“Four Times Jasper Diallo Didn't Die (and One Time He Lived)” by Rachel Stanley Copyright 2017 by Rachel Stanley Winning story in the 2017 ACM Nick Adams Short Story Contest Associated Colleges of the Midwest ACM.edu/NickAdams Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Reproduction of this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. 1 Four Times Jasper Diallo Didn’t Die
(and One Time He Lived)
by Rachel Stanley
1. Witchwork
It was Auntie Gloria who showed me I was woman enough to be a witch. See, where I
grew up, magic was something your mama did. Folded it into your Sunday clothes to keep you
from growing out of them, mixed it into pie crusts when there wasn’t enough sugar to go around,
stitched it into the knees of trousers that should’ve fallen apart years ago. America wasn’t meant
for folks like us, but mama knew how to twist the world just enough to make it fit around her and
the people she loved.
It ain’t that men couldn’t do magic. They just didn’t have the heart for it. Mama told me
that if you wanna be a witch, you need to be able to love until your bones ache. Anything less
means you don’t got enough soul to go around, and what’s magic if not giving away pieces of
yourself? And back in 1962 Cleveland, men who spent thirteen hours on their feet didn’t have a
whole lotta themselves left when they got home. My father sure didn’t. Sometimes I’m not sure
there was ever anything under that dark skin but cigarette smoke and bone-dead exhaustion.
Auntie Gloria was his sister, but you wouldn’t think it to look at her. All frizzy curls
pinned back behind sharp features—a pinched, bundled up version of his long face and broad
shoulders. And while her skin was brown like the paper bags mama stuffed in our wet shoes, he
was the color of the varnished oak cabinet he inherited from my grandma. I’m darker than both
of them, thanks to my mama—but that means I look damn good in gold eyeshadow, so I think I
got the better end of the deal.
I was thirteen when she taught me my first spell. I’d never done magic before. Mama
wouldn’t let me, because she wanted me to be a good boy and get a job. She always used to say,
“Fastest way to get fired is come to work with the stain of magic under your nails. Just ask your
Uncle Ray how he got kicked out of his factory job.” (I didn’t have to, ‘cause he told us the story
every Christmas, ranting about how white people don’t know the difference between magic and
goddamn marijuana.)
She was the same way with my speech, trying to clean it up and scrub out anything that
would make the west Cleveland folks look at me funny. That’s why I learned to sign Spanish
before I learned to speak it. We didn’t have a lot of Mexico in my family, but I had a few cousins
and uncles that liked to talk shit en español. I guess she was worried I’d start dropping Spanish
in a job interview or something, ‘cause she banned it in her house, along with swearing, “ain’t,”
and any word she’d have to ask a teenager to define.
“Four Times Jasper Diallo Didn't Die (and One Time He Lived)” by Rachel Stanley Copyright 2017 by Rachel Stanley Winning story in the 2017 ACM Nick Adams Short Story Contest Associated Colleges of the Midwest ACM.edu/NickAdams Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Reproduction of this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. 2 But for all her effort, there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about Auntie Gloria.
Nobody was going to tell her deaf Mexican ass that she had to switch to ASL. She’d been
signing in LSM before I was born, and she wasn’t about to change, not even for the hurricane
that was my mama. And LSM ain’t really Spanish; word order’s all different, and don’t get me
started on verbs. But it was close as mama was gonna let me get to my heritage. She never
guessed it would be the first step in saving my life.
That day, we were sitting in the living room, crowded by beat-up furniture and all
mama’s potted plants. The wallpaper was peeling more than the nail polish I’d nicked from the
Bargain City down the street, but mama kept the lights dim enough that you couldn’t tell unless
you squinted. My aunt had been sitting in the rocking chair most of the day—mama picked it up
at some flea market, and it always creaked for everyone except Auntie Gloria.
I held a mirror in one hand; the other was stained with glitter-gold powder. I couldn’t find
mama’s brushes, so I had decided to cake it on with my fingers, ‘cause I thought I was brilliant
like that. I tilted my head to one side, trying to get the lamplight to catch and reflect off the gold.
But all it did was highlight the thickness of my cheeks and the broad bridge of my nose. I sighed,
almost ready to give up and head to the bathroom for better light, when Auntie Gloria tapped her
foot on the floor to get my attention. When I looked up, she was signing, <You want to learn
magic?>
Years later, and I still can’t figure why she did it. Maybe it was ‘cause I’d been wearing
my mama’s lipstick since I was seven; maybe it was the way I danced in Sunday service; maybe
it was ‘cause I told her I’d fallen in love with a boy at school, and I loved him so hard I was
hurting. I’d like to think something convinced her I had enough soul to go around.
