The 1877 Society (Omaha Public Library Fund) 2018 Prose Contest Winner

Charlotte’s tethers to reality burned away as flames ravaged the two story building. Her full notebooks, her well-loved backpack, her dad’s deck of cards—disintegrating before her eyes. The familiar windows and gold trim disappeared into the smoke, devoured like a starving man’s first meal in weeks.

She hadn’t meant to set her home on fire. She hadn’t meant to mess up so badly. And even though Zuri had warned her, she hadn’t listened. She’d ignored the importance of not getting burned. Now she knew.

People stared at the building in terrified awe. Few spoke, and those who did spoke in whispers. One little boy clutched a squirming kitten as his lip trembled. Behind him were Mr. and Mrs. Byrne, the older couple who lived next door. They often invited Charlotte and her dad to their apartment for dinner, where their limitless collection of peacock ceramics watched.

Fire truck sirens blared in the distance, the cavalry coming to the rescue. They would be too late. As far as she knew, everyone was out, but already loud bangs could be heard from inside the building. The ceilings were collapsing; they would all lose everything.

She turned to her dad who was standing next to her with his eyes transfixed to the building. He rubbed his scarred hands together; they were empty. Most people clung to something they’d snatched on their way out—a phone, a scrapbook, a stuffed animal. The only thing he’d grabbed was Charlotte’s arm as he dragged her to the fire escape. He hadn’t even asked what happened.

When the fire alarms blared, Charlotte had thought about being heroic, running to get some water or a fire extinguisher to fix what she’d done. But she was never good with emergencies, so she’d squeezed her dad’s hand and followed him willingly to the fire escape. As she stepped out onto the metal staircase, the coolness on her bare foot feeling out of place in the heat, she turned her eyes back to the fire. Spots danced across her vision from staring at the flames too long, but she didn’t move until she realized her dad still held on to her. He wouldn’t leave unless she followed.

Now, Charlotte closed her eyes, unable to watch the fire any longer as it destroyed the relics of her life. The flames created colorful shadows on the backs of her eyelids. This fire would not be mastered. 

A few weeks before the apartment building went up in flames, Charlotte wandered around the Renaissance Festival, searching for a distraction from the scene replaying in her mind—her father’s car crash.

“Would you like your cards read?” Bright red, claw-like nails beckoned to Charlotte, flashing a hand-painted tarot card. Le Bateleur. The Magician. Charlotte stopped short; could this lady be the real deal? The card reader pursed her painted lips and waved another card. Le Soleil. The Sun. Charlotte nodded politely at the woman’s turquoise turban and kept walking, rolling a quarter over her knuckles. Every psychic got one lucky prediction here and there.  

She moved on from the card reader, passing a woman in a green gown with a black, lacy bodice who played a fiddle joyously. People danced around her. Charlotte’s feet shuffled through the woodchips on the path as she bobbed her head along to the fiddle. A boy tore a chunk of meat from a turkey leg, and the strong smell of poultry wafted through the stench of human sweat. Charlotte felt self-conscious in her plain shorts and T-shirt among the gobs of people in period dress until one girl in a full gown and corset passed out from the heat.

Slipping out of the crowd to avoid the anachronisms of modern medics in medieval times, Charlotte sought a place to sit down. She found a cluster of benches that weren’t quite as deserted as she’d hoped, but an open seat beckoned to her aching feet, so she sat down in the middle of the small crowd and drained her water bottle. An empty wooden stage waited for its act. The little girl in front of Charlotte was braiding her own hair, wearing a sparkling tiara and a huge grin. Charlotte wiped the sweat from the back of her neck, wishing her hair were long enough to pull back. Then the fire master took the stage, and Charlotte was utterly incinerated.

Dressed in billowing purple pants, a muscular man sauntered onstage holding a bottle of liquid and a staff lit on one end. He knelt down in the middle of the stage, took an elegant swig from the bottle, and breathed fire. Then the man held out his arms, glowing in the sunlight. Le Soleil. Everyone clapped. He spun his flaming staff once and spit again, the fire blazing longer than Charlotte could hold her breath. The performer introduced himself as Zuri.

