• Skip to primary navigation
  • Skip to main content
  • Skip to primary sidebar

Rabia Gale

alchemical fantasy

  • Home
  • Works
    • The Reflected City
    • The Sunless World
    • Taurin’s Chosen
    • The Heartwood Chronicles
    • Stand-Alones
  • Newsletter
  • Blog
  • About Me
  • Contact
friday fiction

friday fiction

friday fiction? all-month fiction!

You may have noticed the lack of Friday Fiction today.

No, I didn’t forget (though such a thing is not unheard of!).

But instead of one story today, I’ll be giving you several all month long. I have 5 more fairy tale prompts to go. One is written, one is planned, the other three have been delivered to the muse to transform into story. Keep an eye out for them as the month goes on.

And if you find this project entertaining, it’s not too late to get into the action. I have space for two more prompts, so go ahead and leave me a fairy tale character & random concrete noun below.

For those of you who follow the usual friday fiction, I have a question: Shall I continue the story about the out-of-work mage from last time, or come up with something else for when I resume?

friday fiction

Instead of a complete flashfic or short story, I’m giving you something a little different today.

A couple years ago, after first getting into manga, I tried my hand at a story in that style. Instead of one tightly-woven narrative, I wanted to write a series of arcs. Paying work takes precedence, so I didn’t get very far. But I keep coming back to this fun concept and these delightful characters.

Here’s the first scene of Constellation (working title), a story about a girl trying to figure out her future, a boy with a mission, and a magic school for misfits of all kinds.

I would love any comments. Is this interesting? Would you be interested in more? Thanks!

Arc One: The Beginning

Hopeswell

Amberlin stood on the cracked stone pier looking out across the choppy water and thought, for the thousandth time, about going home.

The sky over the sea was a uniform grey; she couldn’t even pretend to make out a smudge that might be the northern tip of Ravin. A salt-and-sewage tainted wind poked warm fingers through the holes in her knitted jacket, ran a sweaty hand up her calves and under her skirt. Amber grimaced and smoothed her skirt back down.

Stop torturing yourself, she scolded. Going home was not in her near future. Going home meant giving up. Amber wasn’t ready to do that just yet, not even when her purse was almost as empty as her belly. It hadn’t even been a year since she left.

Amber brushed sticky, light brown strands of hair from her face, and resolutely turned away from the sea and back toward Hopeswell.

None of the promise of its name had come to fruition in Hopeswell. It was a seedy, rundown seaside town, full of sagging buildings, rusting iron roofs, and shiftless and shifty-eyed people. Amber had expected that this enclave of Ravin, this port of the wild and wonderful mainland she’d dreamed of since she’d been a small girl, would’ve been drenched in magic and mystery. Stepping off the boat two months ago had been a shock. The dock areas were the kind of places Mama would never allow Amber to walk alone back in Oaktown, and the rest of city wasn’t much better.

Still, there was all the rest of the enclave to explore, the uplands were the wealthy had summer homes and the picturesque towns lay nestled along the riverside. There had to be something better beyond Hopeswell. She just needed to get out and make her way there.

Amber left the pier, her hands buried deep in her pockets. A damp newspaper wrapped itself around her foot; she twitched it loose. Broken glass, ground into dust, glistened in cracks and between cobbles. Wavelets sucked and gulped against the docks and retaining walls. A smear of green slime spread up the stone to the high-water mark.

From the north of Hopeswell came the long whistle of a train. It sounded unbearably lonely, as if the train, too, were homesick.

Amber scuffed her way through the streets. Most of the shops were closed by now, metal grills down over their display windows and big padlocks on the doors. Their signs, corroded and faded in the sea air, flapped sadly in the breeze. Scrumptious Seconds… Bargain Prices! Dazzle Fashions… Oldsmills’ Books… Stunning Spells…

Amber stopped in front of the spell shop, as she always did, and once again read the Help Wanted sign taped to the door, as she always did. With many exclamation marks and much misuse of quotation marks, the sign promised her an “exciting” position! with an “innovative” company! with many “opportunities” for promotion!

Amber considered the sinister connotations of the quoted words. The shop was just a small operation, and she knew exactly what opportunity consisted of: packed into a small backroom with four or five other magic users, churning out copy after copy of the same spell.

