I’m at the age where magic stops happening.

I haven’t fallen down a hole, or ported to mystical lands, or found a mysterious key, or met a beastly prince love.

I haven’t found my one true calling, my purpose in life, my goal, my fate, finish line, destiny, core, one-night adventure, survival thriller horror.

My toys haven’t come to life, I haven’t crossed a fairy’s path, I haven’t crossed a monster’s path.

No vampire, werewolf, fallen angel, mutant, demon, hunter, jock, outcast, goblin king has ever paid any attention to me.

I can’t fight – neither sword, nor fist, nor bow, nor magic, nor firearm.

I haven’t had that surreal first kiss, true love’s first kiss, the kiss that sends tingles down my spin and makes my toes curl and my heart aflutter.

I haven’t met a ghost, haven’t met a talking animal, haven’t been transformed into a talking animal.

Haven’t undergone any physical training, or put together a grimoire, or had any etiquette lessons.

Haven’t met a twin, doppelganger, princess nor pauper.

Haven’t seen an enchanted object, labyrinth, hedge maze, corn maze, orchard with golden apples and unicorns.

Haven’t met a vigilante, become a sidekick, nor a nuisance, nor a point of info.

Can’t, don’t have some kind of cursed power that singles me out, separates me, empowers me.

Don’t have some special skill nor prowess nor cunning nor discipline nor passion nor talent nor stamina nor strength nor cardio to be a huntress, a messenger, a rider, an assassin, a warrior, a hero, a villain, a guardian, a knight, a handmaiden, a thief, a princess surviving being tossed out of her pearly white carriage into a forbidden forest escaping certain death.

Don’t have an animal companion, nor a mother willow tree, nor a magic orb, nor a talking pendant, nor a pair of glass or silver or ruby slippers.

No misfits, crew, gang, band, burrow, nor mates.

No secret, no hideaway, no treasure trove, no magic cupboard, no portals, no rabbit holes, no enchanted doorways, no secret cavern.

Don’t even have a magic mirror, crystal ball, flying broomstick, sacrificial dagger, transforming robe, magic wand, torn wings, nor horns.

Nor minions, nor night mare, nor raven, nor hound.

What’s left is a limbo of churned out thrillers, mass-produced horror and dirty smut. Even the ‘final girl’ is younger than me.

The age of magic is over for me. Older me is left to that section of the bookstore that borderlines on gore.

I’m too old to be a girl on a mission, too young to be a queen that kills.