The Magicians' Diary

You see, I have this... Spell Book. Yes, it’s just another Notebook like the one I'm writing in now to the average Passerby, to anyone who would see me with it in public. Of course, only another Practitioner would identify it with any level of certainty. These rare Spell Books only exist as anything more to Magicians, and us alone. Just as someone who doesn't have the romantic heart of a Poet can only see what appears to them to be foolish or manic writings within with pentagram drawings, abbreviations for the Crystals and detailed steps to magnify the intentions, the pronunciations of the Spells and Curses themselves and the energies and vibrational levels as emotional states to channel, such a Spell Book of mine would only pass as someone's kooky scribbles to anyone else. Moreover, even if some average person did read aloud it's contents, which are primarily in Latin as much for concealment as for accuracy, it'd be read aloud to no effect. Save for any rare individuals such as myself who practice such fragile, finely tuned arts, fewer still have even a remote affinity for controlling their emotions enough to cast such powerful Spells.

You see, a Spell Book must always be treated with utmost care and caution. This is why they must always have black leather coverings. Some older and altogether rarer Spell Books may be found from ancient sources in darkened brown leather of their time and place in history- I’ve never heard of nor seen personally any Spell Book that wasn’t bound by the leather of a large predator like a bear, moose, or buffalo hide. Modern Spell Books, the scantly found and well-hidden as they are, are all found to be bound in blackened leather and sealed with a clasp of a refined precious metal, most clasped by Silver, Bronze, or Gold as to magnetize the Seal against energetic and physical penetration. The color of black protects the practitioners' contents- their Energetic Intent, the Quantum Forces the Spells read aloud contain, and the Soulful Ties to the book of the Practitioners themselves. This Energy brought to human frequencies and willfully used in earnest by a Practitioner must be protected at all costs, lest the sunlight or open air catch it's loosely bound pages and eradicate the carefully sealed directives within. Like a Coaches’ Playbook whose plays written inside are a set of instructions, a Spell Book is alive and consequential to it’s observers, but quickly fades in the power of the ultra-high frequency Sunlight which fades not just the colors within. Opening it outside during daytime would be to nullify the Practitioner’s powers over any given spell while performing it. Sometimes, this is why High Magick is described as a Dark Art, though in that sense of which they’re referring to my practice could be more accurately described as a Grey Art, of both good and bad ramifications. The propensity for each depends on the individual's intentions, not based on the practice itself. Many Spells fortify and enhance in a great many ways, as opposed to destroy or kill.

Just as my precious Spell Book must be kept away from daylight and the elements, so it also mustn’t meet an ill-meaning Spell Caster or perverted by a Non-Practitioner reading it aloud. This is why seeing a Spell Book in Public isn't just a rare occurrence: it may have never yet happened. Such an occurrence is about as rare as seeing a seated President in your local Deli without the accompanying Secret Service in a town remote from Washington, D.C.: it simply doesn't happen. The Spells are kept under clasp and the cover of darkness and performed in private as to potentiate the Spells over any required distance.

"Kundalini Von Spree Kahn, Uru Kahn Kreekas, Eres Von Nutu!" I chanted.

"Kundalini Von Spree Kahn, Uru Kahn Kreekas, Eres Von Nutu!" I repeated with resonance nearing a shout.

"Kundalini Von Spree Kahn, Uru Kahn Kreekas, Eres Von Nutu!" I repeated with all the energy I had, my emotions seething, powering the spell I cast.

"Kundalini Von Spree Kahn, Uru Kahn Kreekas, Eres Von Nutu!" I repeated finally, my subject visualized in my mind all the while as I, trembling as I mounted the fury I had towards the seething prayer I emitted finally gesticulated the last utterance of my most guarded Spell- The Killing Curse I created myself three years prior. This came to pass only after summoning the Higher Dimensions to guide me in it’s creation. How I did so was a combination of factors, the full equation of which I will never fully divulge.

I awoke from my unconscious state after blacking out at the conclusion of my ritualistic High Magic performance. This happens often in compared to the frequency at which I cast such a powerful spell, which is rare if ever for a practitioner such as I. A Sorcerer such as myself is not yet at least such an accomplished wizard to be influencing the reality around me at the cusp of my conscious thought, something only one in a thousand practitioners (of whom is already one-in-100-million) come to be as powerful as. The last one who publicly allowed for such recognition was Merlin, and even he was known to practice his spells aloud when they were of dire importance to him.