It was soul-crushing work, and Amber had already put in her time at such a place back in Ravin. The spells, she knew, would promise the world and deliver nothing. In their quest to be all-inclusive, they’d end up being vague and useless. Yet people kept buying these charms for finding misplaced items, fair weather, good luck, by the dozen.

But then, custom spells by licensed mages were expensive and beyond the reach of most people. A licensed mage could expect to make a comfortable living.

Licensed. There was the rub.

Amber wound her way between more streets and stopped when she realized that she was following her nose. A heavenly aroma of cinnamon and yeast had guided her this far; already her mouth watered in anticipation. Her stomach, protesting the reduced rations of the past three days, rumbled.

She couldn’t resist. Her feet took control and hurried her with unseemly haste to the source of the smell.

It was a café with large, gleaming windows, filled with all manner of cakes, pastries and breads. Amber’s gaze darted from flaky pastries covered in almonds to pies oozing with berry filling. A tall chocolate cake covered in sugar flowers and chocolate curls had her nearly swooning. Then she caught sight of a white cake, light and frothy, made of layers glued together with lemon filling, and whimpered.

A slight movement to her right. Amber looked down at an urchin next to her, his palms against the glass, the tip of his nose almost touching the window. His eyes were round and his mouth open. Hunger and yearning were written all over his face.

Amber realized that she mirrored his position, and quite probably, his expression. The urchin looked up at her. He was a sharp-featured fellow with a dirty face and a shock of unkempt hair the color of mud. Bony wrists stuck out from his too-small coat and his feet were wrapped in waxed paper. His eyes were young-old and he was probably a smooth liar and light-fingered thief.

He had to be, living on the streets in Hopeswell. This was the kind of kid that poor or drunk parents all too easily abandoned.

And yet, as their eyes met, a camaraderie flashed between them. They were united in their hunger and their desire, not for healthy stews and warm coarse bread, but for sinfully rich, lusciously sweet, bad-for-you-and-your-purse desserts.

Amber grinned at the boy. “Let’s not stand here gawking, all right? Let’s go eat.” Her fingers curled around the money-pouch in her pocket. There was enough. There had to be enough.

The urchin grinned back, revealing ill-kept teeth. Amber flung upon the door with unnecessary vigor, its bells jangling madly. The plump lady behind the counter looked up, face clouding, as Amber marched across the gleaming floor.

“I’ll have an apple past… no make that almond… no, both. An apple and an almond pastry. A big slice of the white cake. And he’ll have…” She put an expectant hand on the urchin’s shoulder.

Not slow on the uptake, the boy pointed to a cherry pie and a pile of sticky pink-sugar-coated buns.

“He’ll have a slice of the pie and two of the buns,” Amber went on. And before the woman could embarrass her, she pulled out her money pouch and asked, “How much will that be?”

Relieved that her customers were obviously intending to pay in good faith, the woman bustled around, putting the goodies in paper bags and became downright chatty. “What a miserable spring we’ve been having, eh…. Look, how hungry that poor mite looks… what a kind miss you are… that’ll be fifteen coppas, then.”

Amber let her expression go blank as she struggled to keep the dismay off her face. Parting with those fifteen coppas depleted her meager hoard pretty much down to a few coins—and they were not of high denominations. But she placed the money on the counter with an air of reckless bravado. She might end up on the streets tomorrow night, but by the Maker, she would eat good, rich food tonight!

The baker swiped the money into her cash-box with practiced swiftness, still talking. “Ah, I see you’re a mage, then, miss.”

Amber touched the blue and yellow band at her wrist, which more or less proclaimed her to be an unlicensed and nigh on unemployable mage. It was her shame, lumping her in with those of little talent or few ethics, or both.

She managed a smile. “Yes, ma’am.” The words came out with practiced cheerfulness and her look was open and direct. There’s nothing wrong with being a banded mage! I’m like all those other masons and metal workers looking for jobs. Nothing to be worried about here, at all.

The baker pursed her lips, looked at Amber out of shrewd, black eyes. Amber beamed back.

“We-ell,” said the baker. “I put in a spell against pests just the other day, but I’m scared that I didn’t do it right. Magic gives me the prickles, if you know what I mean.” She twitched her vast shoulders in a ripple that took several moments to make its way all over her body. The urchin watched, fascinated. “If you could give it a quick look later on–?”

