Tag: creative writing

curse of the magi 30

Sophi NielsenLeave a comment

Randell felt Elia’s fingers as she positioned them on the sides of his face.

“WAT score?” She asked.

“Never took it.”

“Training?”

“Pi.” Randell felt a small pain spell make its way through her fingers. He pushed back with a full-strength blocking spell and tried to pull away. Elia held on.

“Block it with as little energy as you can.” She ordered firmly and leaned into his ear. “You have to trust me.” She whispered. Randell squeezed his eyes shut and nodded as much as her hands would allow. She sent the spell again and he blocked it with as little magic as
he could. Elia took note of this and did some calculations in her head. “You are Romulus Lacheses. WAT score: 34. Training: Sigma Kappa.” Randell fought the urge to turn back.

“What?”

“Your new identity.” Randell had more questions, but he already felt another spell wash over his skin.

curse of the magi 29

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Meanwhile, Elia had slipped, unnoticed into the bathroom. Hovsep had left a white rag on the counter with a note on it. Take it with you. Elia wasted no time; she wet the rag, wrung it out and rejoined Randell and Jaumet.

They had pulled out of their hug and Jaumet was slumped against the wall behind the bed. Elia cocked her head at Jaumet.

“Doing okay?” He nodded distractedly. She made quick work of cleaning and healing where the pain spells had broken skin. She turned to Randell and gave him a questioning look. He nodded his permission and slipped his white blood and sweat-soaked shirt over his head. And Elia cleaned out the new wounds on his back, not mentioning the three
already scarred over. As she worked on Randell’s back, Jaumet turned his head.

“What’s next?” Elia didn’t look up as she answered.

“We find you a place to hide.” Randell turned his head as far as he could without shifting his back.

“Where?”

“In plain sight.”

“What?”

“I’m taking you back to the compound.” Randell and Jaumet made eye contact in one lightning movement. Randell shook his head and Jaumet nodded in agreement. Before Elia could make any move, Jaumet and Randell were at the door. They hit something before
they crossed the threshold, something that made them flinch back and turn to Elia.

Her green eyes were apologetic.

“You have to trust me,” she pleaded. “If you go out there, the sniffers will be on you before you know it. They’ll take you back, and maybe next time you won’t be so lucky.”

Jaumet looked to Randell, who hesitated. Elia saw the look and bit her lip. “Please, you have to trust me.” Jaumet pierced his friend with his eyes. Randell sighed.

“What do we have to do?”

curse of the magi 28

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When Jaumet heard those magical words, he struggled to raise his head and look at their savior, but, as always, Randell was too proud.

“We don’t need your help,” he snapped weakly. Elia sat down next to the captive.

“Listen, today, that was only the start. They will get those answers out of you or kill you in the process.” Randell shook his head.

“You’re…lying…” Elia shook her head back at him.

“I’m not. Hop wouldn’t have called me if he didn’t think you needed help.” Randell
creased his brow.

“H-Hop?”

“Hovsep, the guy who…interrogated you.” Elia answered lightly. Randell seemed to be thinking.

“We need help, Randell.” Jaumet managed, barely forcing the words out. “We need to get out of…of here.” His head fell back to the silver floor, and he squeezed his eyes shut as it stole the last of his energy. Randell’s eyes closed halfway.

“Fine. We…we need help.” Elia pressed her lips into a small, sad smile, and held out her hand. Randell pulled his knees to his chest and struggled to support his chest with his wrists. He made a grab for her hand, almost loosing his balance. Elia nodded reassuringly and closed her hand hard as soon Randell’s touched it.

He felt almost instantly better. Her strength spell coursed through his muscles all the way down to his bones. He tried to pull away as he stood up, but Elia shook her head and walked him to the door. Hovsep had left, so Elia sat Randell down on his bed.

She edged around the holding room back to Jaumet. Her hand was light on his
shoulder, but it gave him strength, just a little. He was able to curl tighter, but any
movement still hurt. He squeezed his eyes tighter and sobbed. Elia gripped onto his arm, trying to ease the strength spell into his body, but his body wouldn’t accept it. She slipped her free hand into his and clung as tightly as she could. Jaumet felt her efforts, but nothing
helped. He shook his head.

