#FridayFlash: Miss Siles

There’s been a spate of posts lately, criticizing how women are drawn in comic books. I join the dog-pile…

Our newscaster was featured earlier in Captain Heroic’s Last Hurrah, if you were wondering.

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“Time for Channel 14 News, Skyscraper City’s finest and fastest news source! I’m Rudy Bass. Tonight, we lead off with breaking news at City Hall. We go now to Channel 14 On the Scene with Montana Rack. Montana?”

Cut to: exterior, City Hall steps. Montana Rack, mike in hand. “Thanks, Rudy. A new superhero has come to Skyscraper City! This ViewerCam-14 footage was just sent in by high school student Philip Wright, who happened to be on the scene at Fountain of Progress Square.”

Cut to: wild tilt and pan, a cellphone camera moved too quickly. Sounds: police whistles, running feet, growing babble. Montana voiceover: “Watch what happens.” A woman in spandex, with an impossibly large chest, moves across the scene. The camera follows her.

A man runs onto the scene, carrying a purse, looking over his shoulder. The woman jumps and spins, striking him in the head with her chest. The fleeing man flies backwards, landing on his back. He does not move. Youthful voice, presumably Philip Wright: “Holy bleeeeep! That’s gonna leave a mark!” View goes wild again, approaching the fallen man.

Cut to: Montana. “Thank you, Philip, for sending that in. We’ll be sending him a ViewerCam-14 tee-shirt and matching cap. And now, with another Channel 14 exclusive, we’re here with the heroine of the day: Miss Siles!” Camera zooms out to show Miss Siles next to Montana. She wears a tight blue spandex outfit. Logo: two rockets in flight. “Miss Siles, is it true that you have just registered as Skyscraper City’s newest superhero?”

“That’s right, Montana. I’m here to fight for truth and justice!” Camera slowly zooms in on Miss Siles, then tilts down. “Criminals beware, because you just might be the next one to get: busted!” Chest sways threateningly. Camera zooms out quickly. Montana gives camera an annoyed look, then puts on her smile. “What else can you say? This is Montana Rack, Channel 14 on the Scene. Rudy?”


Montana nods, then removes her earpiece. She glares again at the cameraman. “Kyle, that was so unprofessional. I thought you were gay!”

“Sorry,” Kyle mumbles, and carries his camera to the van.

“It’s not his fault,” says Miss Siles. “Just one of my superpowers.”

Montana laughs. “How do you do it? I’m a big girl, nothing like you of course, but I get backaches all the time. Where do you get your bras?”

“I don’t need one. That’s another one of my superpowers.”

Montana grins. “I hate you.”

“I hate you, too. You’re dating Captain Heroic, right?” They laugh together.

“What other superpowers do you have?” Montana asks.

“The Pose.” Miss Siles thrusts her chest forward, her hips back, and twists. Kyle sits down, hard. “I could have stopped that purse-snatcher in his tracks with that one, but he was looking back. I had to take more direct action.”

“Wow. This is off the record, of course: do you have a secret identity?”

Miss Siles laughs. “Are you kidding? Honey, there ain’t no concealing these weapons!” They laugh together again. “I’ve been offered some serious money to do porn, though.”

“You and me both,” says Montana. “Here’s my card. Call me any time, if you have something newsworthy to say. Or if you just want to chat. We can have coffee or something.”

#FridayFlash: The Traveler

Here’s another fairy tale from the world of Accidental Sorcerers. This time, a young Mik hears a story…

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Mother came to the bed. “Why aren't you asleep yet?”

“I can't sleep,” said Mik, throwing back his thin summer blanket. “Why do I have to spend the whole summer at the ranch?”

“We’ve talked about this already, Mik, you and your father and I. You’re ten years old now, and you need to do more things than help me with the bakery. Three years will go by before you know it, and then you’ll be an apprentice. Boys who know how to do more things have the best chances.”

“I know that, Mother. But Aunt Morcati… scares me.” He hesitated, his eyes growing wide in the dim candlelight. “Some of the other boys say she’s part goblin!”

Mother chuckled. “Think about it, Mik. Your aunt is your father’s sister. So if she’s part goblin, so is he! And you’d be part goblin too! Do you think that?”

Mik gave a nervous laugh. “That makes sense. But I’m still scared about this.”

“That’s natural—new things are often frightening.” Mother sighed. “Maybe this will help. After tonight, you’ll be too big for bedtime stories, but tonight? One last time.” She began:

• • •

Source: Wikimedia Commons

Once, in the time of Camac That Was, a stranger traveled to Stolevan—which was the name of Queensport in the old days. He was a big man, a South Sea Islander, and folk feared his outlandish looks. On a dark, stormy night, he found himself in a small town. The tavern was closed, so he went to the house of the village chief.