Zuri danced with fire like he’d grown up alongside it. He lit the ends of long chains and spun them around in elaborate patterns, the flames travelling precariously close to his arms and neck. He tossed and twirled a staff alight on both ends like a mere baton. Charlotte’s fingers clenched and unclenched in time with his movements. Memories of her dad’s accident melted in the fire’s heat, lead turning to gold.

Sometimes she wished her dad would’ve died when the car hit him so she could at least pretend it didn’t happen. So she wasn’t reminded of it every time she saw his cards lying on the coffee table or studied the picture of the two of them that sat on her nightstand—her dad with a wizard hat on and her with a pink dress. Her eyes were always drawn away from the glittery picture frame and the smiles on their faces, toward the unmarred skin on his hands. Even after dozens of intricate surgeries, his mangled hands haunted her, forced her to use her own hands more often, to gain control over them.

Several times during Zuri’s performance, Charlotte was sure the fire had touched him, that he would cry out in defeat and stop the show, but each time she believed he’d been scorched, he performed something even more fantastic. He back-flipped and spit fire after she thought he’d burned his shoulder. He juggled three flaming torches after she thought he’d burned his side. He spun chains alight on one end after she thought he’d burned his arm. He let the audience gasp and clap while he remained focused on his only task—not getting burned in the most awe-inspiring ways possible.

By the end of the show, Charlotte was sure Zuri had tamed the fire and become its master. In the crowd, the forty-year-old woman beside her, the little girl in front, and the teenage boy to the left all wore the same expression—eyes wide so they didn’t miss anything, chins pointed toward the source of wonder, lips tilted upward as if susceptible to smile any moment. She was sure if people could feel like this all the time, there would be no hate or discrimination. The only thing left would be complete awe for a world that defied the five senses.

The crowd clapped and someone whistled, but Charlotte was rooted to the bench, her head full of smoke. She felt like Zuri had revealed a secret to her, a secret so shockingly wonderful she couldn’t think straight.

As the crowd dispersed, Zuri turned and pointed straight at her. “You. Stay there.” She glanced around, but no one else around her was facing the stage anymore. When she looked back up at Zuri, he had a small smile on his face. She nodded once and slipped a coin out of her pocket, flipping it in the air; she suffered from restless fingers, a trait she’d inherited from her dad.

The fire breather hopped off the stage. Charlotte dropped the coin and pressed her sweaty palms together to keep from messing with her frayed backpack straps. Her dad kept begging her to buy a new one, but her high school career was almost over, and the backpack still performed its basic functions. Besides, its shabbiness matched the way she felt most of the time.

The humid air felt more stifling than before as the performer approached, and she was well aware of the sweat pasting her clothes to her body. Zuri halted in front of her, and his tan muscles seemed to demand all her attention. Those muscles had controlled fire, a force Charlotte previously thought bowed to no master. He offered his hand and flashed a smile that gave Charlotte the sense he’d already earned her trust. A smile like that could be dangerous. “Hello,” he greeted as she took his hand, ready to shake it. Instead, he bent over at the waist and planted a kiss on Charlotte’s knuckles, his brown hair tickling her arm. “I’m Zuri.”

“Charlotte,” she responded, an awkward smile pasted to her lips. She felt like she was standing in front of a room full of people singing “Happy Birthday” to her; she didn’t know where to fix her eyes, or what expression she should have. She hoped she could blow out the candles soon.

“Do you always blush when you say your name?” he asked.

She stuttered out a weak “no” and forced her chin up to face him.

Zuri was not in the least bit phased. She glimpsed some fire dancing in his eyes, even though the show was over. “You remind me of someone I used to know.”

“Who?” she blurted. She wiped away the sweat pooling on her upper lip, wondering how Zuri could perspire so gracefully. She noticed a patch of blistering skin on his shoulder; he really had been burned.