But maybe it was just because she knew I had what my father had. That what led him off
a bridge on his tenth birthday led me to a bottle of acetone on my twelfth. Maybe she knew better
than my mama; that my smile didn’t mean there wasn’t something in me screaming I want to
fucking die! Maybe she knew the doctors weren’t helping, and she was just tired of people
leaving her.
Whatever the motive, the question threw me. I stared at her like she’d just suggested I
dance naked on the church doorstep (which, to be fair, I’d done before on a dare—but still). I
lowered the mirror to the cracked coffee table. <But I’m a,> I replied, and my fingers faltered on
the final sign, <boy.>
She cracked a smile, spotted skin wrinkling up around her cheeks as she signed, <Yes.
But you have enough woman inside you to be a witch.>
And the words felt so right that I repeated them out loud, in the only language I was
allowed to speak in this house: “Enough woman to be a witch.” Something shifted in my chest, a
warm sensation that spread up my throat and caught my breath, leaving me speechless. Me,
Jasper Diallo, a witch. I hadn’t realized how badly I wanted that until I’d felt the words on my
“Four Times Jasper Diallo Didn't Die (and One Time He Lived)” by Rachel Stanley Copyright 2017 by Rachel Stanley Winning story in the 2017 ACM Nick Adams Short Story Contest Associated Colleges of the Midwest ACM.edu/NickAdams Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Reproduction of this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. 3 tongue, and they tasted like a reason to keep breathing. My next words nearly flew off my
fingers. <Can you show me a spell to bring my father back?>
She didn’t flinch, but something shifted in her expression. Her taut skin seemed even
more stretched than usual, and the shadows under her brow deepened as she tilted her head down
to meet my gaze. How she could hold herself steady against the shining hope in my eyes, I’ll
never know. <No, love. That would be an act of God. I can only show you how to make regular
miracles.>
My shoulders slumped, but I just nodded and swallowed the prickling in my throat. I’d
always known the answer, really. That’s the first thing anyone ever asks about magic: is loss
forever? Does the world still have to hurt? And the answer never changes: yes, it always fucking
will. That’s the catch. Magic just means you might get a little lucky when you try and make it
hurt a little less.
Put your fingers together, index and thumbs in the shape of a diamond over your chest,
then twist upside down and break apart. That’s how you ward against depression. Well, one of
the ways. My mama used charcoal and bone and whispered words to make her magic, but Auntie
Gloria used her hands to shape the world, like a sculptor who kneaded time and space. There’s
more than one way to be a witch, after all.
She walked me through the sign ‘till I could do it in seconds, the shadows of our hands
casting strange shapes in the dimness of our Ohio living room. <You do this every time you feel
like you want to die, Jasper. Promise me.> A pause, and then again, more insistent, <Promise
me.>
I did. And that night, before bed, I did the sign again, because I always keep my
promises.
2. Charcoal Cathedral
I moved to Texas ‘cause Ohio was where I first tried to kill myself. I was born in a little
Texas town called Rockport, but we moved to Cleveland when I was six, and four years later my
father drove off a bridge. I thought maybe it was the climate, the culture, the community—some
sort of poison I could get away from before it took me like it took my father. I was twenty and
needed a change of scenery.
Well, I got it. The thing about Texas is people are straight up about how much they hate
you. In Ohio they’ll invite you to dinner and then turn around and leave you to starve to death in
the street rather than waste their tax dollars on degenerates like you; in Texas they just threaten
to fuckin’ shoot you. I can respect that. Also, it’s easier to hex a racist neighbor than the whole
goddamn government. (Not that I did that. I mean, okay, once. Maybe twice.)
The biggest difference was the way Rockport felt about magic. On the east side of
Cleveland, everyone knew about magic, but turns out that ain’t true everywhere. See, money is
“Four Times Jasper Diallo Didn't Die (and One Time He Lived)” by Rachel Stanley Copyright 2017 by Rachel Stanley Winning story in the 2017 ACM Nick Adams Short Story Contest Associated Colleges of the Midwest ACM.edu/NickAdams Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Reproduction of this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. 4 its own kind of magic. You grow up with enough money to buy food every week and clothes
every year, and you don’t need spells to stretch the sugar or sew soles back on your hand-medown shoes. Which meant the higher up you went, the less you knew—or believed—about
magic. So when I moved into a halfway decent neighborhood and got the brand-fucking-new
experience of running into white people that weren’t police officers, I had to go a little
underground with it.
Of course, word got out anyway. I had witchcraft in my blood, and it twisted through the
heart of that town ‘till everyone knew Jasper Diallo was the person you went to when you
wanted the world to tilt sideways for you. Some of them believed in magic, some of them
believed in “natural healing” (otherwise known as the white, Christian version of witchcraft). It
was a little bit of a con, in that I didn’t believe a damn thing I said about ‘natural energies’ or
‘healing aromas,’ but the shit worked, didn’t it?
