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Storms, in Sloaneâs opinion, are the perfect weather.
Theyâre tumultuous and wild, crackling with energy, appropriately dramatic, and, best of all: most people tend to stay inside when theyâre happening. Itâs not that the town is dead â thereâs cars everywhere, honking angrily, but the sidewalks are almost barren, the beaches empty, everyone doing their best to shelter themselves from the storm.
Except for a few. Namely, Sloane, whoâs in the middle of bursting into a shore-side shop, looking like a drowned rat, if a drowned rat could be said to be absolutely thrilled about the situation.
They target the person nearest the door, and grab the closest wrist they can find. âThereâs a beached Siren,â Sloane announces, no hello, no will you help me, just setting about starting to drag their chosen help toward the door. âAnd I canât lift her by myself. So youâre coming to help. Stop dawdling.â
Augustine tried not to let the times ruin his week. He was planning on keeping everything going as per usual. That meant going to the shops, as well. So while he was minding his own business, listening to one of his audiobooks through his headphones, he quickly came in contact with another person.
It was hard not to know Sloaneâs name, or them in general. His eyebrows raised as he was now being tugged away from what he was doing. The situation seemed pretty important, so now, his involvement was as well. âAlright, alright.â He yanks his headphones out. âLet me set my shit down.â He was about to be dragged out and commit a crime. So he set down his basket and shoved his earbuds into his pocket. No doubt he was about to get completely drenched.
    Classes donât get cancelled for this kind of thing. All that really happens is Augustine gets a rush of emails saying students are going to be late and ultimately, half the class misses the first hour of lecture. It is what it is, but it puts a damper on his mood. Heâs thinking about his garden most of the day, hoping it doesnât get drowned out. It likely will.
Heâs moving towards the cafe on his way home, not bothering with an umbrella to go from the car to the door. He steps inside, only to run into a smaller figure. âJeez,â He says, a bit winded, singing, he looks down at his sweater. âSeems the rain spirits donât want anyone to have a good week.â
âNot exactly,â Andy replied, his mind only half in the conversation since the mention of a kid was brought up. He wondered if his own would have found Mothman interesting. The thought hardly had the chance to make a full circle around the inside of his skull before it was shoved away and drowned in a sip of his beer.Â
 âMarbles, no. Gasoline, yes. I canât tell you how many times Iâve had to top off my tank from idling in traffic, or waiting for groups to cross roads.â He sighed. âI like the festival and all, but, JesusâŚâÂ
âYou, uhh, had a booth there, didnât you?âÂ
Other than trying to scoop something up for his daughter, the whole Mothman thing was less than appealing. He gets why so many are annoyed with the disruption itâs caused in the town. More so than a lot of things have. Itâs worse that tourist season. Then again, when is the last time Mothman came around these parts? Augustine really wonders who had to scratch whoâs back to get the giant non-bird here.
âWell, if it makes you feel better, he does have as pretty of a face as everyone says. I know that wont fill up your tank but--...â He gives a shrugging gesture. If Augustine were attracted to moths, maybe heâd be into it. But he doesnât fuck bugs.
He nods politely. âYeah--- well, it was my momâs, but I help her our every year.â
     and so he picked his way along, footfalls crunching as he went. itâs only when a familiar voice calls for his attention that he knows heâs stumbled upon the right stall, and the aside is enough to have a grin threatening to tug at the corners of his lips.  â dr. bishop, â  he chides, teasing âââ ignoring the sudden dryness of his throat, hyperaware of familiar faces all around them ( falling back on the formal title, despite bottles of wine shared on a darkened coast ).   â  having  some  late  nights,  were  we ?  â
Every year, Augustineâs loved helping his mother out with her booth. This year was certainly no different. He was excited to hear about which charms she was bringing, which new ones she was going to focus on selling, and all the old friends who would stop by. But itâs also a week long affair and he tends to go pretty bored and tired after the first two. So he figured, why not invite Casey. He was nice fun. Made him feel a bit younger which probably wasnât the best, but he was a good kid.
