CZM Book Club: "Transmutation" by Katherine Sparrow

recommend soothing eating while listening to Magpie. Tell me a love story that of sorts doesn't actually end with Hollywood ending with a Hollywood ending that doesn't actually end with a Hollywood ending.

off land seventeen subway stops away. His gap toothed audience, smiling and applauding, yelled for him to do more. While the birthday boy sucked on a large purple lollipop. The magician began pulling kerchiefs from his sleeve, a huge pile of bright colored silks, never ending as they fell onto the floor around his shiny leather boots. He stared down at them and knew, no matter how long he kept pulling, that there could never be enough to cover his grief.

When his performance was done, the children clapped, the parents smiled, He bowed, and scurried home to his lonely apartment, empty except for the box that was his best trick, if only a girl allowed him to do it. The Alchemist scratched her nose with a gnawed fingernail and watched the flow of information that turned pithy phrases into charitable donations. She clicked over to the Alchemist's for Peace project's financial page and made a complicated exchange that turned euros into

gold sterling. She felt a small contentment and held on to that feeling until it faded away. Maybe I'll go see a movie, she said out loud, as though she had roommates. She scratched her belly along the red lined scar and missed him for a moment. There were still good memories.

glitched movement of a thirteen year old boy. He hated his dancing, but hated more those men who stood in the club's shadows and watched without ever moving their bodies. So he bounced and swayed while his elbows jerked backwards in a hopeless gesture. He hit something soft that squished and said out. He spun around to see a woman holding her breast and glaring at him. She had the kind of breasts he loved, round and droopy. Sorry, he mouthed over the bass boom. She rolled her eyes. He

tried to elbow himself in the chest. It only seemed fair, but the laws of physics only allowed him a blow to the belly. At least it made her smile a little. Her hard edged face turned lovely for a moment. She flinched a little when he reached forward and pulled a lollipop from behind her ear. She shook her head and patted her lips with two fingers, so he reached behind her other ear and pulled out a cigarette. He followed her outside, out past the butchy ladies, comparing pecks to

the alley full of rain and soggy cardboard. I'm the magician he said, alchemist, she replied. She took a mode of dust from her pocket and placed it on the edge of her cigarette. She turned the dust into flame. Those things will kill you, he said, Cancer turned cells into monsters, she said, with professional admiration. The alchemist offered him a drag, and he took it, shivering a little when he placed the wet tip on his lips. So, magician,

what kind of magic are you into? He shrugged? Anything? Really, magic is all one thing underneath. I keep most of my tricks small so I don't scare people, so they don't ask too many questions. You know I do, she smiled. At least people understand what a magician is. Everyone thinks an alchemist makes perfume. One time I turned per fumano urine, but that's not really my thing. Why'd you do it? Oh,

A lover cheated on me. The magician nodded. He thought about the women he'd been with, how they'd all turned from something magical into something awful. Maybe an alchemist could keep that from happening. I bet your current lover doesn't cheat, he said, trying not to sound too obvious. She raised one eyebrow. I hope he won't. She stared until the magician felt himself turning into something hot and bothered. She walked away, and he followed, listening as she turned words

into a smoldering flirtation. He pulled flower after flower from his breast pocket until he found her favorite, a collar lily, and tucked it behind her ear. She turned his apartment key into an invitation. He led her through his doorway and into the world of his magical carpet, his magical bed, and his magical bathtub, all of which are's for sale from our sponsors. Get your own magical carpet, bed, and bathtub from Magical Bed, bathtub, carpet, and beyond.

I'd like to find out, the magician teased, he understood nothing. He grinned, took a pair of lovebirds out of his vest pocket and let them fly into the air. They swooped and swirled around each other, fainting and surging in a secret bird dance, before settling down on the magician's shoulder. One thing becomes another, she lectured him, objects lose integrity. Transmutation is a true danger of my profession. She talked on about how it worked, but wasn't sure why she bothered.