Either way, my sigilwork and charmcraft were apparently impressive enough to get me a
girl. Rosie. Well, truth of it is, she got me. Baby girl never needed a man in her life, but she
pulled me into hers anyway. “I like the way you dance,” she said. “Like you won’t stop ‘till you
got everyone in the room moving like they’re chained to your hips.” She liked it best when we
danced together, and when we kissed, I think she could taste that little bit of woman in me.
She told me once that I do everything with the intensity of the sun, which sounds pretty
slick until you remember solar eclipses. I only tried to kill myself twice when I was with her.
Mostly, I danced and kissed and fucked like I had fireworks in my bones and glitter in my veins.
I was damn fucking good at pretending I loved being alive. Magic helped. So did alcohol. Mix
those together with a girl that smiles like she means it, and maybe you find a few less reasons to
kill yourself.
Problem is, the first time didn’t have any reason. Not really. That was the worst goddamn
thing about it. When you’ve got a reason to be depressed, you can hope that someday you’ll have
a reason not to be. But when your brain’s just fucking trying to kill you, all you can do is breathe
in, breathe out, and pretend you aren’t choking on your own misery.
We didn’t talk about it until the second time. That time, I had an excuse. I’d fucked up a
luck spell—used dried larkspur instead of columbine—and it nearly burned down the block.
(Should’ve known better: larkspur’s part of the spell mama used to heat our house after the
radiator broke.) If it hadn’t been for one of those September rains, the fire might have reached
the coast before it stopped. As it was, it left a shadow over the street: charred buildings and
smoke-stained sidewalks that put the badlands to shame.
The church was hit the worst. After the fire was put out, and before the government got
around to blocking it off and figuring out what the hell happened, I stepped into the hull that’d
been left behind and saw what I’d done. Walls burned black as the guilt curling in my stomach,
floor decorated with half-burned beams, and a clear fucking view of the night sky through the
crumbling roof. Every so often, something would crack or shift, wood or brick that just realized
“Four Times Jasper Diallo Didn't Die (and One Time He Lived)” by Rachel Stanley Copyright 2017 by Rachel Stanley Winning story in the 2017 ACM Nick Adams Short Story Contest Associated Colleges of the Midwest ACM.edu/NickAdams Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Reproduction of this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. 5 its support was gone. Twisted slag decorated where the pulpit used to be, the remains of a
chandelier I remembered from the one and only time I’d visited (two years ago, after three
begging letters from my mama). The stairs up to the balcony were gone on the left side; the right
was still holding on, but barely. I’d probably break my neck going up them. Good, I thought.
Despite the ominous creaking and cracking, they held my weight up every step, much to
my disappointment. I made my way over to the wide opening in the crumbling brick, boots
cracking over the shattered remains of the stained glass window that had been the church’s pride
and joy. I thought of it as an artistic tribute to how badly I’d fucked up. The dusklight came in
soft and gentle, and it felt like mockery to my twisted insides and the jagged edges of my
thoughts. I hefted one foot up on the brick, grabbing the charred frame to pull myself up. For a
moment, I wavered there, wind tugging at me as if to say you can do it. I stared out at the empty
street, listening to the walls creak like bones in my cathedral of ash. Then, I took a breath, kept
my eyes open, and—
“Jasper.”
The strength of her hand on my shoulder halted me mid-step. I didn’t need to turn around
to know who it was—no one else could pull me back from the edge like she could. Letting my
breath out, I closed my eyes and replied, “Hey, Rosie.”
She let go of my shoulder, because she knew I wasn’t going to jump. Not now. I stepped
back off the brick and let go of the window frame, hand smeared with ash. Reminded me of my
eyeliner, a little bit. I turned to look at her. She had her hair loose, letting the tight corkscrews
fall like a cloud around the soft edges of her russet brown cheeks. Her blouse was smeared with
black, and I wondered how carelessly she’d run up those charred steps. Didn’t wonder why I
didn’t hear her, though: I’m the goddamn prince of getting caught up in my own little world.
I could see by the furrow of her brow that she had a million questions for me, but she
knew asking them wouldn’t do any good. Instead, she came over to the window, leaning to look
out at the dusty street. She didn’t say anything, and like hell was I gonna start this conversation,
so instead I let myself get a little lost in the curve of her back and the shape of her hips, and the
way her long legs shifted back and forth against the brick.
Then, glancing back, she asked me, “You really wanna die, Jasper?”
“What?” I jerked my gaze up, watching the bounce of her hair as she turned.
“Do you really wanna die?” she repeated, mouth set in something not quite a frown.
Rosie never wore lipstick, but there was a tint of red there from when I’d kissed her that
morning, before my will to live went up in smoke.
I crossed my arms and kicked at a hunk of charcoal at my feet. Casting my gaze
anywhere but at her, I said with as little commitment as I could manage, “I dunno. Maybe.”