Thereâs a hand that clasps Caseyâs shoulder and heâs sighing deeply. âCasey, you know how much I hate that.â In class was one thing. Now it just seemed insanely out of place. He knows itâs all he needs to say about the matter before throwing his hands up in defeat. âWhat can I say, sometimes itâs hard to get the brain to shut off.â
   there isnât a day he isnât thankful to be learning from the other. self-taught magic is difficult at best, and impossible at worst, considering yejun has absolutely no magical bone in his body. all he has is the determination, and love for what he wants to do, but there was a time he struggled a lot, the seminars, the countless books he read, there was something missing. they were orchestrated for a purpose, but yejun had a hard time learning from a source he couldnât ask questions. the man in front of him, highly respected and well known in his field, someone he looks up to, had agreed to help yejun by some miracle. hence, he does his best to live up to his own best standards, so that augustineâs effort wonât be in vain.
  his smile turns sheepish at the comment, and yejun has the decency to look away and tilt his head forward for a second, a minuscule bow and a nod at the same time. âyes, doctor. iâm sorry. itâs more of a respect thing really, or well, learned habit â-â he tries to amend, but cuts himself short. they have talked about this before, so there is no need to ramble on that particular subject. plus, he really doesnât want to annoy augustine more. instead he listens intently, taking mental note of the concoctions. âoh, i see â then what makes it so potent? jasmine?â
Growing up, his mother did a mentor-ship for a couple of years. He was in his early teens so he couldnât be bothered with anyone. The general population sucked and he was always angry, like most young teens, so he doesnât remember much of it. But he knows that it does good. Witchcraft shouldnât be a secret club only to be passed down generation to generation. No new witches means no new brains. It means no innovation. That innovation is very important. Yejun is a bright kid, really cares about what heâs doing. That makes Augustine excited for what he can provide.
He gives him a comforting smile and sets the small bottle back down. âDonât worry about it, alright? Not a big deal.â It really isnât. It just makes him feel like an old man. Maybe he is one, but he prefers not to feel like it. He gives a shrug, hands sliding into his pockets. âNot as much as you think. My mom does pretty intense rituals that tend to lead to itâs potency. Theyâre very charged.â
Days always started early for the boy who now lived his life by the wakings of the sun in morningâs golden hues. Most days heâd tend to the greenery that shrouded his house and lounged by window seals, humming delicate tunes as his hands idly cared for the plants as if they were alive. Heâd always do it with such a light handed care, one heâd observe for hours on end as a child in his mother. Her soul focus belonged to the plants before her as her hands grazed their leaves and her tunes hummed idly. These were all things that sheâd trim later; prune for cauldrons and castings.
Some days heâd close his eyes as she hummed, pretending that the hums were for him instead. The illusion of affection. Even just for a moment before sheâd notice a missing trimming or a dying plant. Sloane! Her voice would shrill as she stormed from the seat.
And Roman would be left alone in the room with plants heâd almost envy.
Heâd never have interest in learning witch craft himself; perhaps it was his fatherâs scorns in the back of his mind or a fear of his own intentions. Deep rooted thoughts that would chime with power.
And yet theyâd always draw his fascination at fairs and stores. Reading tea leaves were the extent of his own abilities; the extent of his desires to learn.
âPerhaps itâs better left to the restless souls who lie awake at night.â He turned it over in his hands, thumbing the fabric that held the contents. Sloane he thought could likely use it. Even in private thoughts heâd deny it was a consideration to his own startled wakes.
âHave you got anything a little less- potent?â
Augustine canât help but laugh at the words he says. Those poor restless soul are the very ones he tries to help on the daily. A poor restless soul often seems like a way heâd define himself as. Maybe thatâs not quite a good thing, but he knows if he doesnât have his charm, heâs at a stage in his life where he has a hard time shutting off his mind.
