The Cross, the Bath, and the Bridge

I genuinely loved him.

I think…I thought.

Genuinity and love are both feelings that were present, but something about that statement seems wrong now. He was like a breath of fresh air, literally. I never got a chance to tell him that I loved the flavor of his mint-cold kisses. I never got a chance to tell him that I hated when he switched to Juicy fruit gum. Actually, the moment that he switched to Juicy fruit, I knew that things could only go downhill.

Somewhere, I hoped that someone as intelligent as he would see the error in such a poor gum choice. Maybe it was a fluke?

It wasn’t an accident. It never is. It wasn’t an accident that with the airy winds this merman brought a series of unfortunate circumstances: my having to uncross myself because he decided to fuck with another magical practitioner, and the undelineable cluster of sorrow from the effects of the crossing which was strangely contagious like a cold or an STD, the heartbreak I felt after foolishly choosing to fall in love, and the depression that I experienced from birth control that just didn’t jive with my body. Funny how a man who was so fixated on cleanliness was so…spiritually not. Even stranger that the merman didn’t realize this through his own Piscean instincts.

I felt dirty. Not just from him, but I felt something was amiss. “Go take a bath.” They said. I tend to hear them clearest whenever I’m in emotional distress or during the slivered cracks in my consciousness during a rite. “You’re beautiful, go take a bath,” they said again. I guess you can count the ceremonial moment when things are over and out of your control, and the choice to allow oneself to be vulnerable and feel deep sorrow as a rite in and of itself.

While in the tub, I closed my eyes and sang the Gayatri mantra. I found myself in a familiar field: I recognized it from my guided meditations and my entry into the Strategic Sorcery group. The sun was out, but the clouds above me were excruciatingly dark. I sang louder, with more force to push them as far back into the horizon as I could, but as soon as I sang them away, they rolled back. I called for reinforcements, and the day turned to night, and the sky became clear once again: the moon and the stars illuminated the sky. He left, and I opened my eyes to find myself in the scented tub again. I stepped out, anointed myself with protection oil, and sat a tealight candle on top of a mirror I had.

I hope that they experience ten times the stress I had to go through to get rid of this mess. Granted, I had to unhinge one last thing, but that was relatively easy to reverse. My tolerance for assholes, loud noises, and sexist pigs on the other hand, that has permanently decreased.


One morning I decided to go back to the field, and I found my little space. I found my baby pink rose colored bed space on the floor with billowy pillows inviting me to sit and lay, to which I obliged. My room had changed, but I remembered a few little things. I found the door that led to other worlds, but I think this was the first time I put it to use. “Who am I connected to?” I asked. To my left, I saw a dark blue bridge intertwined with dual rays. It led to a place with darkened clouds. “Who is this?” I asked, and the answer downloaded to my mind. It’s the bridge to my best friends, Twin-Crab and Daffodil. As I was contemplating taking the bridge to visit them, I found myself in the living room of their apartment, which was empty…for the most part. I struggled to get back to the platform outside of my space, and I looked at the other bridges.

One bridge was crumbling and short, while another was fully formed. There were others, like the cold, barren, but sturdy one to my ex, but I didn’t pay too much attention to them. I looked at the short and stubby one and asked “Who’s bridge is this?” And the person’s image came to mind. “No way…Seriously, who’s bridge is this?” I asked. A pathetic cartoon drawing came to mind that was about as pitiful in style as this One-Punch man drawing:


I shook my head. I don’t even know what pseudonym to give the dude. Let’s see. His word is about as valuable as dirt and don’t expect him to follow through with anything he says unless he “promises.” He’s moody as hell. He screwed up his reputation by being so damn crabby towards other people. I spent a lot of time trying to mitigate damages, and I attempted to understand where he was coming from. Establish some point of reference and maybe create some sort of change.

…and that’s why the bridge is basically a stub. In matter of fact, that’s what I’ll call him: Stub-Butt.
Stub for short.

Out of a whim, I guess a challenge, I decided to rebuild the bridge.

Oh and did I rebuild it.

I forced a big ass bridge adorned with flags and fabric was underneath it which caught the wind, making the bridge look like it was floating. As soon as it was solid and reached the other end, it fell apart.

“Son of a bitch, you never make things easy do you?” I called on the servitor I had created, Hopladu, to build a bridge. A little bit about Hopladu: he’s a black and white striped servitor, a bit of a mime and clown created to pull Stub out of his funk. He’s a hopeful, fun, but mischievous little creature.

“Hey, make a bridge to him here.” I commanded.

And quickly he got to work. He stretched his body from my end to his, but he had a little too much fun. He started making crazy shapes, warping the bridge, making his form skinny, acting like silly string in the wind.

…hmm…on second thought, I created him through the Linking Sigil network, so it’s probably not a good idea to build a bridge on something that volatile. Before I uttered a thought he vanished in a glitter filled rainbow smoke and left me with the stub bridge.

I reformed the pillars and the bridge I envisioned, but it would not stick. The only thing that I could think of that could was the one thing that kept his ass in check: education. The third time around I lined books at his end of the bridge, and it was epically more stable.

“Really? The only thing keeping this bridge open is my educational resources? That’s it?!”

I tested the theory, and so long as a book was on his side of the bridge entry way, no matter how narrow, a bridge formed.

Okay then. I see how this rolls. I feel like being experimental anyway. I’m going to solidify this damn bridge’s existence by storytelling.

I opened my eyes, and set aside Linking Sigil book I was reading, opened my laptop, and started writing this story.


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