“A friend.” He paused and swiftly turned toward the stage where the little girl with braided hair skipped around, clumsily attempting to copy parts of Zuri’s performance. Zuri turned back, rubbing his shoulder. “Would you come back here at three o’clock? Perhaps we can talk?”

Still entranced by the show, Charlotte nodded without thinking. “Sure.”

Zuri kissed her hand once more, squeezing her fingers. “Thank you, Charlotte.” Then he approached the little girl and, after complimenting her twinkling tiara, joined in her dance.

Charlotte stooped over to pick up her coin and wandered down the makeshift main street with old-fashioned buildings on both sides. She side-stepped a couple of giggling medieval prostitutes with overly rouged cheeks and breasts spilling out of their dresses. One had two teeth missing. Charlotte shivered and rubbed her own crooked teeth.

She whiled the rest of her time away stepping in and out of stifling stores selling corsets, swords and shields, pirate loot, leather-bound journals. Charlotte admired an iron pendant adorned with a dragon, seeing Zuri’s face in the beast’s features. Remembering the battered deck of cards her dad used to use for tricks, she bought a deck of hand-painted playing cards that resembled the tarot card reader’s. Charlotte pinched the deck between her thumb and forefinger. As she waved her other hand over the deck, one card floated up, sticking out. Then it flew into her hand. Two of hearts. Her dad’s favorite card.

Charlotte smiled and trekked to the wooden stage, quickening her pace past the masked executioner who lamented that no deaths were to occur today. When she reached her destination, she tilted her head back and squinted against the sun’s glare. She put the cards in her back pocket, resisting the urge to open the box and riffle through them. Her dad always had a way with cards; they were like an extension of his body. The two used to play princess and wizard. The wizard would perform for the princess and her court of stuffed animals. Her dad would fix broken strings, pull quarters out of the princess’s ear, and end with his newest card trick. Then the princess would shower him with royal favors—hugs, kisses, and invitations to the royal tea party. Her dad had mastered cards like Zuri had mastered fire. Maybe if he’d mastered tarot cards he would’ve seen the car coming.

“Charlotte.” Zuri stood in front of her, now wearing basketball shorts and a white T-shirt advertising Relay for Life. She could see the bulge of a bandage on his shoulder where he’d been burned. “Care for some cinnamon almonds?” He offered his arm, nodding toward the food court.

Mustering up a shot of courage, she took his arm and asked, “Who do I remind you of?” Readjusting one strap of her backpack, she noticed a dark spot of sweat on her shirt. Her hand stuck to his forearm; Charlotte wanted to remove it immediately.

“Vi, my friend. You look like her.” Charlotte had only recently cut her black hair to chin length. Vi must’ve had short hair. Or maybe she had a nose as big as a beak and a splotchy birthmark on her neck.

The savory smell of turkey legs and various fried foods attacked her nostrils like they’d stepped in the middle of a medieval swordfight. She peeled her fingers off of Zuri’s arm to fish the water out of her bag, taking a gulp to wash out the overwhelming taste of the food court atmosphere. “How did you meet?”

“We met at dance class. I was the only boy. She was the only lesbian. We bonded over our minority status. Here we are.” Zuri approached a booth boasting several types of roasted nuts, purchasing a bag of cinnamon-covered almonds.

They sat at a bench away from the food court’s aroma. Charlotte removed the deck of cards from her back pocket, not wanting to smash them beneath her. Tomorrow she would visit her dad in the hospital; she would bring him some magic. It was the only thing she could do.

“Is your shoulder alright?” Charlotte asked, eyeing the spot she’d seen the burn.

Zuri nodded and patted his shoulder. “The fire keeps me humble.” Charlotte couldn’t imagine feeling humble while mastering fire, and was about to say so, when Zuri’s dazzling grin returned. He eyed the deck of cards. “Would you like to see a card trick?”

