Kaleidotrope, January 2026
In this evocative second-person narrative, you visit a mysterious curiosity shop run by a witch named Sophia and her vampire brother Sage. Initially suspicious of the witch’s presence in your town, you enter their shop—adorned with flowers and bearing a sign promising escape—to investigate why the townspeople have become so entranced by her.
Upon entering, you encounter Sage, whose pale skin and shadow-wreathed presence immediately identify him as a vampire. He gently rebukes your assumption that he’s dangerous simply because he’s different. Sophia emerges next, radiating an electric, storm-like presence that confirms her identity as a witch, though she lacks the stereotypical pointed hat and broomstick.
When Sophia realizes you’ve come out of concern rather than genuine need, she invites you to browse her wares. The shop is filled with bottles of various sizes and plants of all varieties. One blue bottle, shifting through shades from turquoise to navy, captures your attention. Sophia encourages you to open it, promising she would have already enchanted you if that were her intention.
What follows is transformative. Opening the bottle transports you to a pristine beach where endless sea meets endless sand, fog caresses your skin, and salt air fills your lungs. The experience is profoundly peaceful, making you feel deeply alive. When Sophia recorks the bottle and the vision dissolves, you’re speechless at its beauty.
Your initial suspicions evaporate. Instead of demanding answers about her influence over the town, you ask what else she has. Sophia shows you many bottles: mountain caves with birdsong and rain-scented winds, creek banks thick with violets and moss, desert flights, mysterious caverns, sky cities with white towers. Each return to reality feels like “dying a little bit.”
The most poignant bottle contains the scent of Sophia’s childhood meal—her first creation, made so her vampire brother could still experience the comfort of familiar food despite no longer being able to eat. This revelation illuminates her purpose: providing comforting magic to anyone who needs it, because everyone deserves occasional escape.
When you ask the price, Sophia poses a profound question: “How much would you give to escape your life?” After you answer honestly, she presents a green bottle that smells like oxygen and fresh starts. You purchase it and take it home, where it sits on your shelf for years. You nearly open it during every loss—friends, opportunities, pieces of your soul—but you never quite do, afraid of wasting its singular magic.
The story concludes with a haunting image: years later, standing on the brink of a terrifying fall, you finally open the bottle as you jump. The narrative ends with a question directed at the reader: “Tell me, where do you land?”
The story explores themes of escapism, compassion, prejudice, and the human need for comfort in an overwhelming world. It suggests that magic—whether literal or metaphorical—can offer respite and hope during life’s darkest moments.
Jay Kang Romanus is a queer, mixed, Asian-American author of speculative fiction that explores the experience of living this intersectionality in worlds not our own. You can find his other short stories in magazines such as Anathema: Spec from the Margins and PodCastle, as well as multiple anthologies. He is also the editor of Dudes Rock, an anthology of speculative fiction celebrating queer masculinity. You can find him online under the handles @jellicle_jay/@jelliclejay.bsky.social or on his website jaykangromanus.com.