how to clap remnant 2

In the world of literature, there are countless magical tales that capture our imagination and transport us to enchanting realms. However, what if there was a book that took a unique approach to the world of magic? A book that presented the fantastical elements from a flipped perspective, turning our preconceived notions of magic upside down. Imagine a book where magic is not used for good or evil, but rather as a neutral force that simply exists. This book of magic would delve deep into the intricacies of spells, incantations, and potions, but with a twist. Instead of portraying magic as a force that only a select few possess, it would showcase how magic pervades every aspect of our everyday lives. Rather than focusing on extraordinary magical abilities, this book would emphasize the subtle magical moments that we often overlook.

As I stirred the mixture together with my own finger, I realized that this concoction was the red "lipstick" she wore every day. I was impressed by her creativity, her magic. But I also felt tricked.

We might believe that the seat of speech without considering ventriloquists and flatulists has no need for the assistance of hand gestures when it comes to expressing emotions and sensations. 38 with fingers spread, to wave one s hand in front of one s mouth as if to fan it A way of indicating that a dish is too hot or too spicy and is burning one s mouth.

Rather than focusing on extraordinary magical abilities, this book would emphasize the subtle magical moments that we often overlook. It would draw our attention to the enchantment of a butterfly fluttering its wings, the ethereal beauty of a sunset, or the transformative power of a kind word. By shifting our perspective, this book of magic would show us that magic is not just about casting spells and performing feats, but about recognizing the magic that already surrounds us.

Touching lips with the witch

By Katie Bennett

Illustration by Vera Blossom

Gwen swept through the hall of our middle school in a long black cape. She'd flipped up its hood, and the way it framed her pale face made her skin glow royally. She was both Queen and King, stomping commandingly in her knee-high combat boots. She didn't look at any of us, but straight ahead, shoulders set. She wore red lipstick like a woman.

Everyone cleared a path. Boys covered their mouths to muffle their laughing (at least the more polite ones did). I remember pressing my shoulder blades into the wall to get away from her. But my neck jutted out to take a closer look.

The day before she had simply been "Gwen," the large girl in faded Gap jeans and a pale pink T-shirt. Even though she towered over us, we barely noticed her. Her skin blended into the ceiling. Now she was "Gwendolynne," as I'd soon learn through poetry club. The name reminded me of medieval women in long velvet dresses who wore crowns made of bramble. Beautiful women, faces lit by a hearth. But also deeply sad women, dying in childbirth or locked in a tower. History that, if touched, would prick my finger, like Sleeping Beauty. Gwendolynne, a living fairytale in Mullica Hill, New Jersey.

I was 11, a newly-minted middle-schooler. I wore boys’ jeans that my dad bought me in packs of three from Costco and eggplant-colored turtlenecks from L.L. Bean. Yet I wanted to be pretty, like Lizzie McGuire or Liv Tyler. I just didn't know how. I sometimes wore my mom's silver hoop earrings and gold scrunchie. I sometimes applied sparkly pink lip gloss from CVS, even though a minute later I'd accidentally lick my lips and eat the bitter, strawberry-flavored goo. I noticed the older girls, the seventh and eighth graders, in their tight camis, cream-colored like their skin, with a built-in bra that created a shelf out of their small breasts. I noticed the way boys leaned toward them, almost to the point of falling.

Gwendolynne, an eighth grader, was not one of those girls. She wrote in her velvet purple diary while leaning against her metal locker. Her face was stoic, set, yet it would crack open with light as she laughed with her group of girlfriends. Those times I’d smile, too, but then I'd catch myself and hurry down the hallway.

Poetry club met after lunch on Fridays. The teacher who led it wore a gold hoop earring and had colorful Grateful Dead bear tattoos on his forearm, below the sleeve of his rolled-up plaid shirt. We called him "Teacher Chris" (it was a Quaker school, and we addressed all of our teachers by their first names). Teacher Chris let us sit on the tables and listen to our CD players and chat. But we worked, too, because we wanted to, heads bent over our spiral Mead notebooks. For inspiration we’d peek out the window at the nearby Quaker cemetery. We’d watch the leaves fall wetly onto the gravestones.

My friends and I sat at our own table, Gwendolynne and her friends at another. But after a few months the groups melded together, because despite our slight age difference, we were all the same in important ways. Our bodies were larger and more curved than the girls in the tan camis. We were more turned toward each other than toward boys. And we carried diaries rather than purses.

Maybe I asked Gwendolynne about her cape, but one day she told me about her religion, Wicca. "People think it's scary but it's really about nature and plants and stuff." She said Wiccans proudly referred to themselves as "witches," but they didn't ride broomsticks or put curses on people.

Up close I noticed she had little hairs, almost see-through, on her cheeks, and a dot of lipstick on her tooth. Her necklace, a large pointy pentagram, dangled ominously from a black string.