She narrowed her eyes skeptically like she would’ve at her dad. He used to try to impress his princess with new tricks. Now the princess knew some tricks of her own. Charlotte plopped the deck onto the bench and plucked an almond from the bag. She couldn’t even taste the nut beneath the sugar coating. “On one condition. If you cut the deck to the queen of diamonds, I get to show you a trick.” The cards infused her with more courage than even a genie could grant her.

“Okay.” Zuri split the deck neatly in half and flipped over the top card. The queen’s piercing blue eyes stared tauntingly up at him, her red diamonds glinting. Zuri laughed and held his palms up in surrender. “Astound me, wonderful magician.”

Secretly proud she’d awed the fire master, Charlotte waved a hand over the deck, and it jumped into her palm. “Pick a card.”

After he put his card back in the deck and shuffled several times, Charlotte made the card jump to the top. He made her repeat the trick several times before asking for a new one. And once she’d performed half the tricks she knew, Zuri begged to know how she did them, how she manipulated reality that way. “The cards obey me,” she said, gathering the deck Zuri had sprayed at her. She’d caught his card between two fingers, which had the desired reaction, but she wished she’d chosen a less messy trick.

“At least teach me the easiest trick you know. Please.”

Charlotte riffled through the deck, tilting her head up toward the sun’s glare. Spots invaded her vision even after she looked away. She realized her dad had been out of her mind for at least an hour; that had to be a record. “Alright. I’ll teach you, if you teach me.” Charlotte grabbed Zuri’s hand and pressed the hand-painted deck into his palm. “Teach me how to breathe fire, and I’ll teach you magic. Deal?”

Zuri’s fingers curled over the deck. “Deal.”

The next night, darkness swirled around the two magicians. Persistent clouds blocked the moon. La Lune, the Moon, the life of the soul. Hours before dawn, the empty lot near Charlotte’s apartment building became truly empty. Without light, littered cigarette butts and broken glass vanished into patches of half-dead grass. Charlotte could almost imagine she was in a park, surrounded by towering, ancient trees that whispered in the breeze.

Her soul basked in the flickering light of Zuri’s torch, La Lune forgotten in the brilliance of the fire. Charlotte had just kissed her dad on the cheek at the hospital and, hoping to cheer him up before another surgery, showed him her latest card trick. She ripped the two of hearts clean in half, letting his scarred hand feel the rough edges. Then she’d swallowed one half and stuck the other between her lips. After a calculated moment of suspense, she pulled the fully repaired card out of her mouth and flashed it toward her father. He’d smiled and clapped, but she never knew if it broke his heart to see what he could not do. His hands were no longer obedient in the ways hers were becoming.

But tonight she wanted to master fire. Card tricks could inspire curiosity and wonder, but they were nothing like the intrigue of working with fire, something that could destroy yet sustain life. Something wild yet domestic. Dangerous yet comforting.

“Okay, I’ll demonstrate first and then show you.” Zuri had pulled most of his hair back into a bun, tucking the stray locks behind his ear.

“I’ve already seen you spit fire. And spin it on a stick. And a chain. And dance with it on a hula hoop. Just teach me,” Charlotte pleaded, tugging on the sleeves of her dark jacket, which might have been overcautious. She used to sneak a blanket and book out here on the nights her mind was too busy for sleep, but the trees had been chopped down earlier in the year, so the lot was now visible to the apartment building. One of the Byrnes was always peering out the window, looking for something to whisper about.

“Learn by observation,” Zuri responded, bringing the alcohol to his lips with a smirk. He held up the torch with a theatrical flourish, and he spit. The fire flared up in the sky and illuminated his face. The puff of smoke remained like a shadow of possibility. Zuri wiped his mouth with a cloth and pointed the torch straight at Charlotte’s heart. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Charlotte said, taking the torch and holding it away from her body as Zuri had done. Her grip tightened then loosened cautiously; she was sure everything hinged on the smallest movements of her fingers.

