Prompt: What price magic? Part 3

 …Continued from Part 2

I nodded and shook his hand, pressing into it a few of Suphora’s and my hard-earned coins from my honest work in the market.

I found Suphara surrounded by kind women, who dried her tears and brushed out her hair, braiding it into the long coils they once again wrapped around her delicate neck. I went to the baker and bought the rest of his day-old bread to share with them, to thank them for mothering her for a little while.

That night, we curled up together by the fire, and I held both her hands together in mine. “Suphara, why did you tell the medico you never breathed the poison smoke? You told me the first night we met about how the infidels burned your village and your parents died from breathing the smoke after they brought you here.”

She began to cry. “I didn’t want those memories, so I used them for my magic.” She sniffled and pulled a hand free to wipe her eyes and nose on her sleeve.

“I don’t understand,” I complained, thinking about her magic. “How do you use memories for your magic?”

She sat up and rested her hands on her knees. “There is always a price for magic,” she said. “Each time I use magic, it costs a memory.

“Every time? What do you mean, it costs a memory?”

“I don’t remember that memory anymore. That’s why I separate my memories every day, into those I want to keep, and those I want to use.”

I remembered her hands moving the first time we met, and suddenly it all fell into place. But… “Then you should not use so much! You'll use up all your memories!”

She dropped her head and said softly, “It doesn’t matter. I don’t have that many good memories to keep. Better to use them for magic that helps make our lives better, don’t you think?”

Exhausted by the day, we lay down. She rested her head on my shoulder and fell asleep. I still held her hand and listened to her breathing. Before I fell asleep, I whispered, “It’s okay. I’ll remember them for you, then.”

To be continued?

Dogs in house:	Houdini
Time writing	~1 hour
June word count	9,012

Prompt: What price magic? Part 2

 …Continued from Part 1

And just like that, we were inseparable. Suphara was eight, and her parents had brought her into the city last spring, after the infidels burned their village. But they had both inhaled too much of the poison smoke, and they died when the air turned cold a few months later.

She’d been on her own for over a year when we met. From that day, we took care of each other, often sleeping in the basement where we first met, roaming all over the city. Suphara convinced me not to steal, because she could always produce food on demand, or light a fire. She never seemed reluctant to do so, and I never gave a second thought to her magic. Soon the market owners began to trust I was no longer a thief, and they paid me to run errands and help them. I forgot all about what she said when we first met. If anything, I remembered the pomegranate.

But she told me about her parents the first night we lay together by the fire I built and she lit, as we shared stories for hours before we fell asleep, hands entwined. So I was puzzled when, some months later, we waited in line to see one of the infrequent visiting medicos who setup camp in the market square and freely offered their services to any in need.

When it was our turn, Suphara clutched my hand so tightly it hurt. I told the medico we were brother and sister, and could I stay to comfort her? He nodded gravely as he unwrapped her long braids from around her neck. They draped almost to the floor, and her skin was pale and wrinkled from their weight. As he listened to her heart and to her breathing, he frowned. “My child, have you been exposed to the poison smoke of the infidels from across the sea? I fear I hear it in your lungs, and there is an irregular pattern to your heartbeat.”

Suphara said, “No, sir. I have not.”

I started and pulled my hand free of hers in confusion. “What are you talking about? You told me they burned your village!”

She paled and jumped up, running from the room with her braids trailing behind her. I ran to the doorway and saw one of the market women grab her into a tight embrace as Suphora sobbed on her shoulder. Turning back to the medico, I asked, “Why would she not tell you the truth?”

He shrugged. “Memory can be a funny thing. Sometimes, when memories are too terrible, it’s better to forget them. But this is dangerous for her. She must never take even one more breath of the poison smoke, or it could kill her. She might not want to remember why, but she must remember that. Will you help her?”

Continued in Part 3…

Dogs in house:	Houdini
Time writing	~1 hour
June word count	8,975

Prompt: What price magic? Part 1

I was ten when I met Suphara. On the streets for three years already, I knew all the best hiding places and escape routes around the market. I was running away from fat old Bophat, who ran faster than you’d think he should, when I ducked under the city’s terra cotta water pipes and dropped into the basement of one of the Sepphir’s  abandoned warehouses.

But the basement wasn’t abandoned, and I rolled behind a support column, trying to breather silently though my lungs were begging for more air. I’d only gotten a glimpse of someone, and when I heard no noise, I finally leaned around the column for a peek.

A girl sat cross-legged on a woven mat. Her eyes were closed, her traditional braids were wrapped around her neck, and her hands were out in front of her. She held then both palm up, then turned her right hand over and pushed it to the side. Then her left hand turned over and pushed down almost to the ground. Her right hand flipped upright and lifted above her head, then slid to the left as far as she could reach without turning. What was she doing? I crept closer.

“I’m sorting memories,” she said quietly, and I was so surprised that I almost fell back on my rear end. I didn’t speak out loud, did I?

“No, but you think very loudly,” she said; and when she smiled, I fell in love. With a shake of my head, I tried to push that thought down somewhere where she wouldn’t hear it. While I was thinking about that, I finally heard what she had first said.

“Sorting memories?” I asked. “Why?”

She kept her eyes closed and her hands moving. I watched, fascinated.