“I seek only supper and a bed,” he told the servant who let him in. “I will gladly pay for your master’s trouble.”

But when the chief saw the traveler, he shouted at his servant. “Sh’ow! Why did you let that dark giant in? He could plunder my house! Get him out, before I throw you into the rain with him!” The traveler, seeing he was unwelcome, turned and departed.

Next, he knocked on the door of a merchant. The merchant said, “You devil, you will surely knife me in my sleep and carry off my daughters,” and slammed the door.

Then the traveller went to the house of a poor man. “All I seek is supper and a bed,” he said. “I will gladly pay you for your trouble.”

The poor man feared the strange man’s size and outlandish dress, yet he said, “Come in, then. We have little food and no spare bed, but it is not right to turn folk away on such a night.”

They sat down to the table. The poor man and his wife thought, “We will all go to bed a little hungry tonight,” but somehow there was enough for all to eat their fill. The traveler was well-spoken, and complimented his hosts on their fine cooking. Soon, they were all at ease.

After supper, the poor man offered the traveller his chair, and the children sat before him. “A story?” they begged. “Tell us about the Southern Ocean!”

The traveller smiled, and sat on the floor with the children. He thrilled them with the most outlandish tales, which may have after all been stories of his everyday life. The family cat curled up on the stranger’s lap and slept as he told his stories. He refused to allow his hosts to give up their beds, but unrolled a straw mat and slept before the fire.

In the morning, the small breakfast again proved more than enough for all. Then the traveler took his leave, saying, “I shall speak of you to my family when I return home, of your hospitality and friendship offered to strangers.” The poor man and his wife bowed and bid him to stay with them again should he ever return, for they had truly enjoyed his visit.

From that day on, the poor man’s garden was the envy of the village. And no matter how little the wife had to cook, there was always plenty of food on the table. In time, the poor man’s children grew up; one became an innkeeper and the other a storyteller, and they prospered as well as anyone can in a small village. For you see, the stranger was a messenger of the gods, and the gods bless all who show favor to the messengers among us.

• • •

“Do you understand why I told you this story?” Mother asked.

“I think so,” said Mik. “I don’t have to be scared of everything different, right?”

“You’re a bright lad. You won’t have to be a roustabout like your father, unless you find you like the work. But sometimes, I feel like your destiny is far beyond Lacota. Good night, son. Sleep well.”

Mik did indeed sleep. That night, for the first time, he dreamed of flying over a vast winter landscape.

#TuesdaySerial: On the Wide River #6 (Accidental Sorcerers Season 3)

And we come to the end…

Season 1 • Season 2
Season 3: Episode 1 • Episode 2 • Episode 3 • Episode 4 • Episode 5

---

Accidental Sorcerers
Season 3, Episode 6
On the Wide River

“So what happened?” asked Sura, as Bailar drank down the last cup of tea.

“Between us—with a little help from Cohodas, no doubt—we invoked the Principle of Closure and ended Storm Cloud’s spell. I stayed on a few more days, in hopes the road would dry out. But I grew uncomfortable under the adulation of Enzid and the folk he stirred, and feared retaliation by the former powers, so I bought passage with a north-going merchant. I have taken the river to Queensport ever since.” Bailar shook his head. “Do you understand now why I’m so leery of weather magic, Mik? It is Chaos magic, not Water magic. There are laws and principles that govern it like everything else, but there are too many of them for a mere human to understand, let alone control.”

Mik nodded. “So this Storm Cloud thought he could work weather magic?”

“Indeed. He was infamous at the Conclave. He believed that the inner mind—what folk call instinct—could grasp the principles of Chaos magic. Of course, no matter what weather he tried to call forth, it was always rain that answered him. With vigor. And in this case, the local deity magnified his usual results into a mighty curse. This too is a hazard of Chaos magic—the happenstance that a Power uses to bring down a curse is quite often its result.”

“Father,” said Sura, “why have you never told me this story before?”

Bailar smiled. “The last time we passed this way, you were daughter and attendant. Now you—and Mik—are apprentices, bonded after a fashion.” The youths blushed. “Mik, you spoke truer than you knew when you said there are other kinds of magic. It has been long observed that many sorcerers are the children of farmers. I myself am one. The ability to grow crops, often when all conditions are contrary, may well be a kind of magic. There are soothsayers, like our friend Aborsa—and enchanters, of course. But remember, most enchanters are not like Ahm Kereb. Witches are concerned with Nature and some of the edges of Chaos magic.

“Emotions are a sort of Chaos magic as well. That is why spells to manipulate emotions can go wrong in so many ways. And… and love, of course. So I tell you this story to warn you of several things.”

Mik gave a nervous laugh. “I think I understand.”