His mother says the dreaded words of mid-life crisis at one point when heâs sitting in her kitchen as his dad watches tv in the other room. She rubs his shoulders and tells him this, too, shall pass. But he hates that thereâs anything to pass at all. There shouldnât be. He should be fine. Life shouldnât be this fucking difficult and he should be able to just pack up all his bullshit and kick it to the curb.
But thatâs a lot of thought for standing right in front of a kid who just wants a sleeping aid. He clears his throat at his own thoughts and gives a polite smile. âYou might just want to go with some melatonin then, kiddo.â Regardless of his words, he reaches forward. âThis helps a bit with anxiety. Like if you have that feeling in your chest and life doesnât seem the slow down. Isnât exactly for sleep but it makes being able to sleep a lot easier.â He gives it a quick shake, the sparkly oil moving. âHave you ever used a charm before?â
Tangled limbs, and aftershave were what Blake could recall of the night of the affair. In the morning it was a face, one that was in pictures smiling with the man she slept with, she never noticed the the frames when they came tumbling into his home. Blake saw the ring on his finger, but if he didnât care neither did she. It wasnât her life to fuck up, but she definitely participated. She had been searching for her bra, eager to escape now that the deed was done. Her ears perked up from an unknown voice, like a deer in the headlights she was frozen. Wide eyed, facing her hook upâs husband, the man from the photos, except there wasnât any joy in his face, it was the distinct devastation of heartbreak. Blake knew it too well, it could have mirrored her own when Matthew called things off at the hospital.Â
After that it was impossible to forget what he looked like, the concept had become real. Always a possibility but never had it occurred until that day.
There he was in front of her once more, although everyone was here to see Mothman, Blake honestly didnât think sheâd ever run into him again. A cheap moth feelers headband crowning Blakeâs head, with the caramel apples she purchased at a stand, now locked in a death grip, her whole body was tense, debating between fight or flight. Time had stopped and she couldnât tear her eyes away from him, so many words clung to the back of her throat, but her mouth remained firmly shut. It started again and Blake could hear the distant music of the fair, her apple lost to the unforgiving pavement that had claimed its caramel with rocks and dirt. He saw her too.
Nothing seemed appropriate, all she could muster was, âH-hi. Did you see Mothman?â
Augustine had been running around all afternoon. His mom needed one thing, then it was an old friend who wanted to try the cider beer with him, and then he remembered he wanted to get something for his little girl. It wasnât until he was racing back to his motherâs booth to finish off the evening in peace that he ran into her.
A face he would never truly forget. One he was pretty sure would be etched into his brain until the day he died. except this face wasnât covered in sweat and showing complete ecstasy. This face was hard as a stone, and clean, and fresh. He knew it all the same but he just wanted to run. That, and vomit. But he couldnât. He just kept staring at her and thinking about that moment. How everything changed after that one moment. He knows in his heart that he would have ended up in the same place had it not happened, but boy if it didnât throw a wrench in literally everything.
She speaks, and it shocks him. It shocks him that she doesnât ignore him and that she asks him about Mothman, of all things. He furrows his eyebrows. He tells himself not to get enraged but jesus fucking christ, is she for real? âYeah,â He nods. âI got him to sign something for my daughter.â He figures saying it out loud will give her a check that, hello, you took part in ruining my life. âI donât see her much anymore.â He should stop guilt-tripping her. Then again, she fucked his husband and heâs hardly had closure about that. âNice to give her something cool when I do get a chance.â He knows his smile is fake. At this point, heâs not really caring.
THEREâS A LOT THAT AUGUSTINE SAID, but thereâs only one word that really catches Clemâs attention. âUpfront, hm?â he echoes, the word sounding almost like a suggestion of something. âAugustine, buddy, pal, chap, good lad, listener of my drunken rants at three in the damned morningââthe list rattles off easily from his lips, as if rehearsedââhow is it possible that weâve nursed many a drink in our hands and you never told me this?â A chiding tone wraps around his words, though itâs clear that heâs being playful. He looks at his drinking buddy for a moment or two, before he lapses into impatience. âWell, then, come on!â he says, putting the vial back down before motioning for the other male to continueâthough with what heâs not completely saying, until: âSurely Iâve unlocked the secret menu or something like that?â Clem asks this with such seriousness that itâs clear he doesnât realise how silly he sounds, as if this was Starbucks and he was asking for the unicorn frappĂŠ.