Zuri shook his head and seized the torch back. “Not yet. You have to practice spraying.” Before Charlotte could reach for the torch again, he slid a water bottle into her hand. “Hold your hand out like this. About eighteen inches from your face. And practice blowing a powerful spray past that hand.”

Charlotte poured water into her mouth, stretched out her arm, and keeping one eye on Zuri, blew. The spray barely misted her hand. Instead of laughing at her like she expected, Zuri merely picked up a water bottle of his own and demonstrated. Charlotte studied how he puckered his lips, how much air he drew in beforehand, how quickly the water spewed out of his mouth. The stream flew solidly into his outstretched hand; he shook it dry.

Sipping more water, Charlotte rubbed her hand against her thigh and held it out. She concentrated on copying Zuri exactly. She blew and felt a slight mist on her palm. Not good enough. Without lowering her hand, she sucked air into her lungs and drank more. She momentarily closed her eyes, imagining this water would transform into flames once it left her mouth. One, two, three; she opened her eyes and blew. She felt rain on her palm and glanced up at the sky where the mist dissipated into the air. Charlotte’s small smile provided the only hint that she’d succeeded; she couldn’t be proud of something any blowfish could do.

Zuri relit the torch. Charlotte tried to focus on Zuri’s words, his last minute advice, but the fire played tricks with the shadows, toying with Charlotte’s sanity. He twirled the torch and handed it over, his face obscured in the darkness. “Here’s the paraffin.” At his companion’s confused look, Zuri said, “Fuel. Take a swig, hold the torch safely away from your body, and spit. Make sure you wipe your mouth afterward. Don’t breathe in; don’t blow if you feel it get too windy. And if you catch on fire, well, I guess you’ll burn.” Zuri shrugged apologetically and handed over the bottle. Charlotte’s eyes darted toward the creases in his forehead, the only evidence of the frown he hid behind a smile. She recognized his last words as the warning they really were: fire can’t always be controlled.

Charlotte faked a scowl, squinted her eyes, and held the torch out with a steady hand. She pushed hair out of her face and tilted the bottle back, nearly gagging on the paraffin. It was like a liquid habanero pepper—all heat, no taste. Her mouth burned, her eyes watered, but she lifted the torch high and blew. A surprisingly loud whoosh filled her ears, and a sheen of sweat coated her face, as the fire billowed through the air. She quickly wiped her mouth with the cloth and stared up at the remaining puff of smoke. She’d just breathed fire.

“I did it,” she said, straightening up to release her coiled muscles. Charlotte felt like a saint, like she’d just performed a miracle. She’d defied the laws of physics. She could leap into a storybook and fit right in.

Charlotte smothered the flame and tucked the dirty cloth into her pocket. Then she chanted, “I did it,” over and over again, as if she didn’t believe it, until she launched at Zuri in a bear hug she usually reserved for her dad.

“Get off me, you heinous dragon lady,” Zuri grunted, laughing at Charlotte until she calmed down.

They continued her dragon training for an hour more, Charlotte insisting on perfecting not only the fire-breathing, but also Zuri’s dazzling stage persona. She tried to convince him to teach her some tricks with the torch, but Zuri refused. Fire wasn’t an easy friend to make. Eventually, Charlotte conceded to taking a break, and they sat down on the knitted blanket she had stuffed in her backpack. The sky was turning pink, but the sun hadn’t shown its face yet. She closed her eyes and took a whiff of the morning breeze mingled with a sweet burnt smell. The paraffin’s heat still lingered in her mouth.

Charlotte shifted in place, pulling the hand-painted deck of cards out of her back pocket. She carried it everywhere. “It bothers me,” she said, shuffling through the deck.

“What does?”