“Not completely. The Conclave is concerned about our dwindling numbers. As first-year apprentices, nothing should be said to you this year. But, as you grow older and your skills develop, there will be… pressures. The atmosphere at the Conclave is a reflection of those pressures.” Bailar looked through the walls, all the way to Queensport, thinking about a letter he had already received.

“Pressures?”

“As I said, nothing you need worry about this year.” Bailar paused. “Listen.”

“I don’t hear anything,” said Sura.

“The rain has stopped. On its own, of course.” The mentor smiled. “I think I’ve reminisced enough for one evening. You are dismissed for the day. Go enjoy what’s left of it. We have three more days, perhaps four, before we reach Queensport.”


Shafts of sunlight found their way through the overcast, splotching the rice fields across the river. Mik and Sura sat comfortably close together on Mik’s cloak, backs against the cabin wall. They shared a supper platter that Sura had made for them as they watched spots of sunlight blaze and fade on the farther shore.

“It’s so quiet,” said Sura.

“The crew got shore leave in Mosvil.” Mik grinned. “Most of the other passengers are in town too. I guess they’ll find something to do.”

“I’m glad Father didn’t take up Enzid on that offer.” Enzid had sent word, offering a suite for Bailar and his apprentices on very favorable terms, but Bailar politely declined. “It was nice, being off this barge for a while, but now? Everyone else is gone and we have it to ourselves.”

“I know what you mean.” Mik looked at Sura. “It doesn’t matter where I am. As long as I’m with you. I—I—”

“What?”

Mik looked down. “I wonder what the mentor meant by pressures. At the Conclave, I mean.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure he’ll tell us when we need to know.”

He shrugged and put his arms around her. “You’re right. There’s not much to look at out there, now. Maybe we should work on our… Chaos magic.”

Sura giggled and returned the embrace. The barge grew quiet in the deepening twilight.

Here ends Season 3.
Season 4, “At the Conclave,” is coming soon!

#FridayFlash: Ghosts in a Can

“Your qualifications look good, Paul,” said Cynthia Bluefield, glancing at the document in her desk. “Everything checks out there. Just one problem.”

Paul Temberson blinked and frowned, but looked out her synth-window at Tranquility Base for a couple seconds. Deimos Recycling needed him more than he needed them, and this HR flack knew it. But it wouldn’t do to piss her off too much; she might spite her own company to score a point. “A problem? What?”

“You checked ‘Other’ for Religion and wrote down ‘none.’ Our application has checkboxes for ‘Unaffiliated’ or ‘Atheist,’ if they apply.” She drummed four fingers on the edge of the desk, then tapped the icon that brought up his application. “We can fix that right now, if you’d like to change it. Then we can move on to some other paperwork.”

“Oh. I was going to ask about that,” said Paul. “I thought it was illegal to ask for religious affiliation, but I didn’t want to raise a fuss about it.”

Cynthia pursed her lips for a moment. He hasn’t done his research, she thought. “Actually, for us it’s the opposite.” She tapped at her desk for a moment. “Not only is it legal for us to ask, it’s a legal obligation. Here’s the governing regs. I’m surprised you haven’t read them already.” She pushed the icon across the desk, giving it a two-fingered twist. It opened, the corners throwing off sparkles and eddies, which annoyed her. “Section three dot four, paragraph six.” Pulling up the messenger, she tapped @IT - did you upgrade my desktop and not restore prefs? Plain theme, please. Sparkly isn’t professional.

“Huh,” he said, tapping the document closed and pushing it back across the desk. “I wouldn’t have believed it. I did my homework, but never expected that in the regs. So why do you have to ask?”

“Because we can’t put atheists on a salvage crew.”

“What?”

“Yup. Insurers won’t cover that situation, and they got the government to update the regs so we’re covered.”

“But why?” Paul looked truly curious.

Cynthia leaned back in her chair. This was always the hard part. “Before you recycle a can, you have to take care of the ghosts.”

He looked baffled. “Ghosts. You mean like stealth hackware?”

She sighed. “I mean ghosts. The spirits of dead humans that haven’t moved on.”

“You’re serious,” he said after a long pause. “But what do ghosts have to—and what difference does it make?”

“This is something the government and the corps don’t like to talk about,” said Cynthia. “You can imagine why. But cans—orbital habitats—are abandoned after a few decades simply because the ghosts get to be too much to deal with. It’s something about dying in micro-gee. Habitats on the moon, Mars, even larger asteroids, don’t have that problem.”

“Well, you can change me to Unaffiliated.” Paul nodded. “But why do atheists have problems?”

“Because when faced with proof of an afterlife, a few of them lose it. Anything from nervous breakdowns to full-blown psychoses. The vast majority adjust their beliefs, but there are enough problems that insurers just don’t want to deal with it.” Cynthia tapped at the application.

“Okay, I can see that,” said Paul. “You hear things, especially from people from out past Mars, but you put it down to sendep. Sorry, sensory deprivation.”