“Maybe’s hell of a frail word to jump off a building for.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m just saying it’s not very logical to throw your life away if you’re not sure about it.”
“Four Times Jasper Diallo Didn't Die (and One Time He Lived)” by Rachel Stanley Copyright 2017 by Rachel Stanley Winning story in the 2017 ACM Nick Adams Short Story Contest Associated Colleges of the Midwest ACM.edu/NickAdams Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Reproduction of this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. 6 I rolled my eyes, pursing my lips and replying, “Sorry, sugar. Been called a lot of things,
but rational ain’t one of them.”
“Nah,” she agreed. “Usually people are calling you ‘son of a bitch.’”
“I like to think I’m just a bitch. Don’t need to bring my mama into it,” I said, stepping
back over to the opening. I kept my feet firmly behind the brick this time as I scanned the dusty
road for any signs of life. People didn’t come out this way when it wasn’t Sunday, so all I saw
was a black shape that might’ve been a ratsnake, or might’ve been some trash. I fixed my gaze
on it, because I couldn’t look at her when I said, “I just… Rosie, you think there’s any kind of
magic that lets you stop living without having to die?”
She looked at me like I’d said her name wrong, eyes like headlights trying to pierce the
fog of my depression. “You mean like going to sleep?”
“No,” I said, keeping my gaze fixed ahead. “Not like that.”
She went silent, and for a little while there was just the hot Texas wind scraping my skin
and ruffling her hair. The shape on the road shifted, but whether from the wind or its own
movement I couldn’t tell. Then, low and quiet, like she didn’t quite want to get the words out,
Rosie said: “Guess that brings up a different question, then. Do you really wanna live?”
I didn’t say anything, but she knew what the answer was.
3. Devil in the Details
I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life, but leaving Rosie was probably the biggest one.
(Second biggest was fucking around with white people magic and accidentally becoming
immortal—long story. Those two mistakes were kind of related, actually.) I didn’t want to be my
father. I saw what he did to my mama, and like hell was I going to do that to Rosie. So when I
got that itch in my legs crossing a bridge over the San Antonio, well… I knew I had to leave.
Half of me hoped New York City would hold the kind of magic I was looking for; the other half
just figured that if I killed myself out there, the thousand mile difference would dull her pain.
Clearly, I was a dumbass. But who isn’t in their twenties? If I was gonna go through the
coming-of-age ritual of fucking up my life a little bit, might as well be in New York. It took me a
while to find the city’s magic underground; it’s easier to hide beneath the river-rush of people,
the blaze of street lights, the pulse of music and vodka. When I finally found it, it kinda hit me
like a subway train, ‘cause New York witches don’t fuck around. See, my magic was the kind
that slipped edgewise into the world, settled in alongside reality and pretended that it fit. For all
the herbs and charcoal that went into my spellwork, it was far from flashy (accidental fires
notwithstanding). And I never did anything you couldn’t have done with a little hard work and a
little more money. That’s what I thought magic was about: patching the holes in your life and
just trying to survive in a world that wasn’t made for you.
“Four Times Jasper Diallo Didn't Die (and One Time He Lived)” by Rachel Stanley Copyright 2017 by Rachel Stanley Winning story in the 2017 ACM Nick Adams Short Story Contest Associated Colleges of the Midwest ACM.edu/NickAdams Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Reproduction of this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. 7 Not in the city that never sleeps. New York witches called my spells ‘low magic,’ or
‘dirty magic’ if they were being particularly blatant with their racism (but that’s another story
and an academic paper I ain’t gonna write). New York magic was all about burning bright as the
city lights; playing with fire and demons and the kind of spells that can turn your brain inside
out. I gotta admit there’s some kind of high to shooting lightning from your fingertips and calling
down nightmares with your voice. And, well… you know what I said about everyone being a
dumbass in their twenties. Maybe I fucked around with some shit I shouldn’t have. Maybe I
trusted someone I should have run from. Maybe I traded ten years of my life away for something
I didn’t even want.
Maybe black boys without college educations shouldn’t fuck around with Latin
incantations.
Like I said. Long story. Short version is, after who-knows-what ran around in my body
for ten years, I got dropped off on Fifth Avenue with the gift of fucking immortality for my
trouble. I guess whatever hellbeast I struck a deal with thought the phrase “suicidal immortal”
was the funniest fucking thing in the world—maybe he had bets on how long I’d go before
actually managing to kill myself.
‘Ten minutes’ would’ve been the answer, if it hadn’t been for Roman. The thing about
Roman is he saw someone screaming obscenities at the sky in front of the St. Regis Hotel, and
instead of calling the police, he thought he’d strike up a conversation. He’s that kind of guy. So
he came up to me on the sidewalk in his canvas jacket and hiking boots and asked, “You okay,
kid?”