He played with his birds and didn't listen. He didn't understand. Maybe he didn't want to. The alchemist took one of the birds into her hands and licked her fingers. When she stroked its green feathered head, its feathers grew black and crow like. She whispered in its ear to be free and let the bird fly. Four. I want to see what you can really do, he said to her. One day at the park, all the squirrels watched her, and all the boats in the sailboat pond blew towards her.

The magician couldn't tear his attention away from her, and his magic leaked out all over the park. It filled him up and spilled all over. He'd never been happier. What I can really do, she smiled, with equal parts condescension and affection. She liked him, he knew that, but not as much as he liked her. She kept her distance. He hated that most things can become most other things, She said. The key is to figuring out how it changes, like water into wine. You wonder how Jesus did it, Sure,

the magician said. He glanced around, hoping no one religious stood nearby. The only people nearby were little kids trying to push their boats away from her and back out to the middle of the pool. So there are both liquids. That helps, but it doesn't go very far. Water quenches one kind of thirst, and wine another physiological and psychological, so that moves them closer together. Then consider how water to the thirsty is a relief, and how alkyl to the wary is a relief. She gazed out across the

oval pond. When I hold all of that in my mind, then it is only a small step into knowing what chemical compounds are needed. To bridge the difference between them. She opened her clunky purse and took out what looked like a moldy bread crumb. She flicked it into the water, and it sank down between the bobbing miniature sailboats. The magician blinked, and in the time it took for his eyes to flutter back open, the water became a dark red stain stretching the length of the pool. The alchemist

cupped her hand and dipped it into the liquid. She sipped it delicately, A fine sancho vesse, you are amazing. I love you. The words slipped out, and he wondered if she had given him something to turn his infatuation into something deeper. Her wary smile told him she had not. The magician lowered his mouth to the red liquid of the pond and drank as much as he could without choking. Your face is a mess, she said. When he sat back up again, A cold breeze blew across the pond,

capsizing some of the sailboats. They left as kids started crying and parents began swearing and making phone calls to the city water department.

I turned them into toffees less intense, I guess with little gestures and words. She tried to keep both of them safe, even though he was such a pretty magician. Six, show me a trick, the alchemist said to the magician. They sat at a booth in a restaurant where the food was much too greasy. But she had sprinkled her own salt on top of the fried blintzes to turn them nourishing and healthy without losing any taste. She turned their sprites into gin and tonics, and both of them

were tipsy. The magician put on a smile and held up his fork. It drooped in the middle. She laughed and brushed her fingers across his forearm. He felt a chasm between them, even though she sat two feet away. More please, she sucked on her straw. He liked the way alcohol softened her. Magic is fussy, it comes and goes, he said. It's an art, not a science. He said the words that all magicians are taught to say in

order to hide their inadequacy. And if you want to hide your inadequacy, you can buy a brand new car from cars Are Bus. I hope that's not a real.

that came undone beneath his touch. Magic can be dangerous, he said. He sipped the perfectly balanced gin and tonic for small things. It will act predictably, but it's like electricity, always taking the most direct path home, and the bigger the magic. The mor can spark and spike. His hands shook and he looked away, explaining any of it made him feel naked in a new way. But you're a really good magician, right, the alchemist asked.

She turned and his dryer lint into lavender seeds, and the whole place smelt hopeful. The magician took off his vest and hat, and gestured for the alchemist to sit at his kitchen table for tonight and one night only. He began come see the magician's most daring and death, the fine trick. He paused and studied the curl of her smile. Her fingers twitched and a pack of cards

appeared in one hand. She raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Good start with low stakes, as though nothing interesting would happen. He threw the cards up into the air and they burst into tiny fireworks before disappearing. He coughed and then pulled a three foot long rapier out of his mouth. The razor sharp edge cut the top of his palate and his mouth filled with blood. The alchemist applauded it was time. We are ready for this, He decided. For