“I’d be happy to,” Amber assured her. She gathered up the all-too-expensive goodies and retreated, urchin in tow, to a round marble-topped table in the corner.

Soon, the two were eating in companionable silence; the urchin with a sticky bun in each hand, alternating bites between the two. Amber put a creamy forkful of cake in her mouth, savoring the texture and taste. She was only halfway through when the urchin crammed the last of his cherry pie in his mouth, then sat eyeing her pastries.

“Here.” Amber pushed the almond pastry toward him. “I think my eyes are bigger than my stomach.” She felt slightly queasy. Perhaps the rich cake after her strict diet hadn’t been the best idea.

The urchin must have a cast-iron stomach. He inhaled the pastry. Amber looked idly out the window, let her magical senses reach out over the bakery. There were several small spells here, most of them felt as creamy and smooth as the lemon cake, fitting in and humming along usefully. The pest spell, though, was tight, hard knot, still coiled up into itself. The baker was right; she hadn’t set it properly and—Amber sighed—it wasn’t a very good one. In fact, none of the spells was of very high quality, but Amber knew she could fine-tune them fairly easily.

She could do it right now, sitting here, but Amber knew that it’d be more impressive if she put herself in a meditative pose later on, add a few sparkles to the process. She could charge a premium for the show, even though her integrity rebelled against it. She may not be a powerful mage with an impressive talent, but what she could do, she did very well, with minimum fuss. She was quick, quiet, and tidy.

Qualities better suited to a housemaid than a successful magic user, unfortunately.

However, she couldn’t just sit here now that she’d seen the mis-alignment of the bakery spell. Such imbalance ought to be criminal. Amber reached out with her magic. A twitch here, a tweak here, a little nudge to this spell and a harder shove to that one and—

Buttery-yellow lines shone in her mage-sight. Now the spells were actually talking to each other, reinforcing each other, set in a classic star-shaped pattern. It felt right. Amber felt a warm flush of pride. This was why she’d become a mage in the first place.

I do good work. Even if she did feel like she’d just broken into someone else’s house in order to wash the dishes and dust the china. I’ll save the sparkles for that pest spell, she promised herself.

And then she brought her focus back to the real world.

And startled.

There was a boy on the other side of the window and he was grinning at her. Unruly brown hair, peculiar gold eyes, and were those feathers trailing down behind his ear?

The boy cocked his head, yelled something over his shoulder. More boys came running up.

Amber felt a rush of relief. She hadn’t been caught red-handed, after all, illicitly pruning someone else’s rose bushes. He wasn’t looking at you, dummy. He’s staring at the FOOD.

Amber had three little brothers, all younger than the boy outside the window, but she had a healthy respect for masculine appetites.

Then the next moment, she was squeezing further into her corner, as the door crashed open and boys poured into the café in a stampede of feet and rush of voices. Round lights appeared in Amber’s vision; it took her a second to realize that her mage-sight was showing her the boys’ magic, spheres smooth and compact, and hidden from most other mages by well-formed shields.

Amber was not most mages.

“Look at those–!”

“… buns as big round as…”

“Nice job finding this place, Kael. Knew we could trust your nose.”

Amber’s urchin companion had slipped away in the crush, but Amber knew she wouldn’t be so lucky. She counted only five boys, ranging in age from early to late teens, but they seemed to take up all the space in the café. All of them wore sober clothes that gave the impression of being uniforms without being, well, obviously uniforms.

Boys from a magic school on some kind of field trip? Amber wondered. She had no idea why anyone would think Hopeswell a likely destination, and she couldn’t think of any magic schools nearby. She knew there were many in the islands and some dotted down the mainland coasts, but she had never made a study of them. Mama and Papa couldn’t afford them, and she didn’t have the impressive talent needed to secure a scholarship.

The boy with the feathers—Kael—leaned his hands on the counter and beamed at the bemused baker. “I’m starving,” he said, “and I can tell by the smell that this is the best bakery in Hopeswell. I’ll take one of everything.”

The poor-starving-boy-look and the flattery did their work. The baker melted into dimpled smiles, and her voice was motherly and indulgent. “You poor things. Came in on the evening train, did you? No good food there, that’s for sure.”