He had an easy, slow kind of voice, and his face had all these friendly, fatherly kind of
lines to it. It made me want to punch him. “No! I’m not fucking okay!” I turned on him sharp,
but the movement made me dizzy—some part of me couldn’t believe I had a goddamn physical
body again. “Who the hell are you?” I snapped, and then, a moment later, “Go away!”
He didn’t. “Hey, c’mon… I’m not gonna hurt you. Name’s Roman. Roman Wolfstadt.”
“The goddamn hell kind of name is Wolfstadt?”
“German,” he chuckled. “Kinda intense, huh? Should’ve taken my wife’s name.” He
gave me an amicable smile, as if I weren’t standing there with clenched fists, looking for a
reason to deck him. But he hadn’t really given me one yet, unless you counted being too
nonchalant about this whole situation. “Listen,” he said after a moment, voice dropping lower. “I
heard what y’were screaming back there. About magic shit.”
I stared at him for a few seconds. I was slowly recognizing his drawl as something
Southern—Alabama, maybe? It made me want to punch him a little less. But just a little. Then,
actually processing what he said, I gave a rough laugh. “About ‘I hope every spell you ever
fucking cast blows up in your goddamn face’?”
“Yeah. That.” He gave me an off-kilter smile. “Look, I don’t know what magic bullshit
y’re dealing with, but… if you need a spell countered, I know a great witch.”
“Four Times Jasper Diallo Didn't Die (and One Time He Lived)” by Rachel Stanley Copyright 2017 by Rachel Stanley Winning story in the 2017 ACM Nick Adams Short Story Contest Associated Colleges of the Midwest ACM.edu/NickAdams Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Reproduction of this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. 8 “No thanks. I’m just gonna step in front of that bus instead.” I jerked my thumb at the
intersection down the block, where my executioner-to-be was stopped at a red light.
Roman said, “No, you ain’t. You would’ve done it already if y’were going to.”
That made me stop. My argument died on my tongue, and for a few seconds I just stared
at him. New York City rushed on around us, the sound of footsteps and clattering shopping bags,
people flowing about us as if our little drama was just another little bubble of New York life.
Roman sighed, dug a cigarette out of his coat pocket, and lit it with a white lighter.
“Look, I don’t know shit about what y’re going through, and I know y’didn’t ask for my
help. But you don’t look like someone who wants to die to me.”
I clenched my fingers, released them, and replied shakily, “Yes, I do.”
“Okay,” he said, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Then here’s your stop.” He gestured at
the bus as it rumbled up the street, gaining speed as it came towards us. I could hear the grit of
tires on the road, the roll of the engine, the creak of metal as it closed in. I tensed, taking a
breath, and waited until I could see the driver through the window glare.
I didn’t move, and as the bus passed us by, Roman smiled.
4. Pill Bottle Blues
The thing about my kind of immortality is I’m pretty sure I can still die. I just… don’t
change. Every day I look in the mirror, I see the same chubby, black Latino boy that thought it
was a great goddamn idea to play around with New York magic. My hair was relaxed the day I
made that deal, and it’s never gone back to normal. And my piercings don’t close up no matter
how long I leave my cuffs out for. It’s kinda fucking freaky. I took it hardest the first decade.
Second wasn’t so bad. (I mean, the 90s were fun. Sorta.) I stayed with Roman for a while—
apparently he was used to taking in strays. He lost his daughter real young, and I guess that was
his way of making up for it. Never got to meet his wife, but his witch friend helped me get back
into the magic underground.
It wasn’t like I left it. Apparently, sometime while I was busy jumping off bridges and
drinking myself to sleep, magic had gotten a whole lot more gender-neutral. It wasn’t just in
New York, either, judging by what the people who were just passing through the city said. Now
there were words like mage, and warlock, and wix—magic didn’t care about your gender, just
how much spark you had in your veins. But I kept calling myself a witch. Somehow nothing else
ever tasted right on my tongue, and if I’ve learned anything about magic, you don’t say any word
you wouldn’t like to swallow.
Eventually, I headed out to Los Angeles—I’d been in one place too damn long, and
anyway, the magic market was supposed to be better out there. LA ran on magic trade; there
were people selling spells and hawking hexes on every street corner, if you knew what you were
looking for. Half the city didn’t, though. It was still a secret, like in NYC and Rockport. (Guess
“Four Times Jasper Diallo Didn't Die (and One Time He Lived)” by Rachel Stanley Copyright 2017 by Rachel Stanley Winning story in the 2017 ACM Nick Adams Short Story Contest Associated Colleges of the Midwest ACM.edu/NickAdams Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Reproduction of this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. 9 there were too many rich white people there.) Magic throbbed just beneath the surface of the
city, but nobody talked about it. People didn’t talk about it in NYC or Rockport, either, but at
least there was some semblance of community. In Los Angeles, witches worked alone. I think
that’s what dragged me down in the end—the damn loneliness. Keeping it a secret made me feel
like I wasn’t breathing right, and I’ll admit that might’ve been why I fell for Topher.
