Greetings all! Around this time of year, everyone gets pretty busy, myself included, so you’ll have to forgive the brief message! I hope you are doing well, and the holidays are not unduly stressing you out. Here’s some fantastical flash fiction from the last Ink Slingers Guild meeting for you to enjoy during an interlude to the craziness! 🙂
Regard, ruler, format,
“Your problem is that the format of your spell is wrong,” Moss pointed at the
pile of feathers at the end of the pentagram. “What is that?”
Sara looked at the bloody mass, and her face colored. “I’m not really sure. My
cat brought it in this morning, and it seemed fresh enough…” She trailed off
at the pained look on Moss’ face.
The wizard pinched the bridge of his nose, gave a deep sigh and pulled out a
ruler. He knelt down, being careful not to touch the cat’s offering, and began
to measure the lines she had drawn. “Off by two inches. Off by two and a half
inches. This one’s better-only off by one and a quarter.”
Sara was fighting tears, determined not to let him see how upset she was.
Fortunately, he was so intent on critiquing her spell that he didn’t have
attention for her. “And with regard to the placement,” he pointed at an oblique
angle towards the door. “It should be lined up with the point to the
North-north-west. If you truly want to summon the spirit of your grandfather,
you’re going to have to start again.”
Sara sighed, and went to get the bleach. That blood was going to take some work
to get out.
poison (my word), top, satisfy,
Nat very carefully drew the tip of the arrow through the poison, watching the
black liquid gleam and then sink into the metal. This particular batch was for
an assassin who was very difficult to satisfy, but there was a reason Nat was
called the best. Nat set the arrow on top of the roll of leather, and reached
for the last arrow. He held it up to the light, admiring the grain of the wood,
the expert fletching, the razor sharp head. Instead of drawing this through the
jar in front of him, he stood and walked to the shelf behind his work-desk. He
pulled the blue book from its place, and pressed the hidden lever. The false
back swung forward, and revealed the little cubby he kept his most rare and
potent potions. The tiny bottle had but a single drop left, and Nat has been
saving it for a very long time, but now the time was right. He tipped the liquid
onto the last arrow, and watched as the metal began to glow as if it has just
been pulled from a fire. Then the glow faded, but if one held the arrow up to
the light, the tip of the arrow now had a slightly paler gleam than the others.
Nat smiled grimly. It was time for payback.
Derail, reflection, sugar,
Everything was in place to derail the king’s coronation. The street urchins had
been payed to tip the barrels of oil over the procession. The sharpshooter with
the flaming arrows was positioned on the corner of the highest roof of the
square, his arrow coated in black to dull the sun’s reflection on the metal.
“What do you mean, the coronation has been called off?” the sulky lord shouted.
“They can’t call it off!”
“I’m afraid they can, and they have,” the elderly advisor said without sympathy.
“It’s raining. They cannot hold a party in the rain.”
“When will they reschedule?” the lord asked. “They did not see fit to give that
information to me,” the advisor said, only now the slightest signs of strain
seeping through his carefully controlled demeanor.
“Well, then, find out!” the lord said, throwing himself across the feather bed
pouting. “First bring me some mulled apple cider. With sugar!” he added in an
imperious tone at the retreating back of the old man. The advisor closed the
door to the lord’s chamber, and only now did his impassive face melt into a
“Perhaps someone should plan your assassination, you spoiled little brat,” he
muttered to himself, before he walked off to get the tea.