A chorus of assents rose up. “Only old sandwiches.” “I’m sure the cookies are made of concrete. I chipped a tooth on one.” “Wilted lettuce and limp chicken in my lunch.”

One of the boys had an insignia on his upturned collar. Amber stared it, trying to call up a name. She was just about to look away when another boy, this one tall and icy-eyed and bored-looking, caught her staring.

Amber flushed, looked down. The bored-looking boy whacked his companion on the head.

“Ow, what’d you do that for, Troi?” yelped the other.

“Turn down your collar, or you’ll have all the groupies after us,” said Troi in a contemptuous drawl.

He didn’t even bother to lower his voice! Why should I care which stupid magic school he’s from? Amber wanted nothing more but to flounce away, but Mr. High-and-Mighty stood right next to the door. Since she wanted no accidental contact with any part of him, she sat where she was, stared stonily at a rack of buns, and fumed silently.

Kael hadn’t been joking when he said he’d wanted one of everything. The baker bustled about, snatching food off shelves, and the piles on the counter kept growing. Boys rained coins on the counter, in a joyful abandon of coppas that made Amber wince. Already she was regretting her earlier extravagance. Her leftover lemon cake was sad and sagging. Moodily, she cut it to pieces with her fork.

The baker gave Amber a harried look as she reached for sticky buns. “Miss, that pest spell–?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll be right over.” Amber pushed plate away from her, pushed herself away from the table, and hurried over to the counter.

Just then Kael turned around, arms laden with baked goods.

Uh-oh. Great, crashing into a walking bakery is just what I need to cap this ridiculous day, flashed through Amber’s mind, but suddenly the boy was no longer in front of her, but passing her. His trailing feathers brushed against her cheek as she stared, stupefied. How’d he move so fast? I didn’t even see him change course.

“Hey, you want to help me eat some of this?” He waved a scone at her.

“No picking up strays,” called Troi.

Amber clenched her teeth and ducked behind the counter. The baker waved a hand vaguely. “Over there, dear.”

Amber squeezed past racks and into the kitchen. The pest spell was on a lower shelf; she crouched down and picked it up. Its physical form was a badly-cast ceramic blob with metal spikes sticking all over it. Someone had thought it a great idea to paint it purple, and the half-torn-off packaging read “…unning Spe…”

Troi said, “… two-coppa witch… they’re the worst.” Which was followed up with Kael saying, amiably, “Shut up or I’ll punch you.”

Amber activated the spell with an unnecessarily vigorous yank. Just as I thought, it’s a bloody useless generic spell. It’ll be lucky if it repels a fly. Mouth set tight, she stripped out parts of the spell and stabbed in more relevant runes. Then she pinched and pulled until she’d gotten it into shape, plugged it into her star-shaped pattern.

Without ruining the balance of the whole thing, thank you very much!

The baker looked in at her. “Ah, you got it working, didn’t you, dear? It’s glowing all right, just like the package said.”

It was indeed, glowing a violent purple. Amber smiled weakly. “Sure looks like it. But, I do have to warn you, ma’am, that these store spells will never be as good as custom ones. You should find a real mage to come and set spells designed for your shop.”

The baker made agreeing noises, but they both knew that she’d put it off until a situation arose.

Some people just have to learn the hard way.

“Will ten coppas be enough for your trouble? And take this bag of goods with you, dear. I won’t be able to sell them after tonight, anyhow.”

“Of course,” said Amber. I could’ve charged at least a hundred if I’d been licensed, for the same work. This cursed band! She put her hand in her pocket.

Wha–?

My money pouch is gone!

Amber dug through her other pocket, then the ones in her skirt, panic in her chest. The baker watched her knowingly, with a gleam of sympathy in her black-currant eyes. “Rascal boy made off with your money-pouch, didn’t he? It’s not worth being kind to those street rats.” She tut-tutted.

The urchin! No wonder he ran out of here so fast! Apparently, I have to learn the hard way, too.

“Thanks, ma’am,” said Amber weakly, stuffing the coppas in her pocket and putting the paper bag in the crook of her arm.

“And you can use the back door since it’s closer, too.” The baker was trying to spare her from any more of the haughty Troi’s remarks, Amber realized. Her anger had given way to a desperate worry. To her horror, she found tears weren’t far away. She nodded at the baker and hurried out of the kitchen.