By all rights, I shouldn’t have. He was a rich white gay boy from goddamn Florida, and
he smiled like nothing could go wrong in his world. Honestly, when I first met him, I kinda
wanted to smack the entitlement off his face. But I wanted his pretty blond head down between
my legs even more, so in the end I just asked him out. Really, I couldn’t afford not to. It ain’t
easy to find cute boys that don’t wanna burn you at the stake for witchcraft, and it’s even harder
to find ones that fucked up their lives precisely in a way that makes them fit right into yours.
Topher wasn’t a witch, but he’d had a few brushes with the supernatural, and somewhere along
the way caught his own case of immortality. (It’s more common than you’d think—immortality’s
damn cheap, if you know where to look or you make the right mistakes.)
He wasn’t Rosie. He smiled when he didn’t mean it, and he only danced with me when
he’d had too much to drink. But he looked at me like I was his whole world, touched me like my
thick form was something divine, and kissed me like nothing else tasted as good as my cherry lip
gloss. I found paradise in his thighs and solace in a pill bottle, and for a while his skin on mine
was enough to slow my downward spiral.
It didn’t last, of course. When sertraline first came out, I think Topher was convinced it
would be my salvation. And I mean, it kinda was, until the day I swallowed the whole bottle. I
went through a string of meds after that, and with each new pill I saw his smile slip a little more,
a little more, a little more. Somewhere around the third medication—Prozac, I think—I stopped
doing magic. I just didn’t have the soul for it anymore. Don’t think witches were meant to be
immortal; there’s only so long you can keep loving people that hard without the heart falling
right out of you. The only thing I kept up was the sign my Auntie taught me, every night before
bed. It was the only thing in my life that had ever stayed constant.
Topher did his best, but his way of dealing with problems was to pretend they weren’t
there—at least when it came to me. If the sink leaked, he’d have it fixed before I got home; if
one of the puppies wouldn’t stop barking, he’d have it trained within the week. But when I
showed any emotion that wasn’t paired with a smile, he’d falter and dodge and do anything but
talk to me about it. It wasn’t any different when it came to my suicide attempts. After the panic
and rush to the hospital, after cleaning up the mess I’d made, it’d just be, “Everything’s going to
be fine,” “It’s going to get better,” and “You know I love you, right, Jasper?”
It took three times before he finally asked me why.
We were lying in bed the night I’d been discharged, kept warm by nothing but a thin
comforter and each other’s skin. Topher had convinced the doctors—again—that I wasn’t any
danger to myself, mostly ‘cause he didn’t want me to be. I had my face buried in his shoulder,
“Four Times Jasper Diallo Didn't Die (and One Time He Lived)” by Rachel Stanley Copyright 2017 by Rachel Stanley Winning story in the 2017 ACM Nick Adams Short Story Contest Associated Colleges of the Midwest ACM.edu/NickAdams Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Reproduction of this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. 10 breathing in the salty scent of his curly locks and wondering what they’d change my meds to this
time. Doctor had suggested going back to SSRIs; harder to overdose on. But they didn’t do shit
for me last time I was on them, so I wasn’t gonna hold my breath.
“Jasper?” Topher’s voice came low and gentle, like he was afraid breaking the silence
would break me too. I hated the fact that his fear was probably justified.
I shifted, pressing my face against his neck and giving a muffled, “Yeah?”
There was a pause, a hitch of his breath. Then, with a shakiness in stark contrast to his
usual calm control: “Why did you do it?”
“‘Cause I’m a bitch,” I mumbled, curling my fingers into his bare shoulder and
wondering if I could distract him with a kiss.
He sat up, dislodging me gently. “Jasper,” he said, in his damned pained ‘please take me
seriously, Jasper’ voice. I hated that voice.
“Don’t gimme that look,” I mumbled, without actually looking at him. I already knew
what expression was twisting up his pretty face.
A moment later, I felt his fingers running through my hair, nails scraping over the shaved
back of my neck in a way that made me shiver. “Jasper, please…”
I jerked away from him, because I couldn’t take the guilt his touch dragged up in me.
“Goddamit, fine!” Pulling my knees up to my chest, I dug my fingers into my hair and forced
out, “I did it ‘cause I’m fucking broken, okay? ‘Cause I’m a goddamn fuck-up, ‘cause all I do is
make stupid fucking mistakes, ‘cause I fucked up my life in Ohio and Texas and New York, and
like hell is California going to be any fucking different!” I drew a breath, voice raising in pitch.