He looks at the vial heâs just put down. âIâm not entirely too sure how it might help either,â he says, shrugging easily, conceding defeat in a subject matter heâs never really dabbled in. His ignorance chafes him and he feels a stab of envy run through him. âStill, any excuse to get out of this is a good one, right?â The look he sends to Augustine is almost over-earnest, like a dog looking for approval from its indifferent owner. âWhat have we to lose indeed!â he echoes, the hints of laughter almost making his last words unintelligible. âI mean, I expected more resistance than thatâI was about to bribe you with a free round or more, if that was what it tookâbut it seems that in your heart of heartsââand here, Clem puts a hand over his chest, looking for all the world like a holy and long-suffering martyrââthat youâve been looking for liberation from this burden of yours, and I am only too happy to oblige!â
Just because the laws of magic, and the cultural boundaries were there, didnât mean there werenât ways to have a lot of fun that didnât tread to the area of dark magic. Most of the time, you could have the time of your life without risking death. As long as you werenât stupid while charmed. âAlright.â Augustine holds up his hands before bending down to lift the sheet from the table and grabbing a small box from under. âWe have something you have to sign if youâre going to buy anything from here. My mom had a friend in college who ended up getting sued for selling a charm and that person took way too much and did some real dumb shit. So my mom works close with a lawyer now.â Augustine opens up the box and sets it on the table. âShe focuses on hallucinogens more than anything else.â Augustine had a preference for making uppers when he was in college.Â
His hands slide into his pocket as he watches Clem take a glance at the options. He looks around, letting out a huff. âWell I am a grow man, Clem. I can do whatever I want. Iâm getting a bit bored and Iâm sure sheâll understand that I go in order to have some real fun.â He loved helping her, but he could only do it so much before it made him want to jump off a cliff.
âIT DOESNâT?â CLEM ASKS, his voice almost sounding disappointed. âWell, what good are your charms for then?â The question could be called biting and pointed, but one was never quite sure with Clem if he was making a joke or if he was being dead serious. Magic was one of those topics where he was left wanting, with neither the birthright nor the traits (or the patience or the temperament or the dedication or the million other things and excuse heâs thought up over the years) to follow through any serious practice or study of the mystical. Sometimes, he looked at it as a challenge; sometimes, he thought the whole world might be taunting him; and sometimes he thought it was just further evidence of his lack.
Still, alcohol and magic felt like a million dollar idea never pursued, which is why heâs so damn put out that the two essentially do nothing togetherâexcept, apparently, making dreams weird, but there are other substances that can do that for him already. The promise of safe charms only makes him deflate even further. These are grandmotherâs charms and potions heâs looking at, which isnât quite the fare heâs looking for, but he supposes he might as well help a buddy out. He begins to take out his wallet, but heâs stopped by a random thought.
âSo are these what you use personally?â Clem asks, quirking up an eyebrow as he mulls it over. âMeaning, you let your mother craft up your benders for you?â An amused smile begins to tug up at the corner of his lips. If it is, itâs a permissiveness he knows all too well. Goodness knows how his parentsâstill together after all these years, which is either a miracle or a curseâlet his benders slide. âThatâs cute, Auggie.â He takes a vial, holds it up under the light. âWhat say you to the both of us ditching this snoozefest and checking how long we can last with your motherâs wares, hm?â
The magic that August has been brought up in his family has always been safe and respectful. Theyâre not an abnormal practicing family in America. They respect and worship the cultural rules that have been set up. The purpose is to help and bring good to those who are interested, only enhancing or enriching their life. Otherwise, youâre just a dirty witch with warts on your nose and broomstick under your feet and whatâs the point of doing anything anymore if it just hurts people?
