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Sympathetic Magic - 1/5
🕑 Added 2023-08-16 13:01:00 +0000 UTC
Contains: Breast Expansion as Weight Gain, Stuffing
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Sympathetic Magic
I
My grandma always told me the first rule of Sympathy is never to use it to harm people. Like murder, assault, or harassment, we have a word for it: malefaction. It’s not illegal; because the existence of magic is a secret, but that doesn’t make it any less wrong. So when I decided to commit malefaction against my college rival, it’s only fitting that it blew up in my face. At the time, I called it a grey area, but it really wasn’t.
I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up. My name is Danielle Carter. My dad bailed when Mom told him she was pregnant, and because Mom worked so much, I was essentially raised by my grandma and “Aunt” Myra. When I got older, I found out Myra was actually Grandma’s partner, which maybe explains part of why I grew up with such a strong preference for women.
Anyway, Mom never had time for Grandma’s “superstitions,” but young Dani couldn’t have been more fascinated. I was about six years old when Aunt Myra first showed me some “magic tricks.” She made a coin float in the air and lit a candle without touching it. I begged her and Grandma to teach me, and they told me about Sympathy.
“Sympathy is like faith,” Grandma said, setting two candles on the table. “See the wicks on these candles?”
I nodded.
“They look the same, don’t they? They’re both made of cotton, the same color, and the same braided pattern.” She lit a match and held it to one wick. I stared at the bright yellow flame that sprouted.
“Now, if I touch the wicks together,” She held the unlit candle to the first, and the flame spread to make two flames. “They even burn the same.”
She blew out the second candle, and I was transfixed by the curling ribbon of smoke. “What’s different about the wicks now?”
“This one isn’t burning?” I asked.
“That’s right. But what about the wick itself?”
“I… I don’t understand.”
“It looks just like the other one, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah…”
“If I believe the two wicks are actually the same wick…” Her voice was strange, far away, “Then…”
The second candle flared back to life.
The trick to Sympathy is that it happens in your subconscious. In that latent, intuitive part of the brain, we use to walk, breathe, and throw a ball. It starts with a kind of meditation, but more intense. It can’t be forced, but there are mental exercises to help you there. The one Grandma taught me is called the Void. What you do is imagine yourself, then all your active, conscious thoughts. Make a bubble between yourself and those thoughts, then expand it outward, pushing them away until all that’s left is you—just your sense of self, floating in a black emptiness—the Void. Aunt Myra said I had a natural talent for it, and by age ten, I was able to copy her coin-floating trick. I knew the two coins were made of the same metal, so once my subconscious believed they were the same coin, I could make them Link, just like Grandma did with the candle wicks. Once the coins were Linked, all I had to do was pick one of them up, and the other followed.
I’ll never forget the day I learned that Sympathy could be used for more than fun magic “tricks.” I was eleven, and there was an awful heatwave. Most days during the summer, Grandma and Myra encouraged me to play outside. There were no other kids in her neighborhood, but I climbed trees and played make-believe like most kids do. That week, they let me stay inside and watch cartoons, which was fine with me. Then our A/C stopped working, and the repairmen were so backlogged they said it would be two days before they could get someone out.
The three of us sat in the parlor, guzzling iced tea and lemonade with every fan they owned blasting on us.
I asked, “Can’t we just fix the A/C with magic?”
“Do you know how an air conditioner works, Dani?” Myra asked.
I hung my head, pouting.
“There is one thing we could do…” Grandma said.
She got a bag of clay from a cabinet. When I was younger, I would play with it, thinking it was nothing more than old lady play-dough. She and Myra made three little people out of the clay, two bigger ones and a small one. I watched in surprise as they each poked their fingers with a pin and pushed a drop of blood onto their clay dolls. Myra took my hand, holding the smaller clay person in her other hand.
“Pay attention, Dani. What we’re doing is very dangerous. What’s the First Rule of Sympathy?”
“Don’t use it on people?”
“Close enough. We’re going to Link ourselves. That’s okay, as long as you’re very careful.”
She pricked my finger, and I winced. Then Grandma came back into the room with a bowl of water. I felt a soft pinch, like someone was hugging me, and they slowly lowered the clay dolls into the bowl. I expected it to be like jumping into a pool, but the cold seeped into me much slower. With a sigh, I leaned back into my chair. It wasn’t as nice as when the A/C was on, and the sweat on my skin started to feel gross again after a few minutes.