“Because some I want to keep, and some I will use,” she said. Opening her eyes, she drew her hands together, fingertips cupped as if she held something. The air shimmered, and I squinted to see what she was doing. She opened her hands, and a pomegranate rested on her palm, large and red. My mouth watered at the sight.

“How did you do that?” I asked in wonder.

She laughed. “Magic, of course, silly.” She tore open the fruit and handed half of it to me. I scooted closer and pulled it out of her hand.

“Can you teach me,” I asked, sucking on a handful of the rich seeds. “That would be so awesome!”

Laughing again, she said, “I don’t think so. You either have magic or you don’t. If you don’t know about it by now, I don’t think you have it,” she said thoughtfully, spitting out a few pits.

She didn’t tell me the price then, and I was so excited about the pomegranate and the idea of magic, that I forgot what she said about sorting memories.

Continued in Part 2…

Dogs in house:	Houdini
Time writing	~1 hour
June word count	8,975

Prompt: Love for You

Thanks to Katarina Zirine for permission to use her beautiful "Love for You"!

Seriana swept her outstretched fingers over the tall golden-red grass as she walked across the field under the brilliant sunset colors of the clouded skies. Her shoulders twitched as her gossamer wings fluttered behind her. Slender and clear, they would not carry her for many moons, until she had chosen her life’s purpose. By then, they would have stretched and grown thick and strong, bold and jewel-toned like her mother’s, or delicately tinted like her sister’s.

“Why don’t males have wings?” she had asked as a child. Her mother had laughed out loud, and her sister had giggled behind her hands, but they didn’t have an answer that made any sense to Seriana.

With no males in the House, Seriana could only watch them from a distance. Her sister seemed incurious, but she was about most things except their mother’s power. Seriana had no heart for political games. She wanted to explore the world. She wanted to understand. Everything.

Her childhood wings had withered and fallen off two winters past. She had buried them and danced with her crèche-mates under the next full moon, before she returned home to her mother’s House for the first time. She missed her friends, their laughter, their play, their touch.

Her mother only touched her to spin her around after supper and examine her budding crystal wings. “Hmm,” she would mutter, or a casual “Good” as she patted Seriana’s back, then turned away. Seriana had dreamed of her mother’s love for as long as she could remember. Now she cried herself to sleep at night and pined for her crèche.

A tall stalk of grass seed tucked between her thumb and finger, jolting her from her reverie. She stripped the seeds from the stalk in a smooth pull and held them in her palm. Looking up at the moon, already glowing in the darkening sky, she made her first choice toward her life’s purpose.

Sweeping aside her long golden curls, she bent her lips closer. “I have love for you. Find me.” She blew the delicate red seeds, and they fluttered into the air, opening into tiny hearts as they drifted away. Unseen behind her, the edges of her clear wings faded to a delicate ink, and then purple…

Dogs in House	Houdini
Music	Sting, “St Agnes and the Burning Train” and “Fragile”
Time writing	~35 minutes
May word count	9,796

Prompt: a secret agent, her ex-girlfriend and a talking cat who knows a secret

Midnight Black flattened himself on the high ledge, growling as he peered down at the car below. Its headlights made a show of the rain. All four doors opened, spilling light onto the glistening pavement. Large men climbed out, and one in the back reached inside and pulled out Jessie. She had a hood over her head, but Blackie would know her anywhere. The man grabbed her arm and shook her roughly, pulling her around the car. They all walked inside the building on the other side of the street.

Black slunk along the ledge, considering his options. The building was wide across the front, and short. Chances were, he’d see a light come on when they reached their destination. There. Four floors up from where he lay, in the corner. Time for backup.

#

Karen shifted her grocery bags into her left hand, along with the unwieldy umbrella, shaking her key ring from around her wrist down into her right palm. Climbing the steps to her brownstone, she was surprised to see a familiar figure waiting by the door. She looked around hopefully, but there was no one else in sight.

As she unlocked the door, Blackie wound around her ankles, soaking wet and meowing pitifully. “Hi stranger. Come on, don’t get my legs all wet. What are you doing here?”

The cat followed her in, then ran up the stairs ahead of her, stopping at her door. “Okay, of course you can come in. I probably have some tuna.”

Karen unlocked her apartment door and left her umbrella in the hallway, following Blackie inside. She didn’t bother turning on the light, dropping her keys on the console table by the door and carrying her grocery bags into the kitchen. She opened a cabinet door and pushed aside a few cans. “Yes, tuna. How about it.”

“No time for that, Karen. Jessie’s in trouble.”

Karen dropped the can with a clatter on the counter and spun around to stare at Blackie.

TBC?

Dogs in House	Eggs
Time writing	15 minutes
April word count	11,790

Prompt: This Stone is Left Behind

Once again inspired by Los Dave’s Stone Dead Forever project.

 

I thought

I was steady

In your hands

But I slipped through

Your fingers

I fell

And fell

I thought you would pick me up

Take me with you

But you stepped away

And didn’t look back

I wait

And wait

And think maybe

Today you will return

Maybe tonight

Maybe

Tomorrow

 

Dogs in House	Houdini
Music	Psych musical

 

Prompt: I hate to cry

I sat outside in the carriage until Hoover whined