Lindsay Fleming

Lindsay Fleming is a graduate of the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars. Her essays and short fiction have appeared in Scribner’s Best of the Fiction Workshops, Room to Grow and more. She writes Little Magic every fourth Wednesday in the Baltimore Fishbowl.



Please be advised: This is the last rabbit I’ll be pulling from the hat. Little Magic has been canceled. Now you see it; now you don’t. 

Time in a Bottle


Time in a Bottle, Jim Croce, is playing on The Bridge when I get pulled over for speeding—I 87 just outside Albany. A state trooper, plumed all in gray with maroon points, comes to stand outside my window. He pauses to take in the full measure of the situation, looking down at me.

He says, “83,” as a statement of fact. I do not make a joke, something along the lines of, “Is that all?” I just hand over my license and registration. Yes, I was flying.

The Family Sexual History Survey


Family Sexual HistoryOn staycation here in Baltimore, I have time to go back to some of the Urban Priestess Mystery School teachings I’ve let slide over the past ten months. The online program is organized, so it’s easy to see where you’ve fallen off and where you’ve knocked it out. Because there’s no degree involved, no one checking up on me, I naturally undertake the coursework that is fun or of interest while resisting other activities, like the “Family Sexual History” survey which first hung me up back in December.

June, Genie


At the start of the summer, the end of the school year, who isn’t full of the instinct to self-improve, to start new protocols, to switch things up? Maybe it’s the long days or the explosion of nature into bloom. Remember the musical Carousel?  “June is bustin’ out all over”? That feelin’.  I was ready to bust out of Baltimore, too, with things heating up, summer coming on too strong and too sudden.

Writing Lessons

Writing Lessons
Photo by Hannah Olinger on Unsplash

I’ve been supervising a graduating high school senior for the past month. He wanted to try his hand at being a full-time writer, bless his heart, and he’s writing a novella for his final project. At our weekly meetings, he turns over a chapter or so of writing, and we discuss the previous week’s work. It’s been more than a decade since I’ve taken the teacher’s seat, but the old neural pathways started firing right away: show, don’t tell; omit needless words; keep dialogue spare. Though my role is more advisor than teacher, I can’t help myself. At our first meeting, I bled feedback all over his manuscript in black ink. What follows is a roundabout apology.

The River of No Return

Frank Church - River of No Return Wilderness, Idaho
Photo by Rex Parker, via Wikimedia Commons

On the occasion of Earth Day, I sat at my desk and reflected upon the Frank-Church River of No Return Wilderness in Idaho, where nine years ago I traveled by raft down the Middle Fork of the Salmon River. I’d turned 50 a few months before and had begun to think in terms of bucket lists. I was with my husband and 6-year-old daughter. I wanted us to have a real wilderness experience before the wilderness was gone.

Opening the Oak Door


Six moons into Mystery School, I set out to the woods of Druid Hill Park looking for raw material for an arts and crafts project: Although you can simply purchase a pre-made wand online…we highly encourage you to craft your own. The wand is the sacred instrument of magicians, wizards, little girls in fairy costume, and urban priestesses-in-training who are behind on their coursework. I’ll say this: no matter how madcap the curriculum, there’s always a practical component that finds me boots on the ground, tromping around in nature.

Treasure in the Field


Leaving the Amtrak waiting area at Penn Station, New York, a few weekends ago, I walked away from my wallet. Technically speaking, it’s a clutch, big enough for credit cards, cell phone, cash, driver’s license, checkbook, keys, ATM cards, and yes, it was all in there. I was so intent on hustling my daughter and self onto the train, that I somehow lost track of the wallet. It hit me as we were getting settled into our seats. There was possibly enough time to sprint back upstairs to the waiting area. I got off the train to consult with the conductor who’d taken my ticket on the platform. He pointed to the end of a long line of passengers. “I’ll get to you when it’s your turn, ma’am.” I’d left my daughter on the train and had nothing but my ticket in hand. If I went back up and the train left and my wallet was already gone, I’d really be up a creek.

A Private Olympics

Cochran ski area in Vermont.

When people learn that I’m from Vermont, the next question is, invariably, “Do you ski?”

I grew up in the town of Richmond, perhaps best known as home to “the Skiing Cochrans,” a family of mythical athletes.  Their father, Mickey, coached all four of his wholesome, ruddy-cheeked offspring all the way to the U.S. Ski team and many national and world cups.  Barbara (Barbie, to us) brought home a gold medal in slalom from the 1972 Sapporo winter Olympics.  We were sprung early from school for the parade celebrating her triumphant return.

Home Burial


Two days after Christmas, six years ago, my daughters and I traveled home to Vermont, to ring in the New Year with my parents.  We settled into the cabin up the hill from their house and went down to say hello before bed. Dad was stretched out in a recliner in front of the fireplace.  He’d been diagnosed with bone cancer about a year before, but he was doing well. He wasn’t in real pain, any more than the usual pains of a man who’d lived hard all his life, a man with lousy knees and stents in his heart, who’d tracked mountain lions in the Great West, split thousands of cords of wood, worked as a farmer and a firefighter, among other things, and had finally written, on a scrap of paper I found after he died, “My time is the only capital contribution I can make.”