The Spell - 1. Chapter 1

Michael and his boyfriend, Brock, were at an after hours party at one of their friends' houses. Michael was thirty years old and had a lanky build, average looks, and brown hair and eyes. Brock was twenty-six years old and had a muscular build, blond hair, blue eyes, and what appeared to be a permanent scowl.

Michael was alone and bored.

Brock was talking to a cute boy, who kept touching his arm. Both were laughing, whispering, and occasionally glancing at Michael. Michael seemed not to notice or care.

Michael’s ex, Royce, wandered over to him. Royce was thirty-two years old and was as bored as Michael was. Royce was also holding a plastic cup and was a bit tipsy. “Hey Mike, how’s it going?” Royce slurred.

“Bored and wanting to go home,” Michael answered.

“I know what you mean," Royce said, observing Brock. “You still dating Brock?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” Royce murmured. “Still taking care of him?”

“Don’t remind me.”

*           *          *

Michael and Brock had just gotten home. Michael walked into the bathroom, took off his boxers, and got in the shower with Brock. He touched Brock around the waist, but Brock squirmed away, rinsed off, and left.

Michael finished showering. By that time, Brock was in his briefs and using deodorant. “Are you going to have this month's rent?” Michael asked abruptly.

“I’m working on it,” Brock muttered.

Michael hesitated. “I keep getting calls—“

“Did you hear what I said? I’ll take care of it.”

Brock flung the deodorant down and left. “That’s what you always say,” Michael grumbled to himself.

Michael brushed his teeth, walked out, and froze. “I just got a call from my sister. She needs me to pick her up,” Brock said, as he finished putting on his club clothes.

“Dressed like that?”

Brock checked his texts, sprayed cologne, and rushed out.

*          *          *

It was the next day at Michael’s work, and he had just entered. Automatically, he noticed a co-worker celebrating with two friends. “What happened to her?” Michael asked his cubicle mate, James.

An older man entered their cubicle. “The boss needs you in his office now,” the man said to Michael.

Michael looked at James, and James shrugged.

Michael left the cubicle, as the girl and her friends became quiet.

Michael walked to his boss’s office. “Go in,” the secretary told him.

Michael entered. His boss was on the phone. The boss was named Wilhelm and was only twenty-five years old. He was a handsome, slender guy, who was so groomed he looked plasticized. On his desk was a picture of him and his bombshell fiancée. “Let me let you go,” Wilhelm said softly.

Wilhelm hung up. “You need to see me?” Michael asked.

Wilhelm barely looked up. “You’re going back to your old job.”

“What?”

“You’re not management material. You’re a floor worker. You’re too nice; you let people run over you. I can’t have that…”

“But—“

Wilhelm’s phone rang, and Wilhelm picked it up. “Send it through…Yes, I’m trying to make reservations for tonight.” Wilhelm glanced at Michael. “Excuse me one moment.” Wilhelm raised his head without looking at Michael. “Close the door on your way out.”

“Can we talk about this?”

“No.” Michael stood there for a few seconds to Wilhelm’s annoyance. Then, he turned and walked to the door. “Yes, I’ll need a table for two tonight,” Wilhelm continued with the person on the phone.

*          *          *

Michael walked into his apartment, threw a handful of bills down, and checked the messages on his home phone. There were six of them: five from creditors for Brock and one from his brother.

He called his brother. “What’s up?” Michael asked.

“Hey, Mike, how you been?”

“I’ve been better. What’s going on?”

“Well, Mike,” his brother said, sighing, “your sister and I really need your help.”

“I just sent money.”

“I know. This home keeps asking for more.”

“Switch her to a new one. It’s not that hard.”

“She likes this one. She made friends there, the medical is good—“

“We can’t afford it.”

“Why you always got to be an ass?” There was a tense silence. “I don’t mean that. We just really need your help now. We both have families, huge bills—“

“And I don’t? You know what? Fine. I’ll send more. How much?”

“Two hundred.”

“Okay. I'll send it tomorrow."

“Thank you.”

Fuming, Michael hung up.

He walked over to a framed, pastel drawing on his bedroom wall. It was a picture of an angel holding a man and looked like a child had drawn it.

He calmed down, touched the frame, and smiled a little.

*          *          *

Michael was at a diner that night. A waitress, Katie, was talking to him. Katie was also thirty years old and once attended community college with him.

Michael was watching another waitress, Jennifer, as she waited on a man named Isaac. Isaac was old, bearded, and bald. “She's being unusually nice tonight. Maybe she likes them older," Michael mused.

“You know what I heard?” Katie inquired.

“What?”

“I heard he’s some kind of…sorcerer.”

“Like a psychic?”

“I don’t know. I think he did something for her, though.”

“Like what?”

“She won’t say.” She hesitated. “Her kid did come out of a coma recently. He was in a bad accident a year ago.”