Outside, the day had turned to night. Amber stood in an alleyway, blinking. A human presence intruded on her consciousness; she turned angrily to confront it.

“Hey, Odd Job Girl.” The man held out his hands and spoke in an annoying wheedling whine. “No need to get all zappy and zingy with me.”

“Waleem,” sighed Amber. “What do you want?” Waleem had been on receiving end of her only offensive spell. A true magic user and most brawlers would’ve laughed it off, but Waleem was neither smart nor brave. He had a kind of low cunning, though, that could be very useful—and Waleem had survived the streets by filling a niche, much as cockroaches did.

Now he pouted. “I’ve been waiting all evening for you to come out of there. That’s time slipping through my hand, one coppa at a time. Got a job that’s right up your alley. Unless”—he gave her a sly sideways look—“you don’t need the work?”

Amber thought of her stolen money pouch, the ten coppas in her pocket. “Spit it out, Waleem. I’m listening.”

friday fiction

This is a blast from the past! Back when I first started writing short stories, I dabbled in humorous fantasy. The phase didn’t last long, but one of the results is this short story about an unlikely group of heroes confronting the Dark Lord.

Prophecy’s End

When the heroes burst into the throne room of Castle Doom, they found Umbraga the Dark Lord seated upon his throne of skulls (padded to spare the Dark Lord’s backside), with the Staff of Immolation across his knees.

Prince Florizel squinted myopically at a piece of stained parchment covered in crabbed handwriting and addressed the Evil One. “You foul villain,” he read. “Your ring… sorry, reign… of terror is at an end. This day you shall polish… polish?” Deep frown lines appeared between the prince’s eyebrows. He wiped his sweaty forehead, gave Umbraga an apologetic smile and said, “Excuse me a moment.” There was whispered consultation with the rest of the party, opened by Florizel’s irate, “Damned royal bards!”

After a furious exchange, the heroes turned back to Umbraga, with identical expressions of steely resolve. Prince Florizel stepped forward. “Umbraga!” he proclaimed. “This day you shall pol… perish!”

The Dark Lord looked at the prince with an expression generally reserved for a zealous housewife confronted with a cockroach in her kitchen. “Hah!” he said. “I can only be defeated by one wielding the Sword of Invincibility!” His gaze traveled to the weapon in the prince’s hand. “Is that a poker I see?”

Prince Florizel (who was short, fat and balding), looked at the floor and muttered something.

“Excuse me?” said Umbraga, cupping a hand around his ear.

Florizel looked up defiantly. “We threw away the Sword of Invincibility.”

Umbraga’s eyebrows shot up. “Threw it away?”

A tall, middle-aged woman with a mane of chestnut hair liberally sprinkled with gray, pushed to the front. She had a long face that–if you were being kind–could only be called “striking”. Or “horsey”, depending on who you asked.

“Of course we did!” she brayed. “The wretched thing would start glowing and singing at the presence of any malefactors, which, of course, was all the time in the cities. We nearly got arrested for disturbing the peace, and I swear, they were forming a lynching mob in that last town. And then, up in the mountains, it kept us awake all night, singing heroic sagas. We took a vote and down the ravine it went. And a good riddance, I say.”

Umbraga turned his disbelieving stare towards her. “And who might you be?”

“I’m the prophesied princess, of course.” The woman gave him an exasperated stare. “Now, can we get on with this, please? My best mare is near her foaling time, and I want to be back before she gives birth.”

Umbraga’s thin-lipped mouth turned down primly. “I’m sorry. A poker cannot defeat the Dark Lord. Unless it’s the Poker of Much Hurting?” His tone was hopeful.

The woman gave a neighing laugh. “No, it’s just an ordinary poker. Give Florizel anything sharp and he’ll stab himself in the foot more like than not! Why, the Queen won’t even let him carve the Winter Solstice turkey anymore, even though it’s traditional for the…”

Florizel, red-faced, interrupted. “Do stop rattling on and on, Martha!”

Umbraga looked ready to faint. “Martha? Martha? What sort of prophesied-princess name is that? I’ve been confronted by Clarissas and Emelines and they were all young and beautiful, not like this hag over here.”