He knows thereâs many varying opinions. Itâs not a shock to him that Clem wants more out of the specific magic her, his mother, and witches similar to them, practice. Augustine has been around far too long and fought too many pointless battles to now try and explain why whatever Clem is suggesting, is everything families like his have been trying to fight against. Most people who donât practice donât know any better.
Augustine gives a small chuckle, as if itâs obvious what heâs about to say. âWe donât sell that kind of stuff upfront at a family festival. My parents were witches of the sixties and seventies, they know what a good time looks like. And in turn, Iâve managed to get their recipes over the years.â He makes his own tweaks and tricks, forming his own perfect potion, which is mainly just making it more tame for his liking. Heâs never been one for wild benders. Not in the last fifteen years anyways. âWell Iâm not entirely sure what you plan to do with that, and how you think itâs going to improve this so called snooze-fest, but what have I got to lose?â
  itâs going to be the second fall festival yejun has ever seen in viollâs cove, and even though he canât help but feel apprehensive about crowds, a change of scenery is enough to get him intrigued. and once his curiosity piqued, itâs not something he can let go easily. as such, when his boss lets him off work early, he decides to visit the little market. luckily to him, itâs not as populated as he had initially feared; perhaps itâs because itâs a weekday and not quite evening just yet, or there could be a fan activity further away? he isnât quite sure, should probably read the pamphlet if there is any.
   while heâs strolling through the stalls, the familiar face catches his attention immediately, a smile spreading across his features as his feet take him towards the man. âhi, sir â didnât know you would be here.â yejun speaks softly, nodding slightly when he stops in front of the stall. his attention is pulled towards the items on display immediately, hand curling around one to look at it closer. âoh, really?â imagining that puts a grimace on his face. âi hope it was a good rest, at least. must have been inconvenient, though.â unable to stop himself from asking, curious eyes meet his for a moment before he speaks. âuhm, what is in it?â
Augustine knows Yejun means well. Heâs a good kid, one that really cares about the craft heâs trying to learn, and August respects that, and is happy to lead him in any direction. He should have told him about the booth beforehand, maybe he would have liked to help. Then again, he remembers Yejun having a job, so dropping everything to spend a week hanging out with him and his mom is not a priority.
August huffs, putting his hands on his hips. âWell there goes your one use of âsirâ for the week, Yejun. Doctor I can handle, sir just reminds me how fucking old I am.â He turns to look at the setup that Yejun is glancing over. âItâs got a lot of lavender and jasmine in it. My mom uses a bit of aloe to hold it together, and then she imports some seaweed from the Mediterranean. I still donât get why, I think it just makes it sound better to the person buying it.â He shrugs. âThen some little shit to make it a little bit more pleasant, but thatâs the bulk of it.â At least itâs not the nineties, when his mom insisted on putting gold flakes in everything she made because she thought that it looking prettier would help the affect of the charm, and just sell better.
Augustine had always been kind to her. It was why she had always liked him. Originally she hadnât had any plans on buying anything from anyone, but perhaps she would from this booth.Â
Listening to him talk is nice. While she has no experience with magic, hearing about it and its effects always held her interest. Her eyes widen slightly in surprise at hearing what had happened, a picture of the mess appearing in her head. âIt sounds it. What did you end up doing to get rid of it?âÂ
She laughs. It was a reversal to their usual roles. The only difference being Augustine always had an idea of what he was buying and she did not. âI donât know actually,â she confessed. She racked her brain for something that might be useful. âDefinitely nothing for a dinner partyâI donât think Iâd be much of a host anyway, nor do I have the space. Maybe something for restlessness though?âÂ
Augustine recalls the memory and racks through his brain. Itâs nice to have someone to chat to that wasnât one of his momâs friends or clients. They were lovely people, but it made the festival days go by much slower. He laughs at his foolish practicing, but all the mistakes have made him a much better witch.