“I did it ‘cause I’m such a fucking bitch that no one ever stays, ‘cause my father left, ‘cause I
was stupid enough to leave Rosie, ‘cause you’ll fucking leave me once you realize how fucked
up I am—”
He pulled me close, wrapped his arms around me, and with breath warm on my skin he
said firmly: “No. I won’t.”
My breath hitched, and I dug my fingers into his shoulder and pressed my face against his
chest. “Fuck,” I whispered, blinking back tears. I felt sick to my stomach, and it wasn’t from
having the damn thing pumped 48 hours ago.
He held me for what seemed like eternity, nothing between us but breath and heat. His
fingers traced first the sigil tattoo on my shoulder; then the one on my chest that looked like a
bullet hole; then the word “queer” on my hip. His hand came to rest over my thigh, touching my
stretch marks with a gentle reverence that made my breath catch. Somehow, that helped more
than anything he could have said.
Finally, when I could breathe again, I asked: “You still gonna love me even if I never get
better?”
He kissed me, hard, and that was answer enough for me.
“Four Times Jasper Diallo Didn't Die (and One Time He Lived)” by Rachel Stanley Copyright 2017 by Rachel Stanley Winning story in the 2017 ACM Nick Adams Short Story Contest Associated Colleges of the Midwest ACM.edu/NickAdams Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Reproduction of this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. 11 5. Handmade Hallelujah
It was Hector who helped me remember I was a witch. Topher and I had moved back to
New York, ‘cause I’d stopped selling spells and I could only handle the same damn weather for
so long. I had been stable for about a year, but I still wasn’t doing magic. I guess I was a little
disillusioned; all the sigils and signs and spells I’d used to keep my depression at bay, and I was
still a train wreck waiting to happen.
Hector knew I was a witch, but he’d never seen me do magic. He would’ve been fine
with it, though. He was viciously ex-Catholic, and probably wouldn’t have stopped me if I’d
gotten it into my head to try summoning a demon again, as long as it wasn’t in his living room.
(Actually, he probably would have, but only to keep me from being a dumbass, not to keep me
from going to hell.)
We never dated, cute as he and all his freckles were. It was probably better that way. He
was dealing with the same disease I was, even though it manifested a little different—my
depression spilled out as me screaming and crying on the bathroom floor; his came in the form of
lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling for days on end. But even with our differences,
talking about that shit was always easier with him than with Topher. I think it was because I
didn’t feel like I was—disappointing him, failing in some way. There were no obligations
between us… well, okay. There were two. First was, he agreed not to punch Topher no matter
how entitled he was being. Second, I promised to feed his cat when he had to work late.
It was that promise that led me to his living room one winter evening. I got a little
suspicious when Friday night rolled around and he hadn’t texted me to remind me to feed his cat.
He always worked late on Friday’s, cause that’s when the bar hosted New York’s shittiest indie
music acts. And when I dropped by that Saturday night for a drink, the bartender said he hadn’t
been to work in a week. No call, nothing; they didn’t know what was going on.
I did, though. So I hopped on a bus across town, let myself into his apartment with the
key he’d given me to feed his cat, walked into the living room, and told him, “Hector, you can't
just stop existing.”
“Try me,” he mumbled. He was slumped in that shitty armchair he’d picked up from the
thrift store, head tilted back, eyes closed. The tiny calico he’d creatively named ‘Cat’ was curled
up in his lap, rumbling away like she’d been sitting there for hours. I wondered if he’d moved all
day.
Since he clearly wasn’t paying attention to me, I walked over to his bookcase and
observed his neatly arranged collection of science fiction novels, star atlases, and cookbooks. I
studied his science fiction shelf for a moment, before taking a couple of his favorite books and
moving them to random places in the bookcase. Then, shrugging my coat off onto the coffee
table, I said, “If you kill yourself, I ain’t gonna feed your cat.”
He flipped me off.
“Four Times Jasper Diallo Didn't Die (and One Time He Lived)” by Rachel Stanley Copyright 2017 by Rachel Stanley Winning story in the 2017 ACM Nick Adams Short Story Contest Associated Colleges of the Midwest ACM.edu/NickAdams Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Reproduction of this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. 12 Rolling my eyes, I flopped down in the other armchair and just watched him for a minute.
He’d always been pale, but he was looking a little more ghostly than usual. Cheeks sunk in, lips
cracked—like he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything in days. Maybe he hadn’t.
“Besides, the hell are you to talk?” Hector opened his eyes, staring at me through
narrowed eyelids. “How many times you tried to kill yourself? Four, five?”
“Six,” I admitted, leaning back in the chair and running a hand through my hair. Once by
drowning, twice by jumping, thrice by overdose. I always liked a little variety in my life.
“See? Six more times than I’ve tried.”
“I think starving yourself counts as trying.”