A message popped up: Sorry. We’ve adjusted your prefs. Rebooting now.

“Not now!” Cynthia growled, then looked up at Paul. “Sorry. IT just rebooted my desktop.”

Paul laughed. “That’s one reason I’d like to take this job. Trank’s nice, but you don’t have to deal with flakes like that in orbit. Everyone’s watching out for everyone else.”

“Right. So when my desktop comes back, I can access the offer letter. You’ll need to pick a crew whose spiritual advisor is compatible with your beliefs, but we have most of the major rituals represented. The spirit guides—the ones who actually help the ghosts move on—are either Tibetan or Native American. But your interactions with them will be at a professional level.” She stood and stretched her hand across the desk. “Welcome to Deimos Recycling, Mr. Temberson. We’re looking forward to having you on one of our crews.”

#TuesdaySerial: On the Wide River #5 (Accidental Sorcerers Season 3)

When we left off last week, Bailar had fallen in the mud that was the main street of Mosvil…

Season 1 • Season 2
Season 3: Episode 1 • Episode 2 • Episode 3 • Episode 4

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Accidental Sorcerers
Season 3, Episode 5
On the Wide River

Bailar gave a deep sigh and emptied his cup. Sura poured more, and he continued:

I entered the nearest tavern, expecting to be thrown out until I could clean up, but Enzid had heard me as well as Heaven. He hailed me as the savior of Mosvil, even as the rain began anew. Still, he was helpful. What few clothes I had were washed and dried by a fire. I got a hot bath, a hot meal, and a very good bed. He has seen to my needs as I travel by or through Mosvil, ever since.

Enzid believed that Mosvil was under a curse. He may well have some Talent, because when I read the ashes that night I saw both Moon and Fate. In such readings, the Moon indicates a curse, but Fate a happenstance. The two appear together often; it means an unrelated occurrence has become the agent of the curse. To lift such a curse, you must remove both the cause and the agent. Only one is not sufficient. I agreed to help, more because I had no wish to continue walking in that rain than out of any duty I felt.

In such matters, it can often be helpful to visit both temporal and spiritual powers of the area. But Willetoi the priest was unhelpful and the mayor—whose name escapes me—would not even grant me an audience. It was thus natural to suspect that the deeds of both men, separately or together, brought down the curse.

Again, Enzid was a great help. He was outraged at the news, and spread word to his fellow townsmen. Within a day, I was invited to be their honored guest at the mayor’s house. After introductions, the tea and cakes, all the trappings of politesse, at long last we began to discuss the matter at hand.

“You have come to help us?” Strass—that was the mayor’s name—asked me.

“I was not sent to help, I have only been caught up in the matter,” said I. “But since I am here? I will do what I can. My augury suggests a curse has been laid upon the entire town. That would happen only if a great injustice were caused by a mob, or the folk turned away from your local deity, or if the local powers were especially corrupt.” Being young, my diplomacy was as clumsy as my footing, but I saw that I had offended them. “Or one near to the local powers, of course, acting in their name.”

They looked at each other. I don’t think it had occurred to them that they could have thrown an underling on the dung-cart. Many more words were spoken, but very little was said beyond ruling out any general sin of the folk.

“Very well,” Willetoi said at last. “Perhaps you can join us at this time tomorrow. I shall make the necessary preparations, and we will join together in a Call to Prophecy. With the help of Cohodas, we may learn what or who is behind this, and what must be done.”

I agreed, wondering if he had in mind to falsify the prophecy and sacrifice an underling—or me. The thought that he was truly sincere and innocent did not inspire much confidence. But a Call to Prophecy requires one to focus, to put doubts of all kinds out of mind beforehand.

And so I returned at the appointed time, ready to hear. It was… very strange. The power came down, and the three of us spoke as one. They struggled—you could see it on their faces—but Cohodas the local deity had his say:

“You are the men, Strass and Willetoi, who have brought the curse on your people. For you have stolen that which the people give for the benefit of all, to enrich yourselves. You have curried favor with those who might enrich you further, and ignored the pleas of the poor. Your positions are forfeit, and you shall return all you have stolen. Upon pain of the Nine Plagues, you shall begin your work of recompense by sunset tomorrow and finish before the next full moon.”

Willetoi tried to bluff his way out. “You!” he pointed at me. “You controlled us, put those words in our mouths!”

“Do you truly believe that?” I answered. “Only the most powerful sorcerer can compel a man to speak falsehood, and I am but days out of apprenticeship. And raw and young as I am, I do know that only a deity may bring down the Nine Plagues.”

“That is true,” said Strass, looking back and forth like a trapped animal. “But there is responsibility, and there is responsibility, no? I am but a government official. Willetoi is a servant of the deity. And thus, if it is the deity who spoke, is not the greater blame upon that deity’s servant?”