“I’m going to die.” He sobbed again and tears leaked onto the cold, hard floor.

“No, you’re not,” Elia’s assertion was flat and obvious. She bit her lip stubbornly, and slipped her arms under Jaumet. He opened his eyes as far as he could in surprise.

“What are you…?” Elia didn’t answer. She was focused on standing up with the boy in her arms. She was small, but she wasn’t weak, and Jaumet felt himself lifted off the ground. It felt better in the air, but the heavy air of the silver room still pressed his energy out of his body. His head fell back from where Elia’s arm supported his upper back. The girl
held him tighter and hurried to the door. Randell was too weak to get up, but he saw Jaumet and his eyes widened.

“J-Jaumet…” he whispered. Elia carried him as fast as she could to Hovsep’s bedroom and laid him down gently on the white, austere bed.

Jaumet struggled to find each breath and his eyes we closing fast. He was going.
Elia picked up his hand and held it between her palms, clasping her fingers around it.

“Stay with me,” she whispered. “Keep talking.” Jaumet swallowed and sobbed again.

“I don’t want to die.”

“You won’t. You won’t.” Elia whispered. “Keep talking. Don’t close your eyes.”

“I-I’ll miss the summers the most…We sat outside and lazed around, at-at l-least on
the weekends…I liked the watermelon…not…not cause it t-tastes good, b-but
because…because we spat the seeds out.”
Randell’s eyes widened. All these memories, this we Jaumet spoke of, that was just them. Just Randell and Jaumet. Before all the craziness, before everything…happened. Jaumet talked, Elia fed as much energy as she could into his weak body, but it wasn’t fast enough. He was slipping away. Randell bit his trembling lip. Jaumet was his only friend, and he couldn’t let him die. He needed to help.

Hesitating, but only for a second, Randell slipped his own hand into Jaumet’s and replicated what Elia was doing.

Jaumet’s eyes opened further.

“R-randell?” Randell nodded.

“Of course. Hold on, buddy, well get through this. God knows what else we’ve gone through.” Jaumet nodded weakly.

“Do you remember…that-that one summer…we spit the seeds at all the p-people that passed?” Randell laughed

“Their faces were priceless.” Jaumet laughed, his croaking voiced gaining strength.

“And then…then the overseer told us to stop, b-but we just…we just spat seeds at h-him too.” He laughed again, and Randell joined in. The strength spell was slowly pulling itself into Jaumet’s muscles and bones.

He blinked his eyes rapidly, and raised his head. Elia smiled and helped him sit up.

Randell dropped his hand and went in for the hug.

“Thank God,” he whispered, almost sobbing. “I thought you would leave me.” Jaumet coughed and laid his head on his friend’s shoulder.

Weakly. “A Pi never gives up.”

the windy city 1

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“Always a well-dressed fool
Who wouldn’t spare the rod
Never for me”
-“Foreigner’s God” by Hozier

Colm

His fingers flew. Colm was flying, but he wasn’t free. His fingers followed regimented paths, a platoon of soldiers, lining up, striking one at a time, just like they had planned. But one renegade struck out at the wrong time, throwing a sour note into the tail-wind of his violin.

His father’s voice came to mind, crowding his thoughts. Start over, it said. He stopped, ready to start from the beginning. But the judges expected a different path. They held their waiting fingers next to the sour note, ready to move on. His brow-line broke in the center; the soldiers must charge, must go on. There was no starting over.

Now his fingers flew and flew free. The soldiers were fierce and courageous. They followed the lines of their plan, but also their intuition, their innate sense of battle. Colm knew he had messed up again, but the notes flowed in lines and this time those lines felt like music.

Colm had trouble concealing his smile when he bowed, as one judge clapped,
another smiled, and the last one nodded, not in recognition, but in agreement. But his father was watching so conceal it he did.

He had trouble looking at his father when he walked off the stage. But his father was watching so look at him he did.

His father’s face was flat but the lines of his face were angry. Colm had learned to see that anger, no matter how slight, so he could know when to duck, when to brace himself, and when to run away.

This anger was slight but intense. This was when to run away. But there was nowhere to run, so Colm walked straight into battle, into the fray, trying to conceal his fear but in all likelihood failing.

