I knelt down by the bed and barely had said “Dear Lord” before I heard a loud booming voice shout:
WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT NOW?
“God?” I whispered.
I SAID WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT NOW?
“I just wanted to say thanks, and I look forward to tomorrow,” I said.
BULLSHIT.
“Seriously, I’m cool,” I said.
WELL, HERE’S A FUCKIN BICYCLE SOME KID KEEPS ASKING FOR, BUT THE KID’S AN ASSHOLE, SO FUCK HIM.
And a bicycle appeared on my bed.
“Amen?” I said.
DAMN STRAIGHT.
It was kid-sized. Useless to me.
I donated it to charity.
Tag: magic
The Uncharmed Life
The townsfolk spread rumors about Mercy Polk and her use of magic charms, potions, and wands in unusual rituals.
She was arrested and dragged before the town magistrate, and ordered to demonstrate her supposed magic powers.
She dipped her finger into a bowl of water, and turned it into wine.
“What is that in your other hand?” asked the magistrate.
“A stone!” shouted the bailiff. “The rumors are true! She has no powers whatsoever!”
The magistrate found her guilty and sentenced her to exile in Boston.
(And kept the stone for himself, since good wine is so hard to find.)
Moonbeams
I invented something.
It’s in my workshop.
Want to see it?
Okay, but you have to promise that you won’t tell anyone about it.
Here it is.
What?
No, it’s not under the cloth… it’s the cloth!
See it shimmer and glitter?
It’s made of moonbeams.
I caught them on a bright moonlit night, and wove them into a cloth.
Well, not at first. I spun them into yarn and knitted them, but it just far was too coarse.
This cloth is a tight weave.
Of moonbeams.
That shimmer and glimmer.
And I invented it.
Me.
On a moonlit night.
Harvesting Shadows
The best times to harvest shadows are at sunset and sunrise when they grow the longest.
They’re harder to cut, though… so most mages wait until noontime, when the sun is brighter.
Natural shadows are best for magic spells.
No self-respecting wizard would use a shadow made by torchlight or candlelight for an important spell. They do not have the same power. And they are wilder, harder to control.
And harvesting your own is important. Residual aura conflict can result in spectral friction.
Which causes explosions.
And for us to bill your parents for the damage to our labs, student.
Swami
I will never forget the day I went to my favorite Italian restaurant, sat down at my usual table, and a group of Indian swamis came in.
George the Waiter sat them at a table and brought out a large bowl of spaghetti.
Each in turn took out his recorder, played, and a spaghetti strand would rise from the bowl to the ceiling in a slender rope.
Over and over, the swamis made the spaghetti rise up.
I called over George, and said “Wow, isn’t that amazing?”
George grumbled. “Sure, it is, but those cheap bastards don’t tip for shit.”
Forgotten
Most wizards agree that the Armageddon Spell is the rarest spell.
As the High Mage of The Byzantium Library, I know that it isn’t.
The rarest spell is The Lost Spell Of Forgetting, of which the only copy is in the Library.
Why is it The Lost Spell?
Because I lost it.
I have no idea where the spell is in all these shelves and cupboards and desks.
I’m surprised I even remember there’s a Forgetting Spell.
Just reading it makes you forget what it is.
Hey… that’s strange… what’s this in my pocket…
It’s a scroll.
Of… um… what?
Lanterns
The adventurers met at the cave entrance at dawn, and everyone was carrying a large lantern.
The thief. The fighter. The dwarf. The priest.
The whole party standing around, lanterns in hand.
The wizard scratched his chin. “Did anyone bring a weapon?”
The paladin and the dwarf looked at each other. “Well, we talked about it being dark in there last night, right?”
The wizard nodded. “I have a light spell, you know.”
The thief pointed at the wizard’s lantern. “So what’s with that?”
The wizard shrugged.
Back in town, the lantern salesman laughed all the way to the moneychanger.
Apprentice
The old wizard coughed… checked the handkerchief.
Blood.
He called for his apprentice.
“Yes, master?” said the apprentice.
His apprentice had mastered every spell he’d been taught and learned it quickly.
He’d make a fine wizard.
“One more lesson,” said the wizard, taking down a glass flask from the shelf. “Magic Jar. Relax, and feel your life’s essence flow into it.”
The apprentice closed his eyes and breathed out into the jar.
And was still.
The wizard patted him on the back. “Well done. You’ll make a fine vessel.”
He placed his bloody lips on his apprentice’s… and breathed out…
The Spell
There’s always a few parts left over when you fix it, right?
Well, the famous Maillardet Automaton is no exception.
Charles Roberts reconstructed the device without plans or diagrams back in 1928, and repairs were made in the Seventies and 2007.
The cams and disks inside cause the mechanism to make four drawings and three poems.
It used to write a fourth poem, but those disks were removed after a fire nearly destroyed the Franklin Institute.
Not really a poem, but a spell.
A doomsday spell, barely stopped.
Turn the crank again.
Watch the clockwork boy wink, grin, and laugh.
Max
Max is five years old, and he can heal machines.
No, he can’t explain how they work. But when he puts his hands on a machine and closes his eyes, the machine starts working again.
Blenders. Dishwashers. Lamps.
He even healed a motorcycle, but that took a lot out of him, so we gave him a fruit juice box, and let him nap in the corner for a while.
We took him to the train museum once, and he touched a steam train.
The whistle screamed to life as Max collapsed.
Two week coma.
We go to the zoo now.