He flinched, and my stomach twisted. I knew he wasn’t necessarily trying to die—I told
him once he didn’t have the heart to kill himself. Would’ve been a terrible trait in a witch, but
good for a guy that kept a gun in the house. He just didn’t want to put the effort into living. God,
did I know that feeling. I stared at him for another long moment, before saying, “Hector, you
can’t just fuckin’ give up.”
His reply wasn’t bitter or accusatory, just fucking tired: “Give me a reason not to.”
Well, got me there. I didn’t have one. That’s the thing. People talk about ‘finding a
reason to live’ as if there’s any such bullshit. There ain’t. You either wanna live, or you don’t.
You can come up with reasons, sure—people will miss me, I have potential, there’s so much of
the world I haven’t seen, blah blah blah. Thing is, all the reasons in the world won’t make you
want to live. That’s something that happens on its own.
And as I stared at the mess that was my best friend, something in me shifted a little, like a
camera lens coming into focus. I thought about the past year, and I thought about the year to
come, and in comparing the two, I realized something: it had happened to me. I wanted to
fucking live. I couldn’t tell you when it snuck up on me, or—hell, I couldn’t even tell you what I
wanted to live for. But for the first time in my life, I wanted to see what the world had to give
me. I wanted to stick around to find out if tomorrow would be better than today. I wanted to keep
fucking going. And maybe that’s all I needed in the end: to keep existing for long enough to
realize life’s got something to offer, even if your brain is trying to kill you. Guess immortality’s
got something going for it after all.
“Hey, Hector,” I said, leaning forward and lacing my fingers together, elbows on the
knees of my ripped jeans. “I’m gonna show you how to do a little magic.”
He snorted, dragging a hand through hair that probably hadn’t been combed in weeks.
The dark strands just made the paleness of his cheeks stand out even more. “I’m not a witch,
Jasper.”
“Nah. Not enough woman in you,” I said, giving him a smile. “But you don’t need to be a
witch to do magic.”
He eyed me for a moment or two, mouth set in a thin line. Then, shaking his head, he
mumbled, “Fine. I’ll bite.”
“Four Times Jasper Diallo Didn't Die (and One Time He Lived)” by Rachel Stanley Copyright 2017 by Rachel Stanley Winning story in the 2017 ACM Nick Adams Short Story Contest Associated Colleges of the Midwest ACM.edu/NickAdams Note: This story is reprinted with permission. Reproduction of this story without the express, written permission of the author is prohibited. 13 I knew he was just doing it to make me shut up, but I took it seriously anyway. Maybe if I
could get him to do something, inertia would take it from there. “Here. Do what I do.”
I showed him the sign, slow and patient. He frowned, trying to mimic my movements. It
took a couple of tries and a few mutters of “this is fucking stupid” for him to get it, but finally he
could do it almost as smooth as me. It looked a little different on his thin, bony fingers than on
mine, but I could feel that it was right.
“My aunt taught it to me,” I told him, lowering my hands. “Supposed to help depression.
I’ve used it most of my life.”
He gave me a skeptical look. “Sounds like bullshit.”
I shrugged, spreading my palms.“Maybe. Thing is, sometimes you can’t get rid of
depression. You can only keep it from killing you. So I figure anything that can keep you from
going over the edge is worth a shot.”
Hector shook his head, looking away and going silent. His hand went to stroke the cat on
his lap, who rumbled a little louder in the silence between us. For a while, we both just sat there.
Finally, I sighed and got to my feet. “Look, I can’t promise it’ll help. All I can tell you is it kept
me alive. And staying alive is the closest thing to a cure I’ve got.”
He didn’t answer. I didn’t expect him to. I just picked up my coat, gave him a lopsided
smile, and said,“You just keep practicing existing, sugar.” I paused for a second, then added,
“Oh, and I rearranged your bookshelf. Jules Verne is currently neighbors with Simone Beck.”
He eyed the bookcase, brow furrowed, but I didn’t need to wait around for the inevitable.
If there was one thing Hector couldn’t stand, it was disorganization. I knew he’d be out of that
chair within the hour. That was really all I could do for him, at that point. The rest was up to him.
When I left his apartment, I put my fingers together, knuckles to knuckles, pointer finger
and thumb diamond-shaped. I twisted my hands upside down, broke them apart, and then let out
a long breath. I used to think the sign didn’t work. After all, how many times had I tried to kill
myself? But the thing is, I’m still here. I had to fight myself every step of the way; claw myself
out of misery and drag myself into a sense of self-worth. I fucked up everything from my love
life to my own goddamn mortality, but I’m still fucking here. I lost my father, I lost Rosie, but I
still have Topher. I still have Hector. And I love them both so much it makes my bones ache.
Four decades of my own brain trying to kill me, and I still managed to find some corner of
happiness.
I’m a regular goddamn miracle.