Leaving room for errors seems wise until there are mistakes sleeping on every sofa in your house warm and snuggled up, too comfortable, yet too heavy to push away you've let them enter and they are here to stay.
at night they creep beside you in sleep and visit you in your dreams or pull your window curtains drawn to display a terribly disturbing scene
day breaks; they've burrowed deep in your cushions by dawn (before you can stir awake to shoo them off once and for all)
after my haiku "for those late to blooming,"
the gardener's gloved hands move slowly when he packs a new plant into place. it's a white and indigo columbine this time, petals all fanned out like a threatened cobra. over time the stem will droop, and the color will blacken, and we'll know it's time to discover the next specimen that will take its place. flowers have always been fickle things, despite the fact that there are always small, compact mounds of soil carefully crafted to hug their tiny, delicate roots which can gain nutrition from anything, from tipping buckets to thunderstorms out of zeus' myth
(original: when it's all over we'll discover that flowers were crafted from myth)
"You will go with your father." My mother leans forward in her rocking chair, forcing me to promise her soundlessly.
The door creaks open. I know who it is, but I don't dare look back.
"But--"
"Your fate is sealed," she whispers, gripping my small hands in place. Her hair fell over her eyes, riddled with sweat and ash. The furnace coals steam and hiss behind us. "And I can do nothing to change it."
"Mother, I don't want to go," I choke out, desperate for some sort of reassurance, for some other choice. "I can't go." She only turns her face from me, her eyes set shakily out the window. Tears are streaming down my face, and my voice is broken into china pieces. "Mother, please."
I feel a wide hand press against my back. It's time.
My mother still won't look at me. She speaks softly, as if she didn't really want me to hear. "Annabelle, don't be difficult."
He guides me away from her, across the uneven wooden floors, out the door, into his car.
With that first step, when I allowed myself to be de-rooted from the ground I guarded closely with my feet, I lost something precious. I'm not sure what it was exactly-- my home, hope, freedom. Maybe the last of my innocence. Whatever it was, I felt it drain out of me like blood from a cut limb.
In the back seat, I see my father's eyes in the rearview mirror. Cold, focused, silver, sharp. Like a knife.
(p1 on my profile!)
"Hello, Ten."
She didn't wait any longer; she ran. It wasn't toward home, it wasn't toward anything– all it needed to be was away.
She ran as fast as her feet could take her, turning random corners until she dared to throw a glance over her shoulder: nothing.
Gasping for air, she slows and scans the area frantically. Who's to say he hadn't already transformed into a bird, or a bug, or a cloud? She flipped to check behind her and almost jumped when she saw him already there, staring again.
"I'm afraid running won't help you, dear."
How did he get there so fast with all his wits still about him? He must have access to some teleportation spell that she wasn't privy to. He was right: he could catch her wherever she ran. What she needed was to be hidden. She knew one combination– "hush" and "obscure"– that would blend her into her surroundings. It would take a lot of energy, but it was all she had.
Just as her lips had begun to form around the words, The Author took notice and called out a counterspell quicker than she could finish reciting half of her own. She slumped to the concrete like a ragdoll, limbs bent into strange positions, and he stepped closer to peer at her unmoving self.
"Apologies. Instinct."
Unable to speak, she only blinked in response.
"Right," he said. "If I give you your voice, do you promise not to try anything?" He paused. "Blink twice if yes."
Honestly, she didn't have many other ideas of what to do to get out of this. None that would work on the most powerful man alive, at least. She blinked twice.
"Wonderful." He released her voice from its magical prison, and she immediately fired off her defense.
"I only steal a little from those that have enough. I never target the same person twice. I've never used a spell to hurt someone. I take what I need, and if I have enough for the month, I'll stop until I run out of rations. I'm willing to reform completely if you'll grant me a period of grace. Really, I don't do this to hurt others. It's out of necessity. This is all I'm good at."
He raised his eyebrows. "Are you done?"
Tenley stiffened, if that was even possible in the state she was in.
"Have you no empathy? Magic is part of me. I've seen what happens when people go without it– they're emptied of something sacred, they go mad! I've never taken someone's life from them, so why do you have the right to do it to me?"
"I'm not going to do anything to your magic," he asserted.
"What? Why not?" Despite her fierce opposition, she still expected him to follow through on his mission. That was why he was here, after all. Or so she had thought.