“You made a mistake,” his father said. The words that had been waiting in his father’s mouth now met Colm’s ears. The voice was quiet, more intense, more dangerous. Run. It said. You can’t duck this one. You can’t brace yourself this time. Run.

“Why didn’t you start over, Colm?” The voice continued. Quiet. Intense. Dangerous. Run. “I told you to start over.”

Colm’s voice stuck in his throat thick with fear. He didn’t try to speak because he knew he couldn’t. He knew he would speak wrong. He knew he would
make a mistake. “Answer me Colm.” A warning. Not in the words. In the lines, straight on a calm face. Run. His voice stuck in a throat thick with fear. The voice didn’t need an answer.

“You shouldn’t have made that mistake, Colm. You should have started over.” The
voice still wanted an answer. His throat was thick with fear. His father banged on the ground the cane he never used for walking. “Answer me, Colm,” he snapped.

But Colm could not.

The cane swung backwards, but Colm had no time to react before it hit his head. He sunk to his knees, surprised as much as he was not. But the pain still cracked and stung, hot on his forehead. He looked up, mouth open in surprise. His father had never lost his temper in public. Only in private where bedroom walls would hide his shame.

But he struck again. Again. Pain snaked and cracked and barely escaped Colm’s lips. He had learned a long time ago not to scream. Screaming was uncouth, uncivilized, and, most importantly, it attracted the neighbors’ attention.

So Colm did not scream, but he did attract someone’s attention. The cracks of cane against his skull were louder than the grunts that passed Colm’s lips. His father couldn’t blame him this time. He felt the blood run down the bridge of his nose and gasped in surprise, in fear.

The pain that cracked and bled threatened his vision with black but he saw the eyes of a woman, the horrorstruck eyes of a woman.

He heard shouting. He wasn’t shouting. The voice was coming from outside his head.

And even through the pain all he could think was that his father couldn’t blame him anymore, not this time. Foreign arms pulled his father back. Neighbors.

He had bothered the neighbors. He shook his head. No. No. No. He wasn’t the one shouting.

The woman pulled him against her chest. Like a mother.

And maybe she was. But she was a neighbor; he had bothered the neighbors. Now they were interfering. He was breathing fast and quick. He wasn’t the one shouting; he couldn’t be – the voice was so far outside his own body. Father couldn’t blame him. He pulled his head into the neighbor’s chest. He gasped through the pain. But he wasn’t the one shouting.

“Colm! Colm! Colm!” He knew that voice. Sophie. The neighbor pulled back. His little sister was around him, hidden in his chest. He was supposed to protect her. How could he do that now? He leaned in, his arms barely around her.

“I’m sorry, Sophie,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I failed.”

the vice 1

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Philo leaned against the ropes of the theater’s curtain. The show was running on the lit stage in front of him. That’s how it always was. Philo stuck to the corner. No one would think about who built the set or who was running the lights. They would watch the actors pantomiming human emotions. They would be entertained. They might laugh. They might cry. All the while forgetting what the play really was. A fake.

The stage manager walked up to Philo.
“Get ready for the set change,” she ordered. Philo nodded. “Remember, the
prince goes offstage and we need to get the bed on as quickly as possible. I know this is just a rehearsal, but you know what they say: practice like you play.”

Philo nodded again, but he wasn’t listening.

The pain was crawling through his toes. It shot though his legs, and now it
was crawling again. Higher, higher, his navel, his ribs. His heart.

It stabbed.

His chin met his knee. He barely heard the stage manager’s voice as it trickled
down to him.

“Philo, are you are right?” He focused on his eyes. His jaw muscle’s strained.
His joints screamed as he straightened out and brushed Dora off.

“I’m fine…just…leave me alone…” He ran, or that’s what he planned to do. He
only stumbled a couple steps before he slammed into a row of lockers.

He was going to die.

This is what happened when you forgot to take the drug. You died. Philo was
going to die. Then they’d all know. They’d know that the vice had grabbed him
around the neck. He could almost hear their voices now.

“He seemed like such a nice guy.” It was always seemed with the drug deaths.

None of them were nice, but they all had seemed that way. The only kindnesses the deceased would get were the denials. “It can’t be. I don’t believe it,” like being on the Drug made them a different person, like it made all their good deeds go away.

