the black magic show.

[Luz Cresceno]

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For Misery. SAUNTERThere, amid the misty bottoms betwixt beech-maidens and grandfather elms: a bass-string strum of bad intention. Or so it seemed to the astronomer on her whim-bent midnight stroll, loose amongst evening’s other denizens, a thief amidst so many robbers. It was possible to forget that Luz Cresceno had ever been a girl-child when she strode along on such ungodly hours; she might have been but another dark shade amongst eventide’s several, a lie of moonlight, one that smiled with tooth and lip and possessed (amid other gems) amethyst eyes. So did all travelers appear, at night, beyond their beds. Perhaps they were. Her heart – and I speak of the soul here, rather than that particular time-ticking organ – sang at such times. Surely she was always meant for these moments! Surely she had never been intended for daytime’s bright bite! A glance exposed her utter comfort, cloaked in kindnesses of the hour; a stare revealed a lifetime spent below starlight, an whole half-decade passed amid eve’s eldritch fancies. But a blink after either observation showed that such conclusions were based only on impressions of posture and physiognomy – faulty sources indeed when one observed how Luz Cresceno’s countenance contained such cunning angles. Maybe, a bright student may remark, it was the sick soul leaking into condemning lineaments and facial features that let her love an evening where the promise of ill-intention lingered about on each oak-gnarl and obstinate dandelion tussock. Far likelier was the possibility that she was Luz Cresceno, who loved the secret (and ugly) things as mothers adore their fair-haired sons. For all the foreshadowing, for all the poor omens strewn about on twig and sprig, nothing exposed itself. Her walk was as all other walks she’d ever taken, and her eyes had caught naught but owl-wing shadows for all their observation. What a tolerant imagination might name a path – but what honesty revealed as a thorn-thatch marginally more navigable than comparable briar bushes – wheeled her back towards the den she’d claimed on her previous debut at the Pack of White Supremacy, which she’d been pleased to discover as still unoccupied. It was nestled amongst those brumous hills that, according to her fellow denizens of the mist-land, were littered with fragments of the afterlife. The prospect did positively xylophonic things to her spine. “Whither you walking, darling, darling? Where are you walking to?” sang her voice amid a thousand other night-noises. A spectral enticement, perhaps? “Whither you walking, darling, darling? I wish I were walking with you.”

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