Over the past two weeks, I tried fourteen small writing exercises to see if I could find magic in everyday things. This is what I found.

The first day. Ordinary. There is nothing particularly special in the air today. The assurance that I've done all I need, and can, do, but the restlessness that says I need to do more. More of what?

The second day. A town drowned by the sea, but not overcome by it. Tamed destruction. A sky made entirely of water and stale air being brought in by vents from a world miles above, unseen by most but stolen by all.

The third day. Being stuck in a raincoat far too plastic-y to be properly enjoyed. I'm dry, but at what cost? It's too hot, it crinkles when I walk, and I wish it would just stop raining.

The quarter day. Hands covered in cold sweat, washed too many times with warm water. Shaking jaw, legs, arms. No one notices but me. Maybe that's the point.

The fifth day. Relief. Bees stinging my ribs and stomach, released by a sigh. A field spread out with green and gold, only touched by dew.

The sixth day. A day spent inside. It's too cold to open the window, but I crack it open because it gets too stuffy. What feels like thousands of words is hundreds, what feels like hundreds are really tens.

The halfway day. Honesty. Walking on the edge of a pond (or a lake, according to the sign, although I hardly think it counts), and appreciating the silence and the slight breeze that brings down the unusually warm temperatures.

The eighth day. Orange and yellow leaves are starting to fall from the trees. I wish I could say what kind of trees, but I'm not really sure, they might be maples. It looks like it should be cold outside and I'm sick of having to open the window and turn on the fan.

The ninth day. Quiet. I am alone, but not in solitude. The tree trunk scratches my back through my shirt and while wind and grass whip past me, human voices fade to give way to gentler, stronger tones. Everything is still, yet moving so quickly. A day of contradictions.

The nearly done day. Sleep. The stuffy smell in a car and voices speaking in the front. My eyes are open. I've never been able to nap, except in cars but today is an exception. Even if my eyes are open, my mind is not. Painted horses run outside my window, somersaulting over cars.

The eleventh day. Excitement. Quick sandwiches at Tropical Smoothie, which I paid too much for, and a wonderfully weird show that I would've paid much more for (although I'm glad I didn't). Handing in tickets and getting to the theater early even though seats are already reserved and getting to view a wide, open stage with whispers of anticipation as we wait for the show to start.

The twelfth day. Home. Warm pastries with flickering fluorescent lights in a building made of concrete contrast with memories of a small wooden building tucked deep in the woods. Kids yelling loudly in the corner over a game of Jenga replaced by a group of kids in suits and dresses, ready for the next dance.

The thirteenth day. When we arrived in Florida when I was ten. It was still dark and the perfect temperature to run into the ocean, if I wasn't terrified of the expanse of blackness spread across it and the creatures lying in its depths.

The final day. Overwhelming hope. The shuffle of papers and the way they brush each of my fingers, a single bright light in a dark night, and soft clicks of a keyboard. Quiet sunlight peeking in through blinds.