âWell I was at an age where my mom refused to help me with spells gone wrong so I had to figure it out myself. I had to coat my skin in a goo and then pluck out all the roots one by one until they were gone. It was a miserable time.â He nods. Thankfully, he got to miss school for a couple days so no one would have to see a real life chia-pet in front of their eyes.
He braces a hand on the table casually, nodding along to her explanation. Raising a hand he snaps his fingers and points in her direction. âOne of the easiest tricks in the book.â He reaches around himself to grab a jar and hold it out to her. âBake it into whatever you want to eat. I recommend something sweet to try and hide the slight dirt taste but it works, so hard to complain.â
Curiosity always had her exploring what was set up at the festival each year. Before things like this wouldâve made her roll her eyes, but now it was a nice change from what otherwise felt like a town that was too small sometimes.Â
Ending up at one of the shops, she perused the items for sale. Everything brought up a question mark in her head, but they looked interesting. She read over what the charms and potions were supposed to do, some more appealing than others, but Lucy doubted she was going to buy something. While looking over another item, someone spoke to her. Attention turning towards the voice, she was pleasantly surprised to see Augustine.Â
âOh,â she said, nodding as he explained. She chuckled. âWell that sounds potentially dangerous.â Lucy put it back down on the shelf. âAnything else I should be cautious of?âÂ
Itâs nice to see Lucy outside of her place of work. Mostly for the fact to know that she exists outside of it. Not that she looks very different, but itâs clear in the way sheâs holding herself that sheâs not in work mode. Itâd be concerning if she was.
He gives a nonchalant shrug, picking up a different bottle. âWell, if you wanted security youâd just buy melatonin wouldnât you?â He laughs, holding one out for her to look at. âThis one works for acne but I studied it in high school and when I mixed it wrong I ended up growing roots from my pores.â He shrugs. âIt was really disgusting.â He puts it back. âBut thatâs the dangers of creating them. These are all safe when theyâre put into bottles. My mom tests every batch.â
He puts his hands on his hips, giving a big grin. âWhat can I help you find? Seems the tables are a bit turned, eh? You need a little good luck charm? Got a dinner party coming up and need a charm to make your guests love your food regardless of how burnt it is?â
CLEM DOESNâT KNOW WHY HEâS AT THE FESTIVAL, when heâs so goddamn sure that itâll be boring, but he reckons that wasting time out and about with Mothman superfans and a mixture of senior citizens and ghoulfood (a loving term he used to describe all children) perambulating about would maybe be just a touch better than another day wasted passed out on his bed from drinking too much again. (Although, to be fair, the temptation had been there yesterday nightâand he did end up bringing his handy-dandy flask, hidden as it was in the inner pocket of his suit.) Besides, he supposes thereâs nothing wrong with supporting the local businesses, though their wares were admittedly nothing he could use nor nothing much he could find interest in.
Heâs about to hand one back in when a voice breaks his careful introspection. âA little too helpful, you say?â Clem asks, looking up and deciding that this does look rather interesting after all. âCan I take this with alcohol?â is his next question, because of course it is. (Why would it be anything else?) He puts the product down before looking at the others all laid out neatly on the table. âAnd,â Clem continues, âdo you have anything that works the other way? Take a pop and youâll have boundless energy for three days?â Heâs already thinking of ways he can use such a thing, even without the confirmation. He looks up and stares at the stall owner in the eye. âThis is legal, what youâre doing, right? This isnât a sting operation or anything?âÂ
Itâs nice to see familiar faces of his own. Most of the people that come through are those he knows from his mom. Theyâre not terrible, considering heâs grown up seeing them, and he likes being doted on by old women, but those who are closer to his age are... far more interesting.