Now Philo was heading to that same place, to that same despair in death. His
head was spiraling, his vision blackening.
Cold glass pressed into his palm. He dared not look. It felt like the Vice, [his
savior now]. But what if it wasn’t?

He opened his hand. A blue liquid shimmered at him.

It was the Drug. His blurred eyes caught a brown head of hair. The head turned and nodded. He didn’t have time or energy to follow his savior, but now he
had the drug. He could live, at least for now.

the philosopher’s agenda 3

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“I just can’t pretend anymore,” he cried, turning back to confront her with the lines of anguish on his brow. She looked at him and stepped slowly out onto the deck; her face as usual held no clue to the inner tumult of emotion ardently felt.

“Maybe we don’t have to pretend.”

Alfie held his breath, bated, in his throat, afraid a stray exhale would blow away the possibility it had suddenly occurred to him to hope for. His hand drifted outward in tenuous question. But it remained as far away from her waist as it was from his own. He knew with a stinging realization that if her words did not mean what he hoped, he would cry, and he would cry in front of her.

With stiff face, Rosemary answered the delicate question, catching his wrist and pulling it slowly to her waist. So complete was his disbelief that he required similar encouragement to rest his other hand opposite the first.

Slowly and ritualistically, Aflie bent his head and kissed on the forehead a girl he had admired for months, if not years.

In slow and trembling voice he asked, “How was that?” Rosemary could not keep a smile from shifting visibly under the carefully kept mask of her face.

“Better than Alchemy.” And with similar ritual, the alchemist kissed Alfie gently on the corner of his jaw. He shivered unexpectedly, the combination of excitement and disbelief traveling violently through him.

Rosemary leaned closer and her whisper was softer. “How was that?” Alfie closed his eyes, pressing his chin into the hand she had rested on his neck.

“Better than sex.”

the windy city 0

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“I was following the pack
All swallowed in their coats
With scarves of red tied round their throats
To keep their little heads
From falling in the snow
And I turned round and there you go
And Michael you would fall
And turn the white snow red as strawberries
In the summertime”
-“White Winter Hymnal” by Fleet Foot Foxes

Sinfi
The caravan was broken. It had never been broken before. It had been burned, cracked, cut, and bruised, but never broken. But now the red and gold pieces had caved in, fallen over and up, crushed ships in a dark, white-capped sea.

Sinfi’s blue dress lapped around her ankles, chasing her, demanding that she follow the others.

The others ran ahead, colors dancing a fast, rich, dangerous dance. The yellows leaped and turned white. The reds stomped and turned black. The oranges twirled and turned grey.

But the dance behind them followed, faster, richer, more dangerous. The broken wood turned to flame, the flame danced, but it did not turn white, not black, not even grey.

A small solo lilted away from the fire, his voice rising and falling in tiny pants and
fast heavy footsteps. Sinfi fought against the current: the crowd, her dress, the fire. She reached back.

“Hurry Hanzi,” she urged. “Run.” His dark eyes reached for hers, but his feet
stumbled. They were right behind him.
They didn’t dance. They struck. Hanzi’s head fell to the white-capped waves, red
capped sea. Neither would part, and neither would hold back the Pharaoh’s men.

Sinfi let the current carry her, and she moved on, a steel skiff that knew how to
brave a winter storm.

Hanzi was gone, and the caravan was broken.

quarantine 0

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Part 1 – Breaking the Dragon from Her Cave

The Fox Escapes

The air was hard. Neal Grover breathed in steel air conditioning and let his
heart run under his steel-tipped jaw. First day. He was stationed at the quarantine island.

He had heard stories about the terrible disease that raged there, so many different stories that he had sometimes doubted that the disease could be real. But that was ridiculous. Why have a quarantine island and no disease? He could never answer why such an island would need guards in the first place. But it wasn’t his job to ask questions, or to answer them.

His cold walk brought him finally to the overseer’s office. The overseer was a man in his late thirties that could only be described as gruff. He seemed disgruntled even before he caught sight of Neal. He didn’t look any happier to see a new guard. Neal took a deep breath. Steel, he reminded his jaw. Steel, he reminded his heart.

“Name?” the overseer snapped.