As I cast my spell in my dimly candlelit room at half past three in the morning of that consequential September day, precisely three years ago, I instantly experienced the gust of energetic wind that accompanied the curses’ onset. My enchanted words never had so much power behind them: I had cast the spell only after accepting the darkness and light within me as the forces of which to fight other, vastly darker, entities themselves, left open to such spell work. No one else has charged their Crystals for months on end with the same intent as the spell emitted from my spell casting quarters. Crystal, as all practitioners know, are energetic incubators of a practitioner's energy and intent that then store and magnify it for the practitioner when activated with the words of the spell cast and the emotions emitted along with it.

I stood up in the flickering room to the creaking of the floorboards, knowing that judging on the reaction of my body, there was an equal and opposite reaction occurring in my target. This being the case, I wasted no time making the call I savored more than the spell itself- an assured visage of what occurred in the spell itself.

From my burner phone, I called to hasten the authorities to my anonymous goings-on.

"9-1-1 emergency."

"I need to report a murder at 927 Vincent Street, Northridge Gated Community, in Calloway. There's a dead man on the floor inside."

*Click.* I removed the cell phone's battery and threw the remnants in a nearby dumpster as I walked to the parking lot my Land Rover sat parked in, crossing through the alley across the street from my uptown Bungalow.

Now playing Private Investigator as I always do to verify my subject had succumbed to my Killing Curse- this my very own Spell that only I know how precisely to work- and in my black Land Rover I waited outside the vast and sprawling mansion outside it’s gates, unabashedly sipping coffee on the curbside beyond the front gates to the manor, watching intently.

At half past five in the morning as the sky began to brighten prior to sunrise, two crime scene investigators, a sheriff's SUV, an ambulance, and a coroner arrived in quick succession to inspect the damage of my veritable vitriole. I sat intently, sipping my coffee until the ambulance finally wheeled out the lifeless body of my deserving victim- a man hardly conceivable as a victim if you knew what he did- siphoning laundered money out of multiple federal government accounts to which there was no quantifiable evidence against him. This thief's name need not be remembered by anyone except those who know of the atrocities against humanity that he imposed. I consider myself a Guardian, after all. A Guardian of the innocent against those who take advantage of them.

Apart from a curious look by the pair of men who wheeled the corpse into the ambulance to take to the morgue, I gained no suspicion from the crowd of responders. They must’ve thought I was either a first-response news team member or a nosey neighbor. Either to my advantage.

As the Sheriff walked out at last, an hour or so later, accompanied by the pair of CSI crime scene investigators at his flanks, I donned my own Don Knotts’ alternate ego’s persona as a clueless and mildly concerned neighbor as I innocently lumbered over to their vehicles as they reached them, after traversing the long entryway to the estate.

"Old Donnie had one too many last night, eh? I told him to go easy on the booze."

"Looks like he just dropped dead, actually. No signs of alcohol consumption. He died in the middle of the night after getting up to go to the john."

"Damn, no kidding," I replied with an effect of mildly wistful regret, "So who's gonna take his god forsaken dog?"

"The game warden should be here after he responds to the debacle over on Glenn Avenue where a hawk was let loose in a church during some type of seminar."

"I can hold the dog ‘til he comes to get it. I've dog-sat for him before. He can eat my leftovers I'd otherwise throw out."

And without even the slightest fuss, I was handed a competitively bred poodle with a diamond studded collar just before the Sheriff left. Having taken it immediately as though I was returning to my corner lot behind my parked location, I waited until the Sheriff rolled by and out of my way. Having sufficient time for him to clear the area, about five minutes with the spoiled brat of a dog, I took off it’s collar and put it in the glove box. I had to sell this forsaken mutt to my black market guy. He sold all kinds of exotic things to rich people, and probably knew precisely where such a dog might make him a buck.

I walked out of the pawn shop with a twenty-thousand dollars cash in my hands without the fuss of court hearings, jail time, nor the shame of a community. I removed a bad man from this world and profited from it, royally. Whether the dog benefited from it as much as I did, I doubt it. I never saw the money kick back to me from the man I gave it to sell, but keeping such a man happy keeps him on your side whenever you might need something from him when in a bind, and that's good enough for me. Besides, when High Magic brings such returns, who can complain? Certainly not I, said the Anonymous Practitioner.