“That magic is all a deception. Fire is so pure and true, but my skills are lies and disillusionment. And they’re the only things I know how to do.”                                                            

Zuri tucked his hair behind his ear and stretched his legs out on the blanket, leaning back on his hands. Then he seemed to change his mind and sat up, holding out his hand for the deck of cards. Charlotte handed it over, curious to see what he would do. “You’re wrong,” Zuri said, fanning the cards out in front of her. Charlotte selected one. He continued speaking as she returned the card to the middle of the deck, and he shuffled. “Magic is art. It’s meant to be interpreted in different ways.” Zuri showed her a card, smiling hopefully. “Is this your card?” Charlotte shook her head no, but she hadn’t seen him do anything wrong. She wasn’t sure why the trick had failed. Then Zuri pointed to her pocket, and she slowly pulled out her card. “Magic shows that we all have the capacity for wonder no matter how much we doubt.”

Charlotte squinted up as Le Soleil peeked over the horizon. Such an honest answer, but she didn’t think she believed it. In any case, it didn’t apply to her. Her dad always showed her tricks to make sure she didn’t lose her appreciation for the unknown. To distract her. To make her smile. For him, magic was art. But Charlotte didn’t know why she found joy in deception. She supposed it was to show her father she was good enough, she could fill his place as family magician, Le Bateleur. Or to somehow make lying morally acceptable, so her conscience didn’t dissolve every time her lips spewed a falsehood. But never for art, never for the pure joy of the act.

“So what’s next for you?” Zuri asked, nudging Charlotte right as she’d taken a sip of water. Some of it squirted out of her nose as she struggled to hold in the rest of the liquid. Then she turned and, tapping in to her hours of training, sprayed it all over Zuri’s face. He laughed and tugged the cloth out of Charlotte’s pocket to wipe off her spit.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly, wiping water from her chin.

Zuri tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and shook his head. Charlotte wondered why, but was too afraid to ask. Too afraid that Zuri would say something else that illuminated her rotten core. Charlotte picked up the torch lying on the ground next to the blanket, brushing blades of grass off the wood. Maybe the fire would make her more like Zuri. “Let’s do more.”

“The sun’s coming up,” Zuri pointed out, reaching for his lighter anyway. Le Soleil was challenging them to a duel—who could shine more brilliantly? Charlotte accepted the challenge and shed her dark jacket, dropping it onto a patch of dead grass. Zuri lit the end of the torch, and Charlotte felt heat wash over her.

Firetrucks pulled into the parking lot in front of them all, their sirens blaring louder than the crackling flames. People clustered together, feeling safety in numbers despite the fact that fire had no rules. Charlotte thought Zuri had mastered fire, but she should have realized that he was merely its partner. He had burns all over to remind him of that delicate balance, but Charlotte had ignored them.

Zuri had left his torch in the empty lot weeks before, and she’d found it lying near a couple of beer bottles. It looked so ordinary on the ground with a bunch of litter, but she knew how amazing this simple wood stake could be once flames danced on one end. She’d told Zuri she couldn’t find it; he’d thanked her and made plans to visit her the next weekend. The torch waited patiently in her closet, but she hadn’t gathered the courage to practice on her own until today. Then it rained, so she practiced inside.

Charlotte glanced down at the deck of cards she’d had in her pocket when the alarms went off. In all those times she’d been asked what she would save from a burning building, she never would have said a deck of cards, but maybe it was the flames’ way of showing mercy. All this destruction for two twirls of a torch. But at the time it had seemed monumental—she’d seen the beauty in her actions.

Now Charlotte was scared. Scared they’d trace the fire to her, that she’d be labeled an arsonist. She almost wished the building would burn quicker. Her fingers tightened around the deck of cards. None of these people chose this. They didn’t see the beauty in the flames, only the horror.

Charlotte patted her dad’s arm and whispered something in his ear. His fingers finally stopped fiddling nervously with each other, and he smiled. Her dad nodded and squeezed her arm. Charlotte walked toward the little boy and his kitten, who had somewhat calmed down. She paused in front of him, almost stopping to show him some magic like she’d said she would. Then she glanced back at her dad—she was not Le Bateleur—and, smiling politely at the Byrnes, trudged away from her home’s cremation. The deck of cards weighed down her hand, hiding the blistering skin that marred her palm.

-Ryn Baginski