The man awoke to a familiar sound of ringing—long, short, long, short—and found himself in a state of half dreaming consciousness, scrambling for the alarm. If everything went as planned, this scramble was one of the few motions required of the man throughout the day. The room was shrouded in a jet black hue, save for the computer screen which featured fish so life-like that their features were more prominent than live fish. Throughout the night these fish, red, blue and yellow would float aimlessly, staring, waiting for the moment when the man would wake, go to his computer and temporarily end their existence. As the screen continued its role as preserver of light, the man clapped his hands, two times, rapidly and with that, another minute motion, the small room exploded with the welcoming glow of artificial light.
I never thought I could invent anything great since I lost my ability to create when I was young. One day, I just suddenly felt unable to write, draw, or compose anything shining and unique. It is like a sacrifice for my growth into adulthood. I am now more sophisticated, but also less creative. They say that growth brings us knowledge but as my experience shows, this is not always a positive thing.
“I was afraid of her. Noise would erupt with her whispers in my ears and now she is gone. I am alone and it’s because of you, because of all of you,” Adam said to Nick on a bright morning. Nick, Adam’s literary agent, had no idea what really happened. As far as he was concerned, this was a simple story. Adam was just another example of a new author that started out promising and ended up disappointing.
Everyone in town knew the house on Maine Street, the tired old thing in which progress and adaptation, slow as they were in Yellowleaf, gave up entirely. It was the house at the dead end of the street. The gravel path leading towards it stretched from porch to sidewalk like a tired old tongue. What was once lush overgrowth, children now compared to arthritis-bent fingers, their flesh and leaves dried up throughout the years. Its windows were near sighted eyes, the dust layering them like milky cataracts. No dog had barked there in over a decade. Zadie said so. Being fifteen and all, Zadie was a figure of authority for all of us.
As a little boy
I would watch Rover do tricks
On a planet far
When in middle school
I read of great fusion birds
Orbiting its skies
All along Pine street garage doors were flung open, beaming their owner’s pride onto the sidewalk. On Saturday afternoons sparks flew like perspiration from men toiling over their machines. However, Adam’s garage door remained closed. Even on the few occasions that it was open, any glimpse of his secret project was obscured by a tarp he draped over it, for fear that someone might get a peek at his designs.
Nim examined the last shard of the Mirror of Fate, rolling the triangular piece between her fingertips. It was neither glass nor metal, but something in between. The pieces never lost their strange liquid shine, and were it not already shattered, Nim would say the Mirror was indestructible. She had lived with the mystery of the Breaking all her life. She grew up in the tower that was built on the site of the Breaking. The Order of the Mirror raised her since they’d found her as an orphaned baby. Now Nim would become a Sister herself, the first to be inducted in thirty years.
Let it be known that I have never been one for wizards. Nor am I one for soothsayers, witches, summoners, magicians, geomancers, alchemists, elementalists, scholars, necromancers, mages, druids, sorcerers, witch doctors, shamen, bards, clerics, or enchanters. However, the one thing I most certainly can appreciate is the manner in which warlocks become warlocks.