A Sparkle in Time by Philip Matcovsky

A Sparkle in Time by Philip Matcovsky

Lu weaves through the crowd of headbangers in black T-shirts like a six foot five gazelle in combat boots, rushing toward the stage, dodging fist pumping and beer in plastic cups, the metal music rattling her insides like a thousand sledgehammers pounding. And something else internal. The hold is real. The tug.

Lu stops moving and becomes still. The receiver’s energy is pulling from her right side through a sea of long hair and skull jewelry. She opens and feels for it. Got him: A rhinoceros-like twentysomething with angry facial creases at the bar. A sparkle is seconds away. Lu promised herself more control this time, more awareness, her actions intentional not reactive. She calls this in . . . .

But the switch occurs involuntarily, without Lu’s authority as to what’s next. Her free will departs and is replaced by the receiver’s wishes like a remote control, her consciousness shifting to his — “You’re from another world,” her mom has said, “an empathic superhero.” 

Lu speeds with unknown purpose toward the receiver, lowers her shoulder and smashes into him like a mystical wrecking ball. Her mountainous 265 forces him to grab hold of the wooden bar rail to keep from falling. Lu barrels passed him enough to remain in earshot, looking over her shoulder for a rear attack. Her mass and intimidating height — which makes it hard to recognize the premature balding or smokey eyeshadow her mom provided — serve as deterrents to people wishing to fight in these situations. She relies on it.

The bar-nocerous receiver nods his sweaty head like an air pump, puffing himself up: “I told you this was gonna happen. Drunk asshole. Now I gotta kill him.” From his buddy: “Don’t worry about that shithead.” And from another one: “He’s not worth your spit.”

Lu resumes moving forward toward the band. It takes a moment to fully recover, to be whole again and centered after a sparkle in time. She’s unsure why she did what she did, yet knows from experience something is right about it. She is twenty feet from the stage and feels safer now seeing the receiver’s three friends hold him back with ease: the fire has cooled.

Lu becomes aware that she forgot the concert earplugs her mom bought when she feels her internal organs dancing to the music again. She’d rather not wear them anyway. She closes her eyes, opening herself to the ascending pitch of the metal, lifting her energy, her spirit. She wants to lose herself in it. A look back one last time finds the receiver laughing, and all four men embracing like brothers. They raise shot glasses with arms around one another in a bubble of affection, a damn celebration of love amid deafening guitars and hammering drums.

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Philip Matcovsky 2026

Image Source: A. L. from Unsplash.com