be moved or die trying
The moment I stepped into The Velvet Underground, I knew I'd crossed into a world where reality and magic blurred, a place where secrets lingered in the air like perfume. I had been searching for something, I couldn’t quite name it—an escape, perhaps, or maybe a spark that could reignite the fire I had long lost. The speakeasy was a haven for the disillusioned, the dreamers, and those of us caught somewhere in between.
The air inside was thick, not just with whisky fumes and cigar smoke, but with something electric, an unspoken promise that anything could happen. It felt like destiny had called me here, to this forgotten corner of the city, hidden away behind an unmarked door. A place whispered about only in circles that understood what it meant to crave something more.
Soft golden light from art deco sconces bathed the room in a warm glow, casting long shadows that seemed to breathe, shift, and watch. The walls, draped in deep burgundy velvet, absorbed every whispered word and unsung melody. Patrons huddled in shadowed corners, obscured by wide-brimmed hats and veils of cigarette smoke, as if revealing too much of themselves would break the spell of the place.
I made my way to the bar, the carpet beneath my feet so plush it seemed to swallow my footsteps whole. Each step felt heavy, like I was walking deeper into something unknown. The polished mahogany counter gleamed with a kind of reverence, reflecting the amber liquid that filled the crystal tumblers like liquid gold.
Settling onto a worn leather barstool, the weight of the outside world—the failures, the disappointments, the unrealized dreams—seemed to slip away. In its place was a feeling I hadn’t experienced in months. Hope? No, something more dangerous. Anticipation.
The bartender approached. He was tall, his salt-and-pepper hair swept back in a way that made him look both timeless and world-weary. His eyes, though, were alive with a mischief I hadn’t seen since I was a boy chasing sunsets, back when I still believed in magic. "What'll it be?" he asked, his voice as smooth as the bourbon he was already pouring.
“Whisky, neat,” I said, though my attention was drawn to the stage where a band was setting up. The pianist's fingers hovered above the keys, teasing the notes into existence. The music was haunting, tugging at something deep inside me, something I thought I had buried long ago.
The bartender slid the glass toward me, but before I could take a sip, I noticed the spoon inside the tumbler stirring on its own, clinking softly against the sides. I blinked. Maybe it was a trick of the light, or the weariness playing with my mind.
“First time here?” the bartender asked, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.
I nodded, unable to look away from the impossibility before me. “Is that…?”
“Magic?” he finished for me. “In a place like this, my friend, everything is magic.”
Before I could respond, the lights dimmed, and the hum of conversation fell into a hushed reverence. She appeared on stage like a vision out of a dream. Evelyn. I’d heard her name before, whispered in fragments, always in the context of legends, though I had assumed them to be mere stories.
She wore a shimmering emerald dress that clung to her like the night itself. Her skin, rich and warm like mahogany polished by the sun, glowed under the low lights, and her hair—midnight curls cascading down her back—seemed to move with a life of its own. But it wasn’t her appearance that held the room captive. It was her voice.
When she sang, the world stopped. I felt it—time itself hesitated as if waiting to see what magic she would weave. Her voice was liquid gold, warm, intoxicating, and it wrapped around me like silk. Each note felt like a revelation, a secret shared only with those who were willing to listen with their souls, not just their ears.
"That's Evelyn," the bartender whispered, though his words barely registered. I was lost in her. "She has that effect on everyone."
I wanted to look away, to free myself from the spell she was weaving, but I couldn’t. There was something in her voice, something more than just the music. It was as if she was singing to the part of me that had been lost for years—the part that had once dreamed of creating something beautiful, before the world had dulled my edges.
As if sensing my thoughts, Evelyn’s eyes found mine, locking onto me with an intensity that stole the breath from my lungs. In that moment, I wanted to be her. I wanted to possess her power, her grace, her ability to make the world pause with a single note.
"I’ve never heard anything like it," I murmured, more to myself than to the bartender.
He chuckled softly, his laugh the sound of ice in a glass. "You wouldn’t be the first. But be careful, friend. Evelyn’s not just a singer—she’s a siren. She calls to the soul, but not everyone can handle what they hear."
I tore my eyes away from her, turning to the bartender, intrigued by the gravity in his voice. “What do you mean?”
He leaned in close, his voice a low rumble, carrying with it the scent of juniper and something ancient, like old books or forgotten forests. "See that fellow in the corner? The one who looks like he's been chasing ghosts?"
I glanced over. In the dim light, I could make out a man hunched over a notebook, his hand trembling as he scribbled furiously. His eyes were hollow, dark circles beneath them making him look like he hadn’t slept in weeks. His fingers tapped out a frantic rhythm on the table, but his gaze never left Evelyn.
"That’s Cal. He used to be a composer—brilliant, from what I hear. But then he heard Evelyn sing, and now…" The bartender shook his head. "Now he spends every night here, trying to capture her essence in a song. He's abandoned his own voice, lost in the need to recreate her magic."
I felt a chill run down my spine despite the warmth of the room. “And he hasn’t been able to?”
The bartender sighed. "You can’t imitate magic, friend. It either flows through you, or it consumes you." His gaze shifted to a woman near the stage, her fingers moving swiftly across a sketchpad. The pencil seemed to dance above the paper, sketching lines that shifted and moved like living creatures. "But then, some people... they let her stir something else inside them. Something true. Those are the ones who survive."
The artist’s drawing began to take form—abstract, yet filled with emotion and movement that seemed to pulse in time with Evelyn’s song. It was alive, in a way I couldn’t explain.
“That,” the bartender said with a smile, “is what a true muse does. She doesn’t make you want to be her—she makes you want to be the best version of yourself.”
For the first time that night, I tore my gaze from Evelyn and picked up the pen resting beside a napkin. Words began to flow—my own words, not hers. A story, born from something deeper than imitation, from the place where magic hides in the corners of the heart.
I wrote until my hand ached, the ink spilling out in elaborate flourishes across the napkin, carrying with it a story of magic, mystery, and the search for one’s own voice in a world of echoes.
When I finally looked up, the bartender grinned. “That’s the difference between chasing magic and finding it within yourself.”
As the night wore on, I noticed others in the room experiencing similar awakenings. The man in the corner had abandoned his frantic scribbling and now tapped out a gentle rhythm, his eyes softened, as if he had finally found peace. The artist’s sketch was now a masterpiece of color and motion, her muse no longer Evelyn, but something uniquely her own.
And Evelyn? She sang on, her voice as haunting and beautiful as ever, but now, instead of longing to be her, I felt something different—gratitude. Gratitude for the spark she had reignited in me, for the reminder that true creation comes not from imitation, but from finding the magic that lies dormant inside us all.
As the final notes of her song echoed into the night, I knew that this was just the beginning. Not just of a story, but of a journey—one that I hadn’t even known I needed to begin.