“What—you are as culpable as I!” Willetoi shouted. “Whose name was spoken first? Who was it that arranged—and we are speaking of a wandering sorcerer’s falsehood—”

“It was not he who spoke, and we all know it,” said Strass. “I will not risk the Nine Plagues to preserve either your position or dignity. Nor my own, for that matter. I will begin to make an account of myself at once. But I am sure my burden is the lighter one.”

The two continued to bicker among themselves, attempting to shift or re-proportion the blame, and I departed. The Moon was now satisfied, and Cohodas had told me where to find Fate. I walked through the pouring rain, and barely felt it. In those few minutes, I was more sure of foot then than I have been before or since. Finally, I arrived at a boarding house near the river. I entered, climbed a stair, walked to a certain door, and opened it. Behind it, a man stood watching the rain, open book in hand. He turned to face me.

“Bailar!” he tossed the book aside to greet me. “A blue sash? You passed, then! What brings you here?”

“Storm Cloud. I should have known. As to what brings me, it was you—or rather, what you wrought.”

Bailar looked into his empty cup, then gave his apprentices a wan smile. “Telling this story has been thirsty work. Pour me one more.”

continued…

#FridayFlash: The Ultimate Disclaimer

A parody… or is it?

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#TuesdaySerial: On the Wide River #4 (Accidental Sorcerers, Season 3)

Why didn’t Bailar want to go into town? He begins to explain.


Season 1 • Season 2
Season 3: Episode 1 • Episode 2 • Episode 3

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Accidental Sorcerers
Season 3, Episode 4
On the Wide River

Enzid indeed arranged for a porter to carry their purchases down-bluff, on very favorable terms, and accepted Bailar’s money with some protest. With their provisions delivered and stowed away, and the captain occupied with his own cargo, Bailar invited his apprentices into the cabin he shared with the captain. He poured tea for them and smiled.

“You did well,” he said. “Mind you, though: many merchants will try to overcharge you, not give away their goods. Something to remember next time.”

“Enzid said you saved Mosvil,” said Mik, “but he was busy and I never had a chance to ask him about that. What did you do?”

“And he spoke so highly of you,” said Sura. “I can understand you not wanting to walk that muddy path, but why not ride up in that basket?”

Mik nodded. “Or—I don’t know—couldn’t you stop the rain? Isn’t that Water magic?”

To Mik’s surprise, Bailar gave him a horrified look. His mentor quickly recovered, sipping his tea. “I was expecting this. He gave us much better tea than I’d ordered.” The sorcerer sighed. “Mik, weather magic is—it’s one reason I’m not that fond of Mosvil. Especially in the rain. It happened when I was much younger, just out of my apprenticeship.” He drained his cup, sighed again, and began.

The Royal Highway follows the Wide River, along its west bank, from Queensport to the Captain Rietha Bridge. That was the bridge we passed under yesterday. From there, it follows the east bank on past Exidy. Perhaps at one time it ended at the ruin that was once Vlis, but it still reaches the Deep Forest. There it leaves behind the headwaters of the Wide and fades away. Where the river bends away from the road, the road continues straightaway.

East bank or west, once away from Queensport, maintenance is haphazard at best. Each town keeps up its own stretch—or not. In those days, Mosvil left such matters to the Queen, which meant broken or stolen paving stones were not replaced quickly if ever. If not for the monument markers along the way, the road’s very path might sometimes be in doubt.

Thus, when it rains, the way can soon become mud. And this particular rain was… unnatural. It had—well, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I left Queensport under somewhat of a cloud myself. Gilsen the White, the former Sorcerer of Exidy, was my mentor. He did the best he could with the poor student I was, and it was barely enough. We had traveled by road to the Conclave that year, the year of my testing. I earned my sash, but it was a close thing. Then Gilsen died before we had a chance to return home. Knowing his time had come, his last act was to write two letters, one to me and one to the Conclave. Among other things, he left me excellent advice along with all his worldly goods, and specifically requested that I be installed as Sorcerer of Exidy in his place.

The Protectors were reluctant—one openly questioned whether I’d poisoned my own mentor—but the only way they could deny such a request was either by my failing the test or their proving foul play on my part. While my passing score was the lowest possible, I had indeed passed, and it was soon established that Gilsen had died of old age. Natural causes. To be honest, I shared their reluctance about my taking the position so quickly, but like them I would not deny my mentor’s last request.

A proper funeral for a sorcerer takes time, as do the arrangements for installing a successor. Thus, it was several more weeks before I took up the reins of what was now my wagon and set my face north for home. Things began to go badly soon after: bandits stole my ox and wagon one night, so I continued on foot. Travelers coming south began to warn of incessant rains around Mosvil, and how the road was near impassable.