He looks at Clem and chuckles when he asks his question. Augustine continues putting more things up as he replies, âSure you can. Magic doesnât really have anything to do with inebriation. Might make your dreams weird, though.â There have, however, been plenty of times Augustine has tried to make charms while drunk, thatâs a recipe for disaster. College was a shaky point for him, magically speaking.Â
He slides an empty box under the table with his foot, looking up to find another small vile of spices and herbs his mom cooked up. âThis would work for that. Helps the kiddos with final season but if you take twice the serving size, I imagine youâd be up for quite a while.â He shrugs, handing it over. âAs long as the magic doesnât kill you, DEA doesnât give a shit. We only have safe charms here.â He gives Clem a friendly pat to the shoulder. âHave all the benders you like. Your body will still go into delirium after a couple days. Canât make your body not need sleep, you just wont feel tired.â
âYou want this?â he asks. Between the two he slides something over, a postcard sized sticker showing a cartoon Mothman with #MOTHHEAD written across it in large bold lettering.Â
âSome kid downtown gave it to me after I told him I didnât want it.â He didnât mind the festivals. He used to enjoy them a lot, actually. It was only when they built up the budget to start inviting pseudo-celebrity cryptids that would draw large crowds that the annual Fall festival began to get on his nerves. The island seemed small enough as it was. âIâd feel bad throwing it away.â
In all honesty, the doodle is pretty cute. Augustine looks at it for a while, holding it between his fingertips. âYeah Iâm sure my kid will like this.â He chuckles. Maybe heâll try to get into the crazy rush and get it signed. That means heâd have to actually see his daughter. Heâs not quite sure when thatâs going to be though.
He looks at the person who gave this to him, giving a smile, he slips it into his back pocket. âNot your thing, huh? Mothman doesnât have you losing your marbles?â He doesnât quite get the hype, either. Mothman whenever really was on his radar like it was for others.
Augustine has always had a hard time saying no to his mom. The two have always been close. Sheâs raised him on her own as far as theyâre concerned. Not in a bitter way, but the means that theyâve grown together. Every year she sets up shop at the Viollâs Cove Fall Festival. She sets up her charms and her potions and all the little plants that sheâs gifted with healthy growing. She makes her happy cookies and her love brownies and people eat it up every year. Every year Augustine helps out. Every year when her bones get a bit weaker, heâs carrying more boxes from his car and spending less time looking cute for the locals.
Heâs got the stack of crates beside one of the tables. Sheâs out in front of the stand greeting familiar faces. Heâs placing things out in the display she likes, seeing as someoneâs coming to gaze on the goods. He watches them pick on up. âThat stuffâs a little too helpful.â He chuckles to himself, âI took it once when my sleeping was real out of sorts... slept for like three days straight.â He whistles. âReally pay attention to the serving size on that one.â
Oh hey, didnât see you there. Itâs me, your friendly admin Chloe. Twenty, Chicago-bound, ready to clown. Iâve got a lot in store and Iâm excited to get the show running. Hereâs my son Augustine, he deserves better but what else can you say? Anyways, more under the cut.
Augustine was born to two witches, one hereditary, the other a local kitchen witch. It was a tender home. Rarely anything to complain about. That is, it was mostly just him and his mom. His father was typically found at the casino. Augustine spent year thinking that his fatherâs intense clairvoyance gave him the edge to go to the casino and bet on things he could see in his mind. It didnât totally add up, considering how much money heâd lost.
Augustine didnât have quite as strong of a gift as his father did. It would come in waves, hitting like a brick in the nose. Distinct, vivid images that typically didnât mean anything. Seeing sunlight through leaves or a red ball rolling across the street. Itâs always made him uneasy. He never knew what it meant. His mother would try to fix him up charms to keep the visions mild, she called them his âallergiesâ. Always made him feel normal as a kid.
Growing into a man, Augustine found his passion with words. Mom wanted him to take the shop, but when to kids ever really do what their parents want, no matter how much they love them? Augustine went to the University of Viollâs Cove, where he began to study literature. The literature lead to poetry, where he graduated in the top ten percent.
Senior year thatâs when he met the love of his life. Changed him forever, really. Wasnât his first love, but it was the one that counted. They were beautiful, and they swooned at his sweet words. Fell for all the romance that he laid out, and kept him sane. They werenât even in his department, but they liked him anyways. Clearly, people who arenât obsessed with words, can be fond of them too.
