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A Weathered Destiny

I’ll admit it, I was a terrible assistant. The wizard I worked for never received his messages. The coffee, if fresh, was instant. Ants on the sugar bowl, you get the picture. He hated instant coffee. Had a phobia of ants. Loved getting messages, said they made him feel less alone.

He might have done better with an actual person, rather than an old binder clip he infused with the first soul who floated past. Thanks for that, wizard. You bastard.

Few years back he up and died. Just keeled over mid-spell, so here I am, stuck living in this damn clip for all eternity, bored out of my mind. His kids tossed me in a junk pile with all his other crap. I mean, the view is better, but turns out rust itches like the dickens as it chews away at you. I’d crumble if someone tried to open me now, shove a sheet of paper in my maw. I’d stain it cruddy orange as crumbles of my corroding body skittered to their feet.

Not sure I deserve this. Not sure I deserved being trapped inside a clip to begin with. What the heck was he thinking? “I’m lonely and have a fetish for sentient binder clips?” I suppose I had some odd collections myself back in my human days. I liked to save the third metatarsal of all the little fairies I chopped up and threw into my stew.

I was famous for my stew. Set up a cannery and made a fortune. “Fairy stew puts a twinkle in you” remember that song? Your grandma might. That was me! Course I got blamed when the fairy population crashed. Darn things were so small it took three to stuff a can. Did my customers ever twinkle, though. Those were the days.

I know what you’re thinking. Did ol’ Wizard McGizzard trap me here as punishment? I doubt it. He was just a geezer without any gumption left for that sort of thing. He got lucky. I didn’t. Soon, though. This old body’s getting over-weathered. Soon it’ll be nothing more than dust. Then I’ll be free. I think. I hope. I guess I could end up spread out between a zillion cells, this one this memory, that one another, scattered to bits when the wind picks up. Maybe you’ll inhale me one day. Wouldn’t that be grand, now.

Well. Enough about me. What brings you here?

This post was written in response to the Daily Post’s prompt “weathered“

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how does a witch get revenge on a wizard?

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She adjusted her hat and cloak, shooing away a slug who wanted a nibble. It was not the first time that lazy, no-account wizard she called a husband turned her to fungus to avoid losing an argument. In fact, she should probably be thankful he didn’t turn her into his own toenail fungus this time. Ugh, the memory still made her shudder.

She whispered a few rhymes and turned back into her usual form – short, squat, and rather dumpy. The epitome of attractiveness for someone in her third century. Her nose had lost its customary wart, but she could pick up a new one in town later. Or not. It gave her an idea for her revenge.

She crept up on her husband, tapped him with her wand, and turned him into a hairy wart she stuck on the end of her nose. Then she spent hours sniffing skunk cabbage, just to drive his allergies wild.

As for him, he passed the time planning his counter-revenge, and pretended not to have a small glow of pride and love for her cunning. After all, this is what he married her for. Romance might last a century or two, but pranks are forever.

 

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fried green tomato bullies

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“Help!”

The voice sounded small and far away. He looked around, seeing nothing but a forest of tomato plants and a few rows of carrots.

“Down here!”

He knelt down. Something seemed familiar about one of green tomatoes: the way it bulged, the tilt of the wizard’s cap upon its head. He gasped. “Reginald, is that you?”

“Yes! That mean old hedge witch turned me into a tomato.”

“Reginald, what did you do to her?”

“It doesn’t matter! Just get me out of here!”

He thought it over. On the one hand, he loved a fried green tomato sandwich, and Reginald could be something of a bully. On the other hand, the idea of eating a friend, even a bad friend in tomato form, made his stomach twist in strange ways. “I’ll go get help.”

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etchings in the sand

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She walked along the beach, noticing at once the designs the waning tide etched upon the shore. Time and nature wrote their stories over everything. No one living long enough would be exempt. It’s not as if she expected to be, she just didn’t see why she must be confined to paper.

The wizard knelt by the sand, studying the image. The tides often drew these trees upon the sand as they ebbed. Never the same tree, but always an ancient, magical tree. The wizard lived his life by symbols and he could no more ignore these trees than he could understand them.

With a sigh, the tide began to withdraw, whispering out to her droplets to call them home. They balked, as children often do, lingering in the sunlight and delighting in the sand, until she pulled them, unwilling, out to sea. Their dragging fingertips left etches on the sand she did not have time to hide.

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the city gargoyle’s seaside retirement

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He began his life as a gargoyle in the big city. He spent his days staring into the window of a studio apartment across the street. Nothing much happened, until the day a clumsy wizard moved in. A few days later, an errant blast from her wand struck the gargoyle, and he found himself a free statue.

The gargoyle ran away without delay, escaping the city and heading for the coast. Once there, he found himself a decent perch upon a cliff. His days are now spent glaring out at the open ocean, thinking grumpy thoughts about fish, and frightening the occasional beachcomber.

On full moons he likes to stretch out his wings and soar around for a while, but he always returns to his seaside perch. “Home sweet home,” he tells the waves, still marveling at his luck.

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how to trap a bit of sky

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He whispered to himself as he placed rocks into the puddles. Ancient rhymes and old spells spilled together without reason. He smiled to see pieces of the sky become trapped in the water’s reflection. A few more rhymes and he’d be able to smuggle them home in his pockets.

Not that he knew what to do with them. He’d probably just tuck them into jars and leave them on a shelf to frighten youngsters. It seemed a disappointing conclusion for his work and a sad fate for a bit of sky.

He added a new rhyme. The bits of sky grew restless, reaching up with wings which lifted them from the sand and flew them back up where they belonged. Much better to have invisible birds flying around than a chunk of depressed stratosphere trapped in a jar, he reasoned.

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secret doorways

“What do you suppose is on the other side of that door?”

She thought it over. “May095be a wizard who can shrink down to any size, or a fairy taking a bath. I bet they like bubble baths. Or even a unicorn, polishing his hooves for a parade. Maybe even a goblin, making up some sort of mean potion to get back at the school bully.” She looked at her friend. “What do you think it is?”

Her friend blinked. “I was just thinking of cobwebs ‘n stuff.”

“Oh.”

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magic wands in spring

The wizard narrowed his eyes at the children. They watched in horror as he reached for his wand. Should they run? Was there anywhere to hide? They held their breath as he muttered a few rhymes and pointed his wand at them…and nothing happened at all, for it was spring and the wand was far too busy growing buds and dreaming of leaves to bother with children just being kids and a grumpy old wizard.

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