“There are no other princesses, so you’re stuck with me. We can’t all be young and beautiful, you know,” said Martha, reasonably, “especially after six children.”

“Six children?!” shrieked Umbraga, spittle spraying from his mouth. “The prophesied princess-companion must always be a virgin. You,” he stabbed a bony finger in Martha’s direction, “do not qualify!” Looking wildly about, he pointed at the burly man hovering behind Martha and Florizel.

“You!”

“Yes, sir?” said the man, touching his cap politely.

“What’s your name?”

“Conan, sir.”

Umbraga relaxed. “That’s a good solid barbarian name, at least.”

“Um,” began Conan, holding up his hand. “I’m not a barbarian. Sir. I’m a painter.”

One of Umbraga’s eyes whirled madly in its socket.

“I wanted to see the final confrontation,” said Conan hurriedly. “So I can paint it. For posterity. Well, actually for the Royal Art Society’s annual competition. They always get hundreds of pastoral scenes with rosy-cheeked shepherdesses and portraits of fat children with puppies.  I thought I’d do something different this time.” His words trailed away under Umbraga’s withering stare.

“And I suppose he’s really a pacifist tailor?” Umbraga jerked his head towards the fourth member of the party who had detached himself from the group and was gently orbiting around the room like a moon on vacation. He had flowing silver hair, eyes of cerulean blue, and well-made clothing that showed off an excellent figure. Occasionally, he made notes in a leather-bound silver-clasped book with a long white quill that curled elegantly at the end.

“His name is Elindorian Bright Moon,” volunteered Florizel. “He joined us three days ago. We’re quite sure he’s an elf. Or a bard. Maybe even both.” His brown spaniel eyes looked appeasingly at Umbraga, whose fingers clenched convulsively around the Staff of Immolation.

“He may be all right, but the rest of you!” said Umbraga, through gritted teeth. “What a sorry lot! Have you no respect for tradition, for custom, for Ancient Prophecies that Must be Fulfilled to Every Tiny Jot?” Conan and Florizel drew closer together under the blast of his scorn.

“Never have I seen such a motley, ill-prepared, ill-equipped set of would-be heroes! Does Good not train its Chosen Ones anymore? I have risen and been defeated twenty-five times in the last thousand years…”

“Twenty-nine,” interrupted Martha. “You’ve been defeated twenty-nine times.”

“I am never defeated a prime number number of times!” shrieked Umbraga.

While Florizel and Conan tried to work this out, Martha said. “Oh yes, you are. You had to go through nineteen to get to twenty five. And it’s the last thousand and one years. We’d have come last year but we had to find Florizel first. He ran away from home when he found out about this Chosen One business and hid in a brewery for six months. And when we finally found him, we had to pry him loose from his barrels of Ostenian beer.”

“Martha!” complained Florizel. “Do you have to dredge up ancient history all the time?”

“Chosen Ones do not run away from their Destiny!” blared Umbraga. He stood up, towering over the heroes, the Staff held out stiffly before him. Florizel and Conan cringed, Martha’s lips tightened. “I see that I must take things into my own hands, since Good is doing such a useless job of it. I shall have to train you.”

They turned horrified looks at him.

“You, Prince Florizel, will lift weights and run five miles every day. You will be permitted only stale bread and cold water. My Right-Hand Almost-Supreme Commander will instruct you in the use of the sword and the bow. You will retrieve the Sword of Invincibility from whichever ravine you pitched it in. The Princess Martha will get a complete make-over. Hair dye, manicure, new clothing, and three hours in deportment every morning. And as for the painter…” He drew in a deep breath.

They were not fated to know what delights Umbraga had in store for Conan. Just then, a lump of stone fell from the ceiling and landed with a thunk on Umbraga’s head. The Dark Lord’s eyes crossed. The Staff clattered to the floor. Umbraga tumbled headfirst down the dais steps to lie in a crumpled heap on the floor.

The trio stared at the Dark Lord’s body in stunned silence. Elindorian Bright Moon drifted over in a cinnamon-scented cloud and placed a hand on Umbraga’s chest.

“Dead,” he pronounced.

“Um?” began Conan, just as Martha said, “I gathered as much from that awkward angle of the neck.”