my next trick, I will need an assistant. Is there anyone in the audience, any brave girl willing to help? The alchemist raised her hand, and the magician spent a long moment scanning his lazy boy his fish tank in the stereo before finally noticing her. Ah, yes, you fine lady. What is your name? The alchemist? She said primly, Ah, a perfumest in the house. How lovely. She stuck her tongue out and took his outstretched hand. You sure about this,

he whispered, You trust me. You wanted that more than anything. She hesitated, and then nodded. He led her into the bedroom and over to the box that sat near his window. It stood on sixteen legs, and every inch of it was carved and painted with a faded carnival cobalt and umber. The magician opened the lid and gestured for the alchemist to lay down within it. The length of her body went inside the box, while her head and feet stuck out the ends. One thing, she said, looking a bit frozen.

If I say stop, you have to Her boundary hit the magician like a slap. He smiled, shut the lid to the box, and slid four different bolts shut. The magician opened a slim drawer in the side of the box and took out two panes of glass, knife sharpened along one edge. His hands trembled as he showed them to her. Peering through them and smiling, The colors of her face bleached out to white. Magic and need bubbled

through him, seeking release. He took the sheets and held them above the perfectly fitted slots of the box that lay just above her belly. She cleared her throat, about to say something, maybe about leaving him. We both need this, he thought. It will bring us closer. He plunged the panes of glass into her through her magic flushed through him, hard and down. It caught on her spinal cord before slicing through. She screamed, quiet, it doesn't hurt. He said,

that was part of the trick. The magician didn't look at her face, but knelt down and rolled away the two separate pieces of the box. Through the glass, he could see her internal landscape. She can't hide from me anymore, he thought. Her scream turned into a short, panting breath. Look away, she whispered. Please. He had already split her in two, so how could he resist. He turned torso side and watched a lovely redcarp flit about, moving in and out of her undulating organs. Its mouth gaped in

open o shape around her stomach. He saw Grandma curled up and sleeping with her grandchild. The magician smiled and peered closer. Something tar like oozed around her liver, taking on shadowy menacing forms. Please stop, put me back together, Please, she begged. It doesn't hurt, the magician repeated. Everyone is so sure it will hurt, but it doesn't. I'm a good magician, so it doesn't. The magician turned to look

into her lower half. At the center lay a coiled pit viper, who pulled back its head and struck at the glass. He studied the marrow of her slit bones and watched rainbow swirling through her left side. A whispering came from her right. He leaned close, but he couldn't make out any of the words. You're way more amazing than any other woman I've looked into, not that there's been many, he added, hurriedly, not wanting her to think

this meant nothing to him. When he was done, he pushed the two sides of the box back together and looked at her face. Her eyes looked cartoonish and huge. It doesn't hurt, he whispered. It may be shocking, but there's no pain.

red and a faint sheen of viscerah. He held his hand over the box, let magic flow out and through him, putting her back together until he became empty. He unlocked the box and pulled her limp form out, pulling her into his arms. She wouldn't look at him and kept her face turned away like a stubborn child. He went to go get two glasses of water from the kitchen. She had lost fluids and was probably thirsty. He couldn't wait to tell her what he'd seen, what he knew now.

When he came back, she was gone. She turned the front door into a massive wasp nest and written a note she left on the box. I warned you. He started crying. He thought she'd be the one who would be a good box girl. He had hoped an alchemist would understand him, and she loved him. He knew that he'd seen it. Maybe she needed a little time. He turned back to the box and ran a finger along

one of the glass panes. He touched his reddened finger to his tongue, tasting her It held nuances of smoke, rain, and fresh bread. He took each of the glass panes and licked them clean. The magician slept an uneasy sleep and woke with the feeling that his half remembered dreams had all been violent. He got up to make his coffee and felt a weight and shift of gravity within his body. Something fluttered in his belly, and he ran

to the bathroom. Just getting to the toilet, as he started throwing up, red carp slipped out of his throat and into the toilet bowl. They swam in circles in the water. He ran a hand through his hair and it felt thick and curly like the alchemist's. When he peed, he felt the sting of snake venom, burning as urethra from the inside. He called the Alchemist and left her a long message, saying that he missed her and loved her, and that yesterday had been the best moment of his life.