I found the rain—or it found me—a day’s walk from Mosvil. Of course, conditions being what they were, that day’s walk took three days. Meals were cold, when I ate at all. My cloak stopped shedding rain, so I left it behind. Soon I rolled up my clothes and walked in a loincloth, as mobility was more important than modesty. No one else was about anyway. It was summer, and the rain was warm.

So imagine this: incessant rain above, incessant mud beneath. The bandits had only done sooner what the mud would have done later. Other wagons stood abandoned along the way, and I took shelter beneath them to rest. And just as I thought how lucky I’d been to not fall in the mud…

Sura clapped her hand over her mouth. “You tripped.”

“I did. And after I spit out a mouthful of mud, I lifted my face and fist to the sky and swore an oath that even Captain Chelinn might have been proud of. I cursed the mud, and those who shirked their responsibility to keep up the road. I cursed the rain, and the sky that dropped it. And the rain stopped. Only then did I realize I stood inside the Mosvil gates, near-naked and covered in mud.”

continued…

#FridayFlash: Secret War of the Birds

Wing Commander Hollowquill wasted no time when she heard the "in-coming! in-coming!" alert from the forward observers. She hadn't felt it yet, but it was only a matter of time. She readied the defenses.

The air grew crowded with the racket from the observers, but… there. A disturbance in the magnetic field, invaders coming from beyond the sky. In other places, Eagles defended the world from the invaders, but this was Hollowquill's territory. Her sensitive magnetic sensors pinpointed the invaders' path down. She trained her laser, leading just a little, and fired.

Walking below, a human looked around at the "tschuu tschuu tschuu" sound. Down the block, other birds were raising a hell of a racket. "Stupid bird, sounds like a space laser," he laughed, and walked on. Behind him, a mother bird brought the morning's bounty to a hungry nest full of babies. The Earth was safe for another day.

#FridayFlash: Blood and Fire

"Pardon me, Senator," said Damien Wilde, "someone is at my door." He punched the mute button before his client, the esteemed Senator from Bouncing Bedsprings, Mississippi, could object.

Wilde stormed across the sumptuous living room to his balcony. "And if you hewed to those moral values you so eloquently demand of others," he snarled, "you wouldn't be calling me!" He looked through the glass doors; there was some time before sunset.

"Useful idiots," he reminded himself. "You do the Master's work in the name of the Enemy." One breath, and he was calm enough to speak to his client again.

"Wilde! Wilde, answer me!" The Senator's drawl sounded panicky.

"I am here, Senator," he said. "A local client was at the door. I have sent him to the lobby until we can finish here." My supper is getting cold, he thought. May this be quick.

"He's going to the press tomorrow!" the Senator shouted. "This is an election year for me, and Beaufort—"

"I'm well aware of Beaufort," said Wilde. And if he pushes you aside, I will work for him. Or he for me, rather. "I can smooth things over. Your boy on the side will find it most advantageous to remain quiet." But the Senator's next election was likely to be his last. No matter: Beaufort or another would take his place. To Wilde, they were all interchangeable.

With the Senator placated, Wilde at last returned to his supper. An act of will, and it again warmed to the proper temperature. This situation seemed so familiar… oh yes. Centuries ago, a princeling had been caught out in a similar indiscretion. That was a simpler time, when you could solve most problems with blood and fire, but this day and age had its own conveniences.

With supper complete, Wilde poured himself a glass of wine and repaired to the balcony to watch Darkness fall over the land. This was a ritual he had failed to observe only a few times in millennia, and few places had ever afforded such a view as this penthouse tower in the heart of Chicago. As the last arc of sunlight slipped below the horizon, he raised his glass and spoke in a language long forgotten by humanity: The light is gone. Let Darkness cover the world. Our Master reigns. And he drank a toast to his Master.

With his evening worship ended, he began the ritual that would take him to the Senator's erstwhile boyfriend. A sufficient bribe should keep him in the shadows until he could do no more harm. And if not? There were still uses for blood and fire in these days.

#TuesdaySerial: Accidental Sorcerers Season 3 Ep. 2

As an aside, this is post #1400.

When we last left our young heroes, they were concerned about someone — or something — coming aboard in the night…

Season 1 • Season 2
Season 3: Episode 1

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Accidental Sorcerers
Season 3, Episode 2
On the Wide River

Bailar stumbled in from the next room. “What? Boarders?”

“Nar!” the captain grimaced. “The crew woulda give the alarm by now!”

“We felt spells being cast, sir,” said Mik. “Your crew is likely asleep. We need to do something!”

The captain glared at Bailar. “If they felt magic,” said the sorcerer, “it was not my doing. Something’s afoot.”

“Fine, then. But if you two are prankin’, it will go badly for you both!”