“I thought only the Sword of Invincibility could defeat him,” said Florizel. He whipped out a handkerchief as Conan once again uttered an “Um?” which was lost in Florizel’s giant sneeze.

“Damnit, Elindorian, must you wear that scent?” said Florizel, eyes tearing. “You know I’m allergic to it.”

“UM?” said Conan, louder. The others looked to see him pointing up at the ceiling. They looked up.

After a bit, Martha said, “It doesn’t look too stable, does it?”

Elindorian examined the enormous wax-covered blackened-iron chandelier hanging over their heads by a chain that was slowly working loose from the ceiling. “No. The whole building’s in utter disrepair, and Umbraga never heeded the warnings of the Department of Housing Safety. I came to deliver the property condemnation papers.”

As if to prove a point, the entire structure groaned alarmingly.

“Shall we?” suggested Elindorian.

There was a mad rush for the door.

#

Four figures stood outlined against the sunrise, watching the collapse of Castle Doom from a convenient hilltop.

After the dust had settled, Martha said to Elindorian. “We thought you were a bard.”

Elindorian flicked a piece of lint from his elegant sleeve. “I was once. Bureaucracy pays better.”

Martha looked back down at the ruined heap. “I wonder what Umbraga will do when he returns. A Dark Lord needs a moldering old castle, and there’s not many of them left since they went out of style centuries ago.”

Elindorian stifled a yawn. “I doubt that it will be a matter of any concern in the future. Umbraga will not return.”

“But he always does,” protested Florizel. “He’s indestructible.”

“Only because the Sword of Invincibility decapitates him without banishing his soul out of the world,” said Elindorian. “Crumbling castles, on the other hand, are not that subtle.”

The other three digested this in silence.

“Why, that…” said Florizel.

“Quite so.” Elindorian gave him an understanding smile.

Martha gave a cracking yawn. “Well, it’s a good thing we threw it away then. Let’s go home. Who knows what the servants are doing without me to supervise. Walter’s a dear, but he’ll let anyone walk all over him. And Firefly needs me with her.” After a thoughtful pause, she added, “I expect the children will be glad to see me, too.”

Florizel’s eyes grew misty. “Mother was expecting a shipment of ’34 wine when we left. It ought to have come by now. Yes, we’d better hurry back before she serves it all up to those jumped-up courtiers of hers.”

“I wonder if a Crumbling Castle painting will impress the judges?” mused Conan. “I’ll add lightning in the background, and just a hint of dragon wings. And robes flapping in the wind as the hero battles the Dark Lord…”

The figures disappeared down the hill.

#

In the cold dark waters of the river, the Sword drifted, dreaming of flaming dragon’s breath and marching armies upon vast plains.

One day, the Chosen will come. And together we’ll set the world on fire. Our names will blaze across the sky, our fame will make the nations tremble.

How long it dreamed, it never knew. A hand parted the waters above it, grasped its hilt. The Sword thrilled to the strong fingers, the manly clasp.

“What’s this, then, Anron?” yelled a coarse voice from further away. A peasant voice. The Sword disdained it.

The man named Anron had a voice like dark honey and cold steel. “A sword, Pilel,” he said. The voice reminded the Sword of the great heroes who’d wielded it. This man would be greater than any of them.

Pilel snorted. “What good’s a sword with Umbraga dead and gone?”

“No good at all,” said Anron. “But I always need metal for plowshares.”

friday fiction

This is the last of the children’s classics-inspired flash fiction pieces–for now. Of all the many, many books I read and reread to my children, the original is one of my favorites. Don’t be fooled by the title: the Tolkien allusion starts and ends there!

Return of the King

Max crept into the house, dropped his backpack with a weary thud, and scraped off his sneakers.

“That you, hon?” his mother called from the kitchen. “Supper’ll be ready soon.”

Max paused, hand clenched on the stair rail. “I’ll be down in a moment, Mom.”

He trudged up the stairs he had once bounded down, back when every day was an adventure. At the top, he staggered into his childhood room and collapsed on the bed.

He was sore all over. The ache had even gotten into his bones, if that were possible. He lay back and stared at the popcorn ceiling.

Twenty-two years old, and he was back in his parents’ house. He had a degree in ecology no one would hire him for. He worked in a warehouse, lifting and loading, pushing and pulling. Even his blisters had blisters.

