Describing Fantastical Life

In the way that specks of dust reflect remnants of sunlight as they soar throughout rooms littered with dormant libraries, I too felt fleeting. A dream, disregarded as a childhood memory, a sensation in your skin rather than on it.

Magic is devilry. Illusion. It was nothing more than a fever symptom in our house. Magic, the untouchable and unseeable fantasy had no place in a house surrounded by walls, with walls to touch and colors to recognize. Yet, it seeped through nooks and whispered through passages – for as unsensible it is, magic is untraceable. In wait.

Growing. Magic grew in the room that, long ago yet not too long ago, laid my cot and memories of my first days. It grew as an orchid, a brilliant blue – yet blazed like a campfire, abandoned under a new moon. Its petals seemed to furl and unfurl as if it were a newborn grasping for its mother. Mother, she said, it’s troublesome we have these mushrooms swarming this house – try and cut them, and more grow… I never heard her finish the rest because all I could wonder was how she could see the stem, the leaves and petals, its winding complexities – and call it a mushroom. I wondered how many flowers were there in this world that were called names other than their own. I knew the flower was Magic, because I asked.

I did not approach it immediately. I know fear is not just childish nonsense – I know that it’s wise. That’s why flowers have thorns. But eventually, the visits to my late bedroom became frequent and long, no longer could my curiosity contain its flourishing. I was not sure if Magic could speak, let alone listen. But it must have seen and felt every color and vibration that reached its roots – it must have had reason to grow in this plain house.

I read a book in the corner, where Magic continued to grow with each passing day the Sun offered its life. The books in the house were words, not stories. Words upon words, in pages bound with names that I could recognize yet had to learn anew. Then, I felt it. It was as if the pages reached into me, and magic flowed ever so slightly to send its yearning message.

Once upon a time, there lived a dragon. It once lived in the imprisoning bounds of a book, the dying gift of an author whose work contorted into textbook – discipline. The dragon was confined in scales, each described meticulously. Its home consisted of rocks defined to a grain, ceilings measured without inaccuracy. One day, there was a child who picked up this book – and hated it. And the child, being selfish yet unknowing, ripped the pages out of the book and reimagined a story. As the child pictured the dragon, the imperfect imagination attributed with childhood shifted the dragon’s scales, whirled paths to different villages, thought of tens of thousands of wings and then none at all. The dragon could no longer be in a prison, and once the child moved on as all do, it was left to its own means to finish its story with the remnants left to it. Many lives were lived in its story, and it did not end beyond life.

Someday. Magic will grow in a house of my own, where the walls are murals of my dreams.

As I walked towards the bustling city, I was struck by the beauty of my world.

The sky was a stunning shade of gold, casting a warm glow over the city's shimmering buildings. The streets were bustling with all kinds of people, but my eyes were drawn to those who possessed the gift of bending light to create illusions. They were a rare breed, blessed with the ability to manipulate the very fabric of reality. Their illusions were so realistic that they could fool even the most perceptive observer.

The magic system in our world was a fascinating one. Illusionists were not the only ones with magical abilities. Elementalists could control the elements of earth, air, fire, and water and the unique and powerful telekinetics could move objects with their minds. But of all the magical abilities in the world, to me none were as remarkable as the ability to bend light.

Illusionists had the power to create anything they wanted, with no limits to their creativity. They could make it seem as though the world around them was completely different from reality. Ranging from small illusions such as beautiful bands of colors in the sky to giant dragons that breathed fire or making it seem as though the city was under attack from an army of phantoms, illusionists had seemingly boundless magic. They could even create complex illusions that could transport people to other worlds.

But it wasn't just the illusions themselves that were impressive. The way the illusionists created them was a thing of beauty. They would hold out their hands, palms facing up, and concentrate on the light around them. Then, with a carafe, elegant flick of their wrists, they would bend the light to their will, creating the most amazing illusions. Even the simplest act of a singular rose blooming from their palm never failed to mesmerize me.

Walking through the city, I saw illusionists at every turn. They were performing on street corners, creating magical creatures out of thin air to entertain the passersby. The illusions they created were so real that I found myself reaching out to touch them, only to be met with disappointment as my hand fell through the image, as if a hallucination.

As I continued my walk, I saw something that made my heart skip a beat. A group of illusionists were practicing their craft in a nearby park. They were creating the most magnificent illusion I had ever seen. It was a glimmering palace made out of a clear, glassy material. It was a stunning and unique structure, unlike anything I had ever seen before. It appeared to be constructed entirely of shimmering water, giving it a dazzling and ethereal quality. The exterior of the palace consisted of walls and towers made of clear, sparkling water, that refracted the light and created rainbow-like patterns on the surrounding landscape. The walls and towers were sculpted to create intricate patterns and designs, reflecting the skill and artistry of the illusionists who created it. The palace was surrounded by a moat filled with crystal-clear water, which served both as a mock protective barrier and as a decorative element.

Approaching the illusion, I saw that the water walls were not simply clear, still surfaces, but instead formed into flowing shapes, like waves or cascading waterfalls. The palace appeared to be lit from within, with the light reflecting off the water and creating a magical and dream-like atmosphere. Hazy lines of multicolor currents and refractions of the city’s golden light danced across the surface of the palace.

As I watched, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy. Why couldn't I have been blessed with the gift of illusion?

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These are original pieces of descriptive writing, the first one being written by Nat and the second by Anya.