“Neal Grover, sir.” The overseer rolled his eyes.

“Sir…yes you are new. They never bother with that courtesy anymore.” He sighed wearily. “Past experience, Grover?

“None, sir.”

“Good, fresh out of the academy. They are getting thin. The guards I get are greener and greener each year.” Neal’s eyes darted around the room. He wasn’t sure if he was expected to answer or if that would make this already disgruntled man even more disgruntled. The overseer shook his head. “No matter, we’ll train them, always have, always
will. Mycha!” he called. A guard sauntered into his office in answer

“That’s alright, Mycha, don’t hurry it would make my day too easy.” Mycha only grinned in answer. She crossed
her arms.

“What do you want, Boss?” she asked. The overseer pointed at Neal.

“This is Grover, Neal Grover. He’s fresh and untrained. Take him for a tour and show him the ropes.” Mycha grinned in answer.

“Easy enough. Where’s he stationed?” The overseer sighed and looked at his
scribbled notes.

“I hate to do this, but we’re short staffed in the Dangerous Animal sector. He’ll go
there.” Neal blinked rapidly. Dangerous animals? This was a Quarantine island, not a menagerie. Mycha shrugged.

“Your job, not mine, Boss.” She turned back to Neal. “Come on, Grover, you’ve got a lot of touring to do.” She left the room quicker than she had sauntered in, leaving Neal to scramble to catch up. His jaw loosened as urgency overtook his first-day nerves.

“Wait! Hold on.” Mycha turned back to him. “What does he mean, dangerous
animals? I thought this was a quarantine island.”

“Okay, Grover, I’ll cut you a break today, since you’re greener than grass on the
other side of the fence. Lesson one, newbie, this is not a quarantine island.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a place we hold a very special type of person.” They were walking through a
different hallway with hard air and grey walls.

“What kind of person is that?” They reached an iron door, locked from the outside.

“It’s where we keep shapeshifters,” she said and swung the door open.

curse of the magi 27

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Hovsep was pacing his room along the same pattern he always paced it. Back corner, front corner, side middle, back corner. A perfect triangle. There was no thread left on the carpet there.

He turned around as the door creaked open.

“Elia.” He smiled with half of his mouth. “You’re here.”

“It’s good to see you too.” She gave him a half smile back. “Where are they? Hovsep pointed to the door behind her.

“Holding cells.” Elia nodded and followed him into an all-silver holding room. She
shifted uncomfortably, she could already feel the deadly metal sapping her energy, but she had been trained for this. A barrier spell insulated her magic, but she would have to make contact with the guard to put her under a sleeping spell.

The guard jumped to her feet.

“What is your business here?” she demanded. Hovsep shook his head.

“You don’t recognize us? Seriously?” The guard raised her eyebrow.

“No…”

“Well we have explicit orders to talk to the two in cell 3.” The guard shook her head.

“I’m going to have to confirm with HQ.” Elia shook her head.

“No need, I have written permission. One sec it’s right-“ Hovsep stuck his foot out
and Elia tripped onto the guard. As soon as she made contact, she pushed a sleeping spell onto the surprised woman who slumped gently to the ground.

He made eye contact will her, nodded, and he spoke without words. You’ve got this. Elia nodded back and leaned over the guard. As she turned her back, Hovsep slipped out and the door clicked shut. Elia unthreaded the key marked with a three from the leather key ring. She quickly unlocked the door, her heart racing.

There were two people in the cell , but hardly any movement. When the door swung in, the brown haired one raised his dark blue eyes, but the hazel-eyed ginger only curled tighter into a fetal position.

“Who are you?’ the brown haired boy croaked.

“I’m Elia, and I’m here to help.”

curse of the magi 26

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Elia edged up to the palace gates at 2315.

The palace guard gave her a suspicious glare. She glared back.

“I’m here to visit Hovsep.” The palace guard laughed.

“Very funny, now get out.”

“I’m being serious, call him if you want.” The guard raised his eyebrow as he picked up the intercom phone.

“Hello. Visitor for Hovsep.” His voice crackled over the intercom.

“Yup, send her in.” The guard slammed down the phone and grudgingly hit the
button that opened up the gate. Elia raised her eyebrows at him and went through.