Worst of all was how numb the work made him feel. By the time he came home, his mind was blank. He’d eat, watch mindless TV, go to bed. Rinse and repeat the next day. All his bright ideas of evening school and certifications? Out the window.

His parents had said, “Once you’re used to it…”

The timber wolf on his wall stared gravely at him through a screen of green leaves. The poster had a tear in it and had come free at one corner. The other three were thick with tape.

He’d been crazy about wolves, once upon a time. This worse-for-the-wear poster was the last remnant of that obsession.

It was probably time to take it down.

The wolf’s yellow eyes looked at him reproachfully. It seemed to be saying, What happened to you? You were so full of energy, once.

Life happened, Max answered in his own head.

You can change life. The wolf’s eyes glowed.

The room darkened and sprouted strange shapes. Vines slithered from the ceiling and wrapped over the scratched-up desk and dusty, crowded bookcases. Leaves rustled as they spread over Max’s bed. His window and wall faded, revealing a moonlit path

Max slowly stood up. His bare feet struck damp earth. He breathed in the scent of rain, soil, and growing things.

I remember this.

He wandered down the path, wondering, pausing to touch a fern, stroke his fingers down rough bark. At a bend, he nearly stepped on a pile of worn grayish fabric. Max picked it up and shook it out. A head with glassy eyes and toothless mouth flopped around.

Ah, yes. His wolf suit.

It wouldn’t fit him now. Max flung it about his shoulders like a scarf.

Further along, he saw something shiny and stick-like in a bush. Max pulled it out: a toy scepter topped with a flaking gilt ball. He tucked it under his arm, as the wind brought salt to his lips and a sigh to his ears.

He hurried out of the forest and onto the rocky beach. There was the boat, which had once seemed so luxurious, a private ship for his exclusive use. Now the paint was chipped and the wood splintery. He pushed it out, waves sucking at his ankles and soaking his jeans to his knees. It listed alarmingly as he scrambled in.

Under the seat, he found the yellow paper crown, stained, with its points folded down. He jammed it on his head and said out loud to the world, “Set sail, mates!”

The ocean rolled him onward. It took both forever and no time at all when he sighted land—just as the wild things sighted him.

They watched him come with grumbles and fidgets. They saw him land out of narrowed eyes. Their fur was matted and their scales dull. Max jumped out of the boat and hailed them.

The wild things roared their terrible roars—which were feeble—and rolled their terrible eyes—which were dull—and showed their terrible claws—which were blunted.

“Be still!” Max said sternly, staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once. The magic still worked. The wild things cowered, with many mutterings.

“You need a bath,” he informed them. “You stink.”

Silence, broken only by a head toss, a snort.

Max grinned. “But before that, let’s feast and have a wild rumpus! Just like old times!”

“Max!” they cried, rushing forward. “Are you really back?”

Max glanced down at himself. The old costume had become a real pelt, the crown was a circlet of gold, and the stick had transformed into a sword. He looked above the wild things, above the tree tops of the forest beyond them, to the mountains that soared into the sky.

What adventures lay on the other side?

“Yes,” said Max, softly, smiling. “I’m back.”

  • Go to page 1
  • Go to page 2
  • Go to Next Page »

Primary Sidebar

  • Email
  • Pinterest
  • RSS
  • Twitter

Join the Mailing List

I send out monthly newsletters, and share some special content with subscribers only. Join me!

(Required)
This field is for validation purposes and should be left unchanged.

Search

Latest Release

Mist and Memory

A sinister and shadowy organization. The young mages who oppose it. The hunt for ancient relics has begun. Cloud Village Arc: Lisette never thought she would return to the mountains she fled as a child. But when Tamsin, a Heartwood alumna, invites Amber, Naia, and her on a job in the area, Lisette figures it’s [read more] about Mist and Memory

Recent Posts

Afterthoughts: Witchblaze

January 31, 2021 8 Comments

A YA anime-inspired web serial

April 30, 2019 Leave a Comment

The Darkest Days Fantasy Bundle

July 10, 2018 Leave a Comment

Now Out: Ghostlight

May 31, 2018 Leave a Comment

Categories

© 2023 Rabia Gale | All Rights Reserved | Design by Robin Cornett | Header Artwork by David Revoy: Used with permission | Privacy Policy