Augustine had been dating them for ten months when he decided to go to France. They broke up after an argument about long distance, and off he went. Studied poetry and art in Paris, and on weekends, heâd travel out into the rural areas, hoping heâd find something to tie him back to something a lot more deeply rooted in him.
Took a month to find a coven that wanted him, sucked him in with their desire and their temptation. He was fascinated, they were a bond, a family, a livelihood. They could not live without each other. It was a bond he hadnât seen in America before. Covens were rare. Heâd come to see why.
When he wasnât studying in Paris, he was with the coven. They let him in as their own, they showed him the ways of their magic. It didnât take long for Augustine to realize it was dark magic. A kind he wasnât used to. The kind that takes place in dark woods, naked and feral, blood dropping down skin and yelling tongues to the shining stars. Heâd wake up in the morning smelling like sweat and sin. Heâd walk among the town, seeing the disease and the anguish that would affect those that were cursed. He sat down with a mother. Wizened and riddled with knowledge. She said her grandmother was cursed by the cover. Her grandfather died in the war, her brothers and sisters all perished far too young. Her grandmother watched them all die except for her, the one who outlived her. The one who would pass down the curse.
It horrified him. Months of brutality, and Augustine began to write his paper. He came back with a twenty page paper explaining the dangers of covens in modern society, tying back to old literature on ancient magic craft. It didnât quite fit with the poetry, but with his bloodline, they easily accepted his work, and what he had to say.
It changed him forever. Their rituals still have affects on him. Made the sights hit that much harder. He sees notices things he never can. He thinks they still follow him sometimes. Thereâs a fox that finds him. It has for years. his mother calls it his omen. Augustine canât tell if itâs good or bad.
After coming home, he runs into them again. Itâs like lighting a spark in the pit of his stomach and heâs in love again. They get married while heâs getting his phd. Itâs the best years of his life. He graduates, spends a year writing a collection of poems. He makes some money selling charms and services from his house. It takes a year before the university offers him a job teaching.
Heâs 32 when they finally have a kid. Itâs everything heâs ever dreamed of. His life is complete. Itâs whole. Heâs sharing something so beautiful with the person he loves and he couldnât have it any other way.
Until... things get harder.
Augistine didnât work too much. He spent a lot of time at home, in fact. Classes were class, but it was more so a typical job than anything else. Heâd take a lot of time to cook up witchy crafts at home, see the regulars for their readings and their treatments. He liked holding his daughter and letting her pick out the herbs and spices to use. Theyâd sit in the garden and heâs sing his favorite tunes and tell her that the plants grow better when he sings his magic songs.
But then theyâd come home and the air would shift. He wasnât sure who fell out of love first. Augustine always blamed himself for not trying harder. Not trying to pick himself up when he got less excited for them coming home. But they got more angry, they didnât like his affection. They stayed out later and wanted their own time with their daughter. It became less of a partnership.Â
And then, years passed of tenseness, more yelling, more weekends away. It wasnât until Augustine came home from work, his daughter with his parents for the weekend in hopes to spend time along, the two of them, that he caught them. Having sex openly with someone other than himself. Someone considerably younger. It was clear they were high out of their minds, which was a shock to him.
Everything really unraveled after that. The divorce was filed days later and they packed up and left. They got custody of his daughter, and took off beyond Viollâs Cove. Heâs still not sure what he did that made them hate him so much. They make sure he sees his daughter as little as possible. Maybe one weekend a month if heâs lucky. She gets so much bigger every time he see her. It hurts so much thinking this is how it will be until sheâs old enough to go to college. His little girl hardly even youâre now.
Itâs been two years since the filing. Heâs seen his daughter maybe twenty times. The longest she spent was a week during the summer. Heâs still teaching. Still practicing. Just trying to let life go back to normal, but thereâs a lot heâs angry about. A lot he doesnât understand. Heâs trying to take this as a sign of rebirth. Heâs got a dead weight off his soul, but in turn, heâs also missing his biggest joy.