His voice squawked and brayed like a teenager's. Not knowing what to do, he made eggs and toast, but they tasted wrong in his mouth. He drank black coffee instead, just like she liked it. Wasps swarmed around his food, stealing tiny chunks with their front legs and buzzing around him. He left her another message, saying some weird things were happening, what should he do to change back? Then he left another telling her how beautiful she was inside and out,

but mostly inside. Two days later, he started to shake. At first, it was a physical sensation, but it invaded everything, and he panicked, unable to calm down, to sit still, to do anything but freak out. Someone had cut him up into pieces. He loved, had done that and liked it, and he couldn't catch his breath. And also that someone was him, and he had loved it, and he had cried and cried loud and ugly. He went to his box and came close to destroying him, but parts of

him were still him, so he did not. The panic turned a grayness to a nothingness, like he sat in a shroud of clouds and could touch nothing, feel nothing. He needed her, he thought, numbly. She had done this to him, she had destroyed him. He didn't want to know what it felt like to have a magician cut you in half and love it, even as you begged him to stop. But she had invaded him with herself. He sickened himself, and he was himself. He wrote on

a piece of paper, I get it. I know what I did, and tied it to his pigeon's foot, sending it out to find her. When the pigeon came back, he wrote another note. You warned me. I get it now, and you should have told me how dangerous you are. Even as he wrote the words, he knew that she had told him and he hadn't listened. He called more magic into him than ever before and tried to make a spell that would turn back time. He tried to change fact into fiction, to erase his own memory, to

become wise and not care about any of this. He failed over and over again. He had never been a very good magician. The end, yay, I.

That is an incredible line. Yeah. Wow, Yeah, Another part that I thought was interesting was the flower choice because the evolution of the cowl and like the meaning behind it, Like originally I think it was back in Egypt, it meant, you know, the meaning behind it, the symbolism behind it was more of like sexuality, and it's matured throughout the years to mean more of like And I'm thinking, just broadly speaking, is more of you know, union and purity

and marriage and things like that. So it's interesting, it's interesting. Interesting, that choice of flowers interesting to me. And I don't know if that's what the author had in mind, but that's what came to my weird plant loving brain.

you have to sometimes go a little dark. And I feel like the average author doesn't really earn that, you know, like the average author is just like and now for some shock value, and then like, this story is about a consent violation and it is framed non sexually on purpose, and it is like really clear. Like it's like, oh, let's talk about what the story is. But to me, it's just it's so clear. It's like the story says it better than what I could think of to say about it. In most ways.

think is something that happens in this episode. And there's you know, different boundaries that are that are not respected, and it starts off I feel like the story starts off with a lot of that, the same metaphors, and then it gets lit on fire, which is and like they could have done that in five and Day Summer and it would have been really cool. Yeah, but I think there's just so many ways that this magician. First of all, don't match with a witchy woman, don't don't

mess with a witchy woman. She has magical powers.

even have to be a metaphors for something sexual. Sometimes when you do something really intense with someone, you're gonna like see inside them, You're going to see them past the boundaries that they try to keep people away from, right, And so he's looking inside of her, and it's this this clever way I think to be able to like frame, he got to see what was really inside her, He got to like see her completely, like more than naked.

and you'll regret that the rest of your life. But yeah, the only person you can be mad at here is yourself.

like oh did we'd go too far? But you actually talk about it and you don't do what this man did that I don't know anyway, this version of the story is clearly the better way to do it, but it's like it would be an interesting comparison to make, you know.

She wrote, when I wrote it, I was feeling feistier than usual about the ways that romance and straight love are often told in the rosy patriarchal glow of consent violations and boundary crossings, and I hate that. God, I love her. I know it's so good.

That's your al's official tagline, right.