“If we are,” said Mik, stepping forward, “I’ll take my punishment and Sura’s as well.”

Sura pulled him back. “You will not!”

Bailar smirked. The captain glared, then softened just a little and nodded. “Yar. Let it be as you say.” He slipped out, Bailar and the apprentices following.

They reached the first slumbering crewman. The captain hissed and cursed under his breath, trying to shake the man awake. Mik looked at Bailar, who nodded; Mik crouched on the other side. He touched the sleeping man, then looked at the captain. “This is a magical sleep,” he whispered. “I can feel it. Shaking him won’t help.”

“Well, can ya wake him?”

Mik nodded and, as he’d been taught, made unnecessary gestures and whispered a nonsense rhyme: “The sun is up, the cock is crowing! Time to wake and be a-going!” At once, the crewman’s eyes popped open. Seeing the captain, he gasped.

“Nar, it ain’t yer lazy bones this time,” the captain growled. “There’s devilment afoot. Let’s take this here sprout of a sorcerer and get yer pals a-movin’!”

“Sura and I will take the other side,” said Bailar. “Quietly now.”

One by one, they brought each crewman awake. They roused almost half the crew before the boarders became aware. At the first shout, Bailar brought the False Dawn and twelve angry crewmen set on four boarders. It was over in seconds, the boarders battered and cringing in the open hold.

A splash, and the captain turned. “More! Gettin’ away, they are!”

“Stay back!” Bailar shouted, stumbling to the bow and catching himself on the rail. In the light of his False Dawn, he saw a small boat and two shadowy men rowing for their lives. He clapped his hands and threw them over his head; a waterspout formed under the boat, lifting it and its terrified occupants onto the barge. Several of the crewmen subdued them.

Bailar touched each of them in turn. “How will you deal with these?” he asked the captain.

The captain looked at the boatload of near-stolen cargo and motioned to the crew to stow it away. “Next town with authority is Mosvil,” he said. “Turn ‘em over there, we will. Let the magistrate deal with them.”

“Very well,” said Bailar, “but this one —” he pointed to one of the two from the boat — “comes to Queensport with us. A rogue mage must face the Conclave.” Even in the dim light, Mik saw the young man — almost still a boy — turn pale.

“Well, then,” said the captain, “if ye’ll be responsible for him until we get there, I see no reason to say you nay. Eat our food, he will, but knowin’ he’ll get turned into a toad is payment enough!” He barked a laugh and turned away.

Bailar turned to Mik and Sura. “Fetch me a rope,” he said, “about —”

A tingle of magic cut his words short. They turned as the rogue mage twisted free of the crewmen and leaped over the side. Bailar and his apprentices ran to the railing, but saw only ripples. They watched for a long while, but he never surfaced in range of the light.

“Cursed us, he did!” one of the crewmen moaned, shaking his wrists. “Our hands won’t hold nothin’ no more!”

Bailar examined them. “Only for a few minutes,” he reassured them. “He benumbed you so he could get free. He’s not likely to be back, but all the same, we’ll join you on watch.”

A huge hand clapped Mik’s shoulder, nearly collapsing him. “Sprouts ya may be,” the captain grinned at the apprentices, “but proved your mettle this night, ya did. Without you and yer master, they might’ve left me with an empty barge! What would be a fair reward, think ya?”

“Thank you, sir,” said Sura, “but our mentor would not let us take a reward. But you can discuss it with him.”

Mik nodded. He was too embarrassed to ask for the only thing he really wanted: a few minutes alone with Sura.

continued…

#FridayFlash: Roadkill

No, Mason didn’t do this. Mom says I did it when I was a toddler, and tied up traffic on a busy highway. A heap of something white in the road this afternoon gave me the idea for this.

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Roadkill

Matt stumped up the road. One hand clutched the blanket over his shoulder, the other he had in his mouth. Behind him, Mommy napped in front of the TV and its endless reruns of PBS Kids, exhausted by one too many 3 a.m. diaper and sippy cup calls. Before him? His toddler mind could not grasp the word adventure, but understood the concept.

“Go home, Matt,” said his angel, swooping in front of him. “Lay down next to Mommy and take a nice nap.”

He grunted a negation, not wanting to move his slobbery fist, and kept walking. A whispering, rushing, humming sound slithered up the hill behind him.

“Matt! Over here!” The angel flew off to the side of the road, hovering over the ditch. He’d take a tumble, but the ground was soft and it was safer than what was coming. Matt shook his head and veered away, farther into the road. The noise grew louder.

A rustle of leaves. Beyond the ditch, a squirrel stood, acorn in its paws. “Matt! Look, Matt! Kitty!” Angels are not allowed to lie — but to Matt, all little animals were kitty. Speaking Toddler is allowed.

