By J. Wilson
Bob knew he had a magic mirror when he held up a copy of Sonic Youth’s “EVOL” to it.
It was the big mirror looking into his room, mounted above the bureau. The reflection read “Love,” of course, with the letters all reversed. What was so weird was that the girl on the cover, snarling, on her knees, arms arched back and hands like claws — it wasn’t her. In the mirror. The girl — “Lung Leg” was the name in the liner notes — the horrible feral thing glaring up out of the album cover was gone.
In the mirror was someone like her, quite like Lung Leg, but entirely different. Serene. Her eyes were closed, head inclined to the right, lips parted, like one asleep.
He was afraid to look back at it, hid his eyes, tore the blanket off the bed and draped dark wool over the thing.
If that mirror had flip-flopped the girl’s terror and animal violence, what would it do to his own reflection, his good fortune in love and life?
He looked down at the album cover, not sure what to expect, but it was the same as always. “Lung Leg” stared back. Vivid. Freaked-out. Riveting, just like the fearful, crystalline music on the record.
He put it on the turntable, just to make sure. It sounded the same, untouched by the inverting glass.
He glanced over at the dresser, at the cascades of fabric obscuring the tall mirror. He looked down at the corner of the cloth. It wouldn’t take much to pull the the blanket back, out of the way.
What would he see?