Tag: magic

Rights

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The Legislature voted down the gay marriage bill for the third time in a year, and the governor said he’d just as soon sign a bill that allowed gays to fly.
So, as an April Fool’s joke, the legislature passed that bill. Unanimously.
The governor called a press conference and, in front of a dozen reporters, signed it.
And as he looked out over the assembled group, he noticed a few people rising from their chairs into the air.
Alarmed, he held on to the podium, knuckles white against the wood.
But his feet would not stay on the ground.

The Talking Sword

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The swordsman tested all the swords in the store, but when he picked up the talking sword, he was greatly impressed.
“I have no equal, no opponent can defeat me,” it said.
The fighter took a few lunges and swings.
Good balance, nice edge.
I like this sword.
He bought it.
Three days later, the swordsman was crawling out of a cave, bloodied and battered, sword in hand.
“They were kobolds, Sword,” he groaned. “I could beat them barehanded.”
“My expertise is in debate, not combat,” said the sword.
It swore as it clattered against the rocks in the cave.

The Lighter

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Down in the dungeon, the witch stirs up a boiling cauldron full of jokes
“We stir to keep the lighter jokes from floating to the top and staying there,” says Hildegard the Wicked. “Only when the jokes are finished do we skim them from the top.”
I’ve asked her what she puts in the pot to make the jokes, but she never reveals her secret.
“You don’t want to know,” she says. “Just drink the potions I give you and be happy with it.”
Sure, I’ll drink it, but I won’t be happy with it.
Funny, yes. But not happy.

The Moral Compass

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I hold the compass flat in the palm of my hand, watching the needle spin madly.
The symbols glow a deep red.
“It’s broken,” I tell the salesman.
“No, it isn’t,” he says. “You are. Your moral compass is out of whack.”
The salesman snickers at me, his crooked smile wants me to punch it.
So I do. Many times.
As the salesman lays on the floor, I look at the compass.
The black end of the needle points at my heart.
“It’s working again.” I say, snap the lid shut, and step over the salesman out of the store.

The Shadowcat

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Three rings in the wizard’s nose.
A glass eye, solid blue.
No hair at all. Not even eyebrows.
He tells me of the legedary Shadowcat, a spirit in his library.
Only he can touch the books. If someone else enters the library, the Shadowcat strikes.
Instant death.
“Never go in there,” he says.
I nod.
“Can you make a Greyhawk Slinger?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say.
“You’re hired,” he says, and I am now the butler to the most powerful archmage in the land.
He hands me a book. “Mind putting this back in the library?”
I laugh.
He smiles.

The Good Dishes

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We keep the good dishes in a cupboard, only taking them out for special occasions.
On the other hand, we keep the evil dishes in an iron-bound wooden chest in the basement.
They rattle and clatter angrily in their prison, demanding to be set free.
Not a chance. The last time we let them out, they gave the mayor and his wife food poisoning.
We’ve tried to destroy them, but every time we break a plate or a dish, the pieces reassemble themselves the next morning.
It’s best to keep them locked up, no matter how pretty they are.

With every lick

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How many licks does it take to get to the center of this lollipop?
Thanks to the replenishment spell on my tongue, the number is infinite.
With every lick, I restore what I have licked away.
Sure, it was painful to tattoo the sigils on my tongue, but I think it was well worth it.
The problem is, in casting the spell, my tongue has lost all sense of taste.
It’s like licking a marble on a stick now. Candy has lost all appeal.
I mean Candy, my apprentice.
She may enjoy it, but I’m left out in the cold.

The Infernal Tune

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It was said that Beethoven composed a melody so powerful, it could summon The Devil.
He never wrote it down, and never played it with anyone nearby.
Except his nephew Karl.
Perhaps this is why he fought to keep custody of Karl, to prevent him from revealing this secret?
Or maybe Karl attempted suicide after seeing his uncle plead with The Prince Of Darkness for his hearing back?
His doctor prescribed treatments containing lead to block out the infernal influences, sending the composer into painful and confusing fits.
Karl whispers, “The piano is out of tune. Does Satan listen now?”

The Mage’s Toothache

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It was the ancient mage’s last tooth. And it hurt like hell.
The toothache remedy potion bottle was empty, and all of the pain spells had verbal components.
His apprentice, not yet skilled in the art of Relief enchantments, was drunk at the pub when a party of adventurers overheard him complaining to the bartender.
“We can raid the tower and free this town of evil,” whispered the paladin.
The cleric and thief agreed, and made their way up the mountain.
Unfortunately for them, the mage’s wands were all point-and-shoot.
He left the cleric alive long enough to heal him.

Moonbeam Harvest

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The moonbeams cover the forest floor, and we gather the magic sparkles and put them into glass jars.
We elves have been gathering for centuries. The deep, rich forests that produce the best moonbeams may be gone, but there’s plenty of trees left in hard-to-reach places to harvest under.
Besides, we’re more efficient at refining moonbeams now. It only takes ten jars of sparkles to fill a Moonbeam Bomb where it used to require thousands.
My water-basin swirls, and a message arrives from Germany. Another ancient forest is in danger from developers.
Not for long. Send a bomb to Berlin.