I was curious. I sat up and reached for the bowl, sticking one finger into the water. In the warm room, the water was lukewarm, like tap water when I brushed my teeth. I grabbed the smaller doll out of the bowl.
“Dani…”
“Leave her, Myra. She has to learn.”
Impatient to cool off faster, I dropped the doll into my lemonade. The ice cubes hadn’t melted yet, and within seconds I felt better. Then I started to feel cold. Like “going out in the winter without a coat,” cold. My fingers almost turned blue, and they hurt to move. My teeth started chattering.
Then in an instant, the cold stopped. Whichever of them was holding the Link released it, and I felt the hot air start seeping into me again. Grandma laid a blanket over my shoulders, and I wrapped it around me, shivering. “Do you understand now?” Myra asked.
I nodded.
I continued to learn and experiment with Sympathy in my younger years. I played with Grandma’s clay and only tried to Link something living once. I found shed hair from her cat, Cleo and tried to make her float. When Myra caught me, Grandma sent me to my room without supper until Mom came to pick me up. It’s the only time I remember them ever punishing me, and I never tried to Link a person or animal again.
Once I started high school and had friends, I lost interest in Sympathy and stopped trying to find the Void. The second rule Grandma and Myra taught me was to keep magic a secret. That one was easy since I knew no one would believe me anyway. If I couldn’t use Sympathy to impress a girl I liked or show off to my friends, what was the point? Magic was kid’s stuff, a little game I played while stuck at Grandma’s house with no friends. But as a high schooler, I had friends. They called me Dani, and I forgot all about magic.
But that was high school. That magical, mythical, moronic time where some people peak, some people suffer, and the rest of us just tried to get through the whole ordeal. I was what some people might call an emo. Or a goth. Both labels are patently ridiculous and reductive, of course. Just because I wore a lot of fishnets, black skirts, black eyeliner, and lipstick… okay, to be fair, I didn’t do much to dissuade my peers of my “goth” status. In retrospect, I was very lucky to have high school friends.
Then high school ended. My friends and I went off to different schools, and I was alone again.
***
The next time I thought about Sympathy, I was nearly twenty, in the spring semester of my second year. I was halfway done, so they said, but four years of high school and two years of university were enough for me to know better than to trust the “they.”
It all started with a girl named Barbara Calhoun. Yes, she had a grandma’s name. But she did not have a grandma’s looks. Not that I was into her or anything. The few girls I dated were more… gothy types, like Aubrey Plaza or Jenna Ortega, but thicker. Usually, Latina, though not exclusively, and ideally with a bunch of tattoos. I definitely didn’t go for tall, perfect blondes with legs for days and eyes bluer than a…
I’m getting off track. Barbara transferred to my school halfway through my first year, and she was a model. Not an Instagram, TikTok, whatever the fuck else social media bullshit model; an actual honest-to-goddess model. I knew because she never shut the hell up about it. Barbara did everything short of carrying around the damn magazines with her ‘bikini perfect’ body on the cover. She dropped comments in casual conversation about this or that lingerie sponsorship and this or that demanding photoshoot.
Barbara was only enrolled in university as a safety net, something to fall back on if and when she ever ‘got bored’ with modeling. I’m sure every girl within earshot of Barbara’s bragging knew her body had a shelf life, but again, I had no college friends, so I had to fill in the blanks.
I cannot stress enough how little I cared about Barbara and her ninety-five-pound body. I certainly could have starved myself and been her size. Though, to be fair, I could never have added the eleven inches it would have taken for me to match her height. Regardless, I did my best to steer clear of Barbara and her coterie of sycophants. A bunch of sevens and eights clinging onto a nine for reasons I could not fathom.
That all changed when our worlds collided. When Barbara stole my dream girl. My best chance at having a partner, a companion to have beside me through the dreary days of my college life.
Her name was Carla Martinez, and she was perfect. Well, to me, she was perfect. Five foot nothing, glossy black hair, a little chubby but with big tits to go with her little muffin top. She always wore glasses, and her “resting bitch face” made her lips form a pouty little bow I ached to kiss.
I’d spotted her the prior semester. We were in the same Western Civ class, and I managed to get into study hall while she was there a few times. I’m sure you’ll say I should have just made a move if I was down so bad for her, but I’ve learned the hard way that a girl like me has to play the long game. I got both of my high school girlfriends through the dreaded friendzone. It didn’t always work, but it was better than making a big confession to a girl only to find out she was straight and becoming the school pariah for months.
