by Lorenzo Baehne

I think I lost my mojo. Like a quarter fallen through a hole in my pocket. I'll dispatch a search party. Perhaps they'll find it beneath a bush, huddled against the cold, trembling and goose-fleshed. Or perhaps they'll turn up nothing, and many years will pass. And one day, long from now, with not a compass to plot its course, the magic that was once mine will find itself a wanderer among its brethren, who likewise are far from home.