I was more interested in listening to her than I was the pastor of my church, an old man droning on about men named Matthew and Paul and Job. I wanted to sit under the trees at night like Gwendolynne said she did. I wanted to light candles and tell them my dreams.

Her poems were the best in our school. My favorite of hers was "Sonnet #9,832," which opened with the lines: I did not hear the cry of soaring birds/ And yet I felt their presence in my heart. I imagined a little blue bird nestled safely in the pink tissue of her heart. I imagined it singing a private song for her. And this bird is why she didn't crack when boys made fart noises as she walked past, and hardly flinched the time a second grader screamed from fear while looking at her.

I was beginning to gain a reputation as a real poet myself, after Teacher Chris read my poem inspired by The Outsiders at assembly. Gold chips off quickly/ Soon it will all be chipped off and the adult will be fully/ Exposed. After he read that, Gwendolynne was even nicer to me.

One day she invited me over to her house, and I accepted eagerly, honored to be picked. But afterwards, I walked through the hallway and came across Alexa and Charlie. I somehow knew they'd been dating for about a week (even though we didn't talk) and that it was serious. Alexa wore a ribbed white tank top known as a "wife beater," and her jeans were so low-slung that I could see a strip of her bare skin stretching all the way around her midriff, like a peach-colored belt. Charlie shoved her against the water fountain as they made out. My chest ached and my skin itched. Suddenly it was clear to me that I wanted my own heated moment, that I wanted to be ravished and bewitched. And that I would need to show my stomach, or my shoulders through the straps of a tan cami. I’d need to be one of “those” girls.

I yanked at the collar of my turtleneck, ran my hands through my hair, and applied more strawberry lip gloss. I thought of Gwendolynne's invitation, regretfully.

When my mom pulled up in front of Gwendolynne's house, I was disappointed to see that it was a normal development house like mine. I expected a witch to live somewhere old and dark, with a rusted weathervane on the pointed roof and gargoyles leering above the entrances. Her house had tan siding and a tricycle tipped on its side in the grassy front yard.

Inside, Gwendolynne's young twin siblings were screaming and clinging to her mother's hip. Her mother looked just like her, but was wearing a pantsuit post-work and no makeup. And she was larger than Gwendolynne in every way, her long blond hair hanging almost to her butt, her feet making the ground rumble with each step. I thought, anxiously, So this is the woman she will become.

Gwendolynne had prepared an activity. On the kitchen counter sat a jar of Vaseline, a packet of Kool-Aid, two small bowls, and two tiny plastic containers with screw-off lids. She said we were going to make lipstick. With her bare finger she scooped a wad of Vaseline into my bowl, then sprinkled half the Kool-Aid packet on top of it.

As I stirred the mixture together with my own finger, I realized that this concoction was the red "lipstick" she wore every day. I was impressed by her creativity, her magic. But I also felt tricked.

Gwendolynne graduated 8th grade and went on to a Catholic high school. I pictured her in a uniform, her skirt hanging dutifully to her knees, her starched white shirt buttoned to her chin. It made me unbearably sad. I thought of the last lines of "Sonnet #9,832": I stood in awe and sadly watched them leave / And now I only wish they'd taken me.

The next year Teacher Chris said he'd heard from Gwendolynne, and that she was still writing "darn good" poems. I felt the old twinge of jealousy, of healthy competition. I wrote in my diary every night. I wrote ten poems a day, poems about slipping down a tube, plastic jewelry, and hoping for a peaceful end to the war in Iraq.

In high school I wore thick black eyeliner and Doc Martens. I stomped through the halls, thinking of Gwendolynne in her own boots. I told myself I didn’t care if a prep school boy picked me, but I was still crushed when I wasn’t asked to prom.

I prayed for my own blue bird. I thought of Gwendolynne, murmuring to herself by her locker, “like a crazy person.” But I'd always wanted to know what she was saying.

Katie Bennett is a writer and musician from West Philly. She’s a mentor for PEN America’s Prison and Justice Writing Program and she writes a monthly newsletter about personal ghosts, feminist lit, and creative process. You can follow her on Instagram @katiepbennett.

Through its pages, this book would invite us to see the world with fresh eyes, to explore the magic in the mundane. It would encourage us to find wonder in the ordinary, to appreciate the small moments of magic that are often overlooked. This flipped perspective would reawaken our sense of awe and reconnect us to the enchantment that exists all around us. As we delve into the pages of this book, we would uncover the stories of ordinary people who discover their own unique connection to magic. We would witness the transformation of a shy librarian who finds solace in the magical worlds of books, a struggling artist who discovers her own creative magic, or a scientist who unravels the mysteries of the universe through the lens of magic. Ultimately, this book of magic with a flipped perspective would remind us that magic is not something confined to fairy tales and fantasy novels. It is a force that is present in our lives, if only we take the time to notice. It is a reminder that we have the power to bring magic into our everyday experiences and to make our lives more extraordinary. So, let us open the pages of this enchanting book and embrace the magic that awaits..

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how to clap remnant 2