The Protector of Artists: A Tale of Zola McGee
Zola McGee was born under a violet sky, the kind that shimmered when Dagon’s daughters were destined to arrive. Her face carried the ancient signature: wide, star‑catching eyes, a feline nose and mouth, and a heart‑shaped face with dimples said to be angel‑kisses placed upon her cheeks long before her mother Phoenicia birthed her in splendor.
Phoenicia never knew that her radiance stirred envy in the shadows. For in the forgotten quarter of the Nebula District lived Tinicia, a witch whose heart had grown brittle from coveting the lives of others. She watched Phoenicia’s charmed existence with a hunger that hollowed her, and she compared her own daughter, Donkeyce, to Zola with a bitterness that festered.
Donkeyce was a strange child — not cruel, not wicked, simply… empty. A hull, born without the spark that anchors a soul. Her eyes were shallow and dull, yet she laughed often, a bright, misplaced joy that unsettled other children. And because she had no soul, anything without a body could shelter inside her, slipping in and out like travelers through an open gate.
Tinicia, idle in her resentment, began listening to the whispers of the entities that visited her daughter’s hollow frame. They promised power, beauty, adoration — the life she believed Phoenicia had stolen from her. And in her weakness, she agreed to their bargain.
The moment she accepted, the room shuddered. Donkeyce collapsed, her body discarded like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Tinicia’s husband, Bullard, felt his heart twist and turn away from her forever, drawn irresistibly toward other women. And Tinicia herself convulsed as dark magic claimed her bloodline, her own blood rising in her throat and spilling over her fallen child.
The deal was sealed.
Meanwhile, Zola McGee grew, protected by the unseen guardian of all artists — a cosmic sentinel who watched over writers with a fierce, ancient loyalty. She wrote stories that bent time, poems that softened war, and visions that healed the broken. She and Phoenicia lived their charmed lives, never knowing that somewhere in the forgotten corners of the universe, a witch had fallen into an old curse of her own making.
Zola’s gift was not luck. It was respect, love, divinity, and gratitude. She never coveted another’s fortune, for she understood that every soul has its own orbit, its own appointed light.
Moral of the Story
An idle mind is the devil’s workshop. Be grateful for the life you were meant for, and never covet the fortunes of others.
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