spells and such.
In high school she studied the occult, part of her vamp phase. She gave up on the glitter and mist, but the wardrobe was still important. Silver pentacles, a golden ankh, and crystal jewelry shined over her dark outfits, letting everyone know she was into magic without fear, and constantly explaining herself to other people, that she was not practicing devil worship. She would lecture those who took notice about the differences between white and black magic, mostly from what she read in the books.
In college she came back to reality a bit, studying meditation and Yoga, the connection between the mind and the body, and began honing her mind on philosophy. She became a student of history and religion, with an insatiable appetite for any translated ancient texts she could lay her hands on. Existentialism became the focus of her magical attempts.
Now just over thirty, living in an empty house with only her two cats to keep her company, she pulled a diary from and old box and flipped it open. It was her first book on magic. She couldn’t resist, and carried it to the kitchen table. After soaking some chamomile from her outside garden in a glass of steaming water, she imbibed the tea slowly while poring over page after page.
Most of the entries were about her dreams, or things that she saw in meditation, mixed with a few notes about her naive esoteric theories from those days. About a quarter of the way through, one of the dream entries stopped her, and she had to read it over. It was a detailed account of a date she would have later in her twenties. She recalled having a sense of deja vu when it happened. The date didn’t seem that important, and she had nearly forgotten the details, but seeing them outlined clearly in an entry dated five years before it happened shocked her.
She flipped through another few pages and found another strange foretelling of a birthday party where her mother had lost her wedding ring, and instead of blowing out candles, Sandy was getting splashed with water from a pipe trap under the bathroom sink, searching for the golden circlet. Again, written in this old diary long before it happened.
She closed the book, and glanced over the cover. The pink fabric coating was slightly weathered, and she recalled taking the diary everywhere with her, hoping that nobody would ever open it. She wrote all of these pages before the goth phase began, and now older, she knew something about the possibility of seeing the future through dreams. Yet she never realized what was happening.
She returned to the reading. Every tenth or twelfth entry in the dreams category was an event that actually happened later on in her life. The incident with the mailman finally bringing her a Star Wars Lego set she’d been waiting on for weeks. An opening movie night with another boyfriend. The death of mittens, the cat she lost before finding Binks and Fedora, which she often referred to as the Yin-Yang kitties.
Binks hopped on the table, and a tingle fell over her, as she could remember the white Persian doing just that jump, just that way, as he strutted toward the pink notebook, purring. Fedora sat on the bar between the dining table and kitchen, her green eyes staring in a familiar way. It was happening again. Deja vu.
She flipped hurriedly through the book, feeling a numbness in her arm and a sharp pain in her chest. She could remember all of this as well. The last entry in the journal before blank pages finished it out started terrifyingly: I dreamed about having a heart attack last not, and woke up in a cold sweat.