In the spring semester, I signed up for a class I knew Carla was in, Chemistry 201. I knew that if I could get into her study group or even become her lab partner, I would finally get my chance. I knew she had a girlfriend, but they’d broken up just before the holidays, so I knew the window was open. Unfortunately, Barbara got to her first.
Up to that point, I was certain a girl who looked like Barbara was lower than a one on the Kinsey Scale. But on the first day of the semester, she and Carla were all but holding hands in class. She got contacts, dyed her hair, and started dressing in gaudy pastels like the rest of Barbara’s sycophants. Even if I could have pulled her attention away from “College Barbie,” she was completely out of my league. Not that I believed in any of that league bullshit, but honestly, what girl would look at me twice when she had a literal ten sitting beside her?
As you’ve probably guessed, Barbara scheduled the same class I did. To make matters worse, lab partners were moronically assigned alphabetically. While I was fortunate enough that another name fell between Carter and Calhoun, that still put me and that third name at the lab station directly beside Barbara. Carla and her partner were way on the other side of the room, and the few times she came over to our table, her attention was completely on Barbara. I might as well have been invisible.
My partner, Bettye Carmichael, was not one of Barbara’s followers, but she either wanted to become one or was just one of those girls who are too nice for their own good. Weeks of lab time passed with Bettye making inane small talk with Barbara and her lab partner until, one day; I somehow warranted Barbara’s attention.
“I love what you did with your hair Barbara; how did you get it to curl like that?”
As usual, Bettye was kissing Barbara’s ass. I had to admit her hair did look great; if you’re into reddish-blonde extensions that hung all the way to her non-existent tits.
“Oh, it’s nothing, really. The salon over on third is passably competent.”
I forgot to mention that Barbara had some weird European accent. I’m pretty sure it was fake.
“Really? Maybe I should go there sometime…”
Bettye was yammering on. I tried to tune out her and Barbara’s chatter about stylists and styles while focussing on our lab project. Then I heard my name.
“You might like him too, Danielle.”
Barbara pronounced my name like no one else did. It made me want to punch her perfect lip-injected, laser-treated face.
“What?”
“My stylist, Tyrece. You know, you could be quite pretty if you put in some effort.”
I still can’t remember what I said to that. I wish I could say it was some witty, biting retort, but I’m sure I just mumbled some kind of agreement before pulling my partner’s attention back to our project. We finished our lab time, and I had one more class for the day. I floated through all of it in a dark haze as I replayed Barbara’s words. Where did a smug bitch get off judging me like that? She’d won the genetic lottery and clearly been born into wealth to look as perfect as she did. She could have whatever she wanted, and she chose to steal away my dream girl? It was all too much. I’d tried so hard to ignore her, to keep my head down and focus on my grades, but she’d crossed a line.
Stomping into my solo apartment, I tossed my bag into the corner and went straight to my stash. A few shots of vodka and an edible later, and I was good and cross-faded. I went into a kind of fugue state. I didn’t realize what I’d done until the next morning.
***
I woke up with my mouth dry as a desert and a splitting headache. I staggered to the kitchen for some water and saw my bag of clay open on the desk. Somehow, I’d made a near-perfect model of Barbara Calhoun last night.
As I’ve said, I grew out of doing magic when I started high school, but I often kneaded a lump of clay to soothe my nerves or occupy my hands. I made snakes and rolled balls between my palms, and it calmed me. Once in a while, I’d put pieces together into some vague animal shape, but I’d never made anything like this. The worst part was I had no memory of doing it.
Just how high was I last night?
I picked up the doll and turned it over in my hands. It was thin, tall, and perfect. Like a clay Barbie without the tits. Remembering all the hours I spent practicing with Grandma and Myra as a girl, I pushed my conscious thoughts away until there was nothing but me and the clay doll. I pictured my odious classmate and believed she and the doll were the same. My headache intensified as the Void collapsed.
Stupid I chided myself. Even if I could perform Sympathy on the girl, I’d need a piece of her body to make it work. No matter how perfectly it was molded, a lump of clay had nothing in common with the actual Barbara. Hair would be the easiest to get, but I’d have to make sure it was her real hair and not those stupid extensions. A small voice in my head asked me why I even wanted to try this. A smaller voice told me it was wrong. I ignored them both.
I stuffed the doll in the bottom of my underwear drawer. I went to the kitchen for a glass of water. And some ibuprofen. I had class in half an hour, and the last thing I wanted was to sit through a Micro-Econ lecture with a hangover.
