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Micro-magic (again)

His guitar was magic. He always found the melodies when he played for someone who was sick.

The iceberg was magic. Penguins who leapt to the safety of the floating frozen mesa found themselves in possession of plentiful fish and predator-free seas.

Their entryway rug was magic. For decades it kept out his professional enemies and her family.

Her bookcase was magic. Every book she placed on it was richer the next time she read it.

His gumball was magic. When he chewed out all the flavor, he found he knew the names of all the trees. Not their scientific names — their proper ones.

The puppy was magic, because as soon as he hugged the ball of wriggling life against his chest, he knew it was going to be all right.

Published inWriting