"You've pioneered some of the most infamous combinations to date. You've managed to escape my top mages time and time again. The only way I could get to you without you evading me was to deceive you into taking something I knew you wouldn't be able to resist. You're practically unstoppable."
These all sounded like negative things he was listing off. She was sure it was some sort of trick, but there was so much sincerity in his face. "I don't understand."
He shakes his head. "Ten, I want you as my pupil."
For a moment, she's too shell-shocked to say anything. "You do?"
"I do." He reversed the stunlock he had placed on her and held out a hand to help her up. "Here."
She took it with the agency she had over herself again, and stood.
"Would that be something that interests you?" He asked.
"Yes," she said without hesitation. The thought of studying with some of the best magic-users in the world in the most prestigious institution to date, using her magic for good, for purposes greater than her own– it was absolutely exhilarating. "Yes, I'll do it."
He shakes her hand. "Perfect. It's a deal. From now on, you can address me as Dr. Amado."
"Dr. Amado. I can't believe it. The Author wants me as a student," she gushed, still shaking his hand. "I'm a huge fan of your work, sir. Sorry for appropriating it."
The edges of his mouth turn up into an amused smile. "They say imitation is the greatest form of flattery."
This just in: The Author is taking a short leave of absence from his headmaster position to track down the notorious Ten Silver, who has been at large since last summer...
When the city speakers blared the news across the street, Tenley, dangling her legs over the edge of a roof, couldn't have been more delighted. Hearing that 'The Author' is looking for you is enough to make grown adults cry, but she, in her eternal combative spirit, glowed with pride.
The Author-- The Author, Francis Amado, creator of the most influential book of spells to ever grace the Earth-- found her dangerous enough to go after himself.
The Author hadn't included any illegal spells in his book, but certain magic was made off-limits due to criminal combinations. For example, an alchemized "sharp" and "flying" spell could create invisible daggers with deadly aim. In Tenley's own work, her main tool was a creation she had accurately dubbed 'pickpocket', a mix between "probe", "hush", and "summon".
Normally, in the case of magical crimes, The Author would send one of his mages, and if that didn't work, he would send more. They would soon close in on the criminal and rip their powers from them, leaving their eyes dull and their soul a hollow shell of itself. But Tenley was fairly sure he'd already tried it on her and failed.
About two months ago, she'd spotted a man in a cloak too extravagant for the part of town she was in. It would've been innocuous enough if not for the mint-green and marigold detailing along the hems, the classic School of Mages and Magic colors. The moment he was turned away, she whispered to the alley shadows to cover her as she slipped through them, continuing to flee until she arrived at a completely separate area, one she hadn't frequented as a thief before. She never saw the man again.
Since then, she had been especially wary of anyone, cloaked or not, that watched at her a bit too closely. Sometimes it was individuals, sometimes it was entire groups, sometimes it was a scrawny black cat perched on a nearby branch. She had made so many quick escapes she was starting to wonder if she was actually escaping anyone at all.
This news, that The Author was after her, proved her suspicions correct. She had outwitted him, and she wanted to do it again.
Despite the threat of capture, she had been carrying out her usual activities for the past few days. Going into hiding was a coward's game, and a losing one at that. So, from the roof's high vantage point, she once again scanned the populous below for potential victims.
There was a man with a leather cross-body bag-- she didn't bother probing him, most likely just work papers and the like.
Then, there was a family passing with two kids, possibly a day out at the carnival a couple blocks over? They were sure to have brought money for snacks and prizes.
Her musings were interrupted when something caught her eye. A woman dressed in silks was wearing a beautifully-bejeweled bracelet, glinting in the sun.
Her breath practically caught in her throat at the sight, and she waited for the perfect moment to strike. When the woman's hand was pointed toward the ground, Tenley slipped it off the wrist it was on and lifted it so that it flew to her own palm like a magnet. She pocketed it, and the plink of metal falling into itself was like music. The woman continued crossing the street as if nothing had happened.
The rest of the day passed like usual: loose change here and there, an old watch, a pair of brass dice from a gambler. Her most valuable pull remained the bracelet.
Throughout her mini-heists, she kept an eye out for the man himself, but saw no trace of him whatsoever. She wasn't expecting to recognize him; no one but the elites who studied under him knew what The Author looked like. Some said he could shape-shift, changing form effortlessly and as often as he wanted. But Tenley hadn't even seen anyone so much as look her way.
As the sun set the sky ablaze with orange and pink hues, she tightrope-walked the edge of the building and scaled down the ladder, using a float spell to keep her balance on the jump near the end. She skidded past vacant streets in the quickly closing darkness, making her way back to hideout, her pocket full and happy.
That is, until it began to rattle.
She stopped in her tracks, checking to see if the noise was an invention of the mind. It wasn't. She dug into the pocket, pulled out the trembling bracelet, and tossed it to the ground in front of her. It shook as if possessed. The gold slowly crept upward, melding into something else, creating a new form. It reached higher and higher until it was taller than Tenley herself.
It was then that she recognized its new form as a human shape with a head, shoulders, arms, legs, each of which was becoming more defined by the second, until everything was filled out by gold and the bracelet's texture slowly faded back into skin. By this point, every muscle in her body urged her to run, but she was afraid to look away.
Then, the person moved, tilting his head back and rolling his stiff shoulders. It was man, not young, but not old yet, only bearing the beginning of creasing around his honey-brown eyes, with a short beard and light hair that came to his shoulders. He bore the School of Mages and Magic insignia on his coat's lapel, and he was staring straight at her.
"Hello, Ten."
Through the mist and the leaves, lantern-lit windows flicker with passing shadows. Crowded voices can be heard from inside, chatting the evening away. I sludge further through the mud.
"I told you there would be someone out here to help us."
George swats a swamp bug from his arm, grumbling, "Dumb luck."
"Could you at least try to be optimistic?" The building comes into better view, holding itself comfortably above the water with dark wooden pillars. "It seems nice."
Before he can answer, the windows go eerily dim, and the voices dissipate into fargone mutterings. This effect intensifies as we approach until we're standing by the front steps, dark and silent. A sign on the door reads in crooked letters 'The Tavern.' George and I exchange a glance, his eyes asking if I was still sure about this. I grab the rail handle and climb to open the door.
The floor is messy with broken glass and beer, but the inside is completely empty. A soft humming sounds from somewhere, but it wasn't from the back of the room, where George was standing.
“I don't like this, El," he mutters. The humming grows louder, almost sounding like it was emanating from the floorboards. I creep toward the bar. On the other side, a small child, no older than 10 or 11, sits cross on the floor, humming and cleaning smudged glasses with a rag.
"Excuse me," I say. He ignores me, lost in his own world. "Hello?"
George appears beside me and presses a little gold bell on the counter, which rings loudly and clearly.
The boy pops up from his position, head only half clearing the top of the bar.
"Welcome," he says, studying us with wide blue eyes. "What can I do for you today?"
I stand, frozen. "Where are your parents?"
"I will not be answering any personal questions." He looks between the two of us and starts cleaning another glass. "If that's all--"
"No," I cut him off. "We're looking for a way back to our land."
"I have exactly the thing. Many find themselves lost out here." He pours two identical shots with a clear, bubbling liquid and sets them firmly on the counter, raising his arms slightly above his head to reach. I wasn't sure how a drink was supposed to help, but he seemed very confident in its ability to do so. Seeing our doubtful expressions, he taps the bottle. "Liquid portal."
George steps back from the drink warily. "How come the place looked full before we walked up to it?"
"Think of it like a star's illusion. You can't see what state it's in until you get close." He nods as if this made any sense, then scoots the glasses closer. "Try."
"You don't even know where we're trying to go," I say. He scowls and plops back onto the floor like a pouting toddler.
"Try or leave."
I have to admit, it was tempting. What did his assuredness sprout from if not truth?
George grabs my shoulder. "Let's go." I don't take my eyes off the counter. If light and voices could disappear, who's to say teleportation couldn't exist? I wrap my fingers around the glass, and the barkeep's eyes snap back to watch me. George's grip tightens. "El, don't."
I tip the drink to my lips and down it.
The first thing I experience is the distinct taste of cherry, then light. The room is suddenly bright and noisy and full of patrons, although from this proximity, the conversation didn't seem as jovial as I had assumed. The pressure is gone from my shoulder, and I turn to survey the room for George's presence, but he's nowhere to be found. The glass in my hand and on the counter have disappeared, too.
I slam my hands on the bar, the small boy still there. "What's happening?" He ignores me. I hit my hand over the bell aggressively and try again. "What did you do?"
He looks up at me calmly, then smiles a smile too wide for a child. “I secured another customer."