“Kitty!” Matt grinned and turned off the road, falling into the ditch as the angel backed up to observe and the speeding car topped the hill—

Matt’s wail snapped Mommy awake in an instant. In a panic, she slammed the screen door open and pelted up the road, finding Matt trying to climb out of the muddy ditch. “Matt!” she snatched him up. “What are you doing out here? Look at you—you’re all muddy! You’re getting a bath, then you’re going into your crib until you have a nap, and I don’t care how much you cry about it—”

Something in the road caught Mommy’s eye: a small crumpled white thing. A wing poked up from the heap. “You’d think the chicken trucks would do a better job keeping them in the cages,” she muttered. She turned and took her son home.

#TuesdaySerial: On the Wide River (Accidental Sorcerers Season 3)

Mik and Sura begin their next adventure…

Season 1 • Season 2

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Accidental Sorcerers
Season 3 Episode 1
On the Wide River

The life of an apprentice sorcerer could be frustrating. Not the learning—according to Bailar, Mik was born to it, and that was coming along well. Not the chores—he’d had those to do at home, and alongside Sura the work seemed light.

It was Sura herself who brought the frustration alongside the joy. Last winter, he had started to see Robi as more than the friend he’d known all his life, the one who shared his games and jokes—and then she chose Piet before he could bring himself to say anything. Then came the invaders from Westmarch, and his foolish and successful attempt to awaken an ice dragon. And like cattle, one following another, it all led to his apprenticeship in faraway Exidy. There he met Sura, the first girl who saw him as more than just a friend. But as a fellow apprentice, one who was like the mentor’s own daughter, they had few opportunities to be just Mik and Sura.

Image source: http://openclipart.org/

As spring drew to a close, folk began preparations for the High Summer festival, and sorcerers prepared for the Conclave. Bailar the Blue and his apprentices boarded the Wide Lady. It was a long barge, the largest craft Mik had ever seen, coming to a point on both ends like a canoe. With a crew of thirty polemen, it carried freight and passengers down the Wide River to Queensport. Mik smirked when he thought of the barge’s name; it reminded him of his aunt. Like his aunt on her ranch, the polemen shouted their Low Speech argot across the barge all day long, cursing over the heads of anyone nearby.

Freed from their daily chores, Mik and Sura thought they would have time on the barge, and in that regard this trip was more frustration. As big as the Lady was, there was no place aboard where they were not under the eyes of passengers and crew alike. At night, the few women and girls on board were sheltered away in one of the two cabins on the stern, while Mik slept with the men under a tarp fore of the cabins. (Bailar, as a sorcerer, was given the guest berth in the captain’s cabin.) At home, there was at least an opportunity for a brief embrace and a kiss between chores or after learning times.

Worse, while Mik did his best to treat Sura as honorably as he knew how, Dreaming Mik had no honor at all. But his Dreaming Sura was often just as wanton. What happened in his dreams often left Mik ashamed and excited in equal measure, and on this night, it would be the same. The barge was anchored on a stretch of the Wide where no town graced its banks, not even a fishing village. Mik twisted and moaned in his sleep; in his dream, he and Sura lay in the garden, a tingling wave rushing over him as Sura whispered his name.

“Mik… Mik!”

Mik opened his eyes. He saw Sura (fully clothed) kneeling over him, one hand on his shoulder, the other holding a lantern turned low. He grinned and reached up, still partly the Dreaming Mik, and tried to pull her to him.

“Wait— no!” she rasped, keeping her arm stiff. “Didn’t you feel it?”

He was feeling something, or almost, but Dreaming Mik faded. The wave ebbed, and Mik was grateful she didn’t ask him about his dreams. “Feel what?” he whispered, getting to his feet.

“Magic. Someone cast a spell… something familiar. Concealment, maybe. I couldn’t sleep for… Anyway, I felt the power. Close by.”

“Not the mentor?”

“No. It didn’t feel like—”

“Oh!” Mik felt it this time, like a spider racing up his spine. “That? It felt like a sleeping spell.”

“Are you sure?”

Mik nodded. As Sura’s budding talents were sharp with spells of concealment and finding, his bent toward sleeping and waking. On the far end of the barge, they heard a thump and scuffing noises. “This isn’t good!” He squinted into the dark. “We need to tell the mentor. And the captain. Maybe you should conceal us.”

Sura shook her head. “Our cloaks are dark. Besides, they’re already aboard. If we felt their magic, they’ll feel ours.”

Mik nodded and they got moving, hand in hand, nervous but enjoying that much contact.

The cabin door was locked, and Sura decided haste was now more important than stealth. She laid her hand over the latch, and it popped open. As they slipped inside, the barge captain stood, a frightening bare-chested figure in the dim lantern light, a scowl on his face and a club in his hand. “’Ere, what’s this breakin’ in—”

“Sir!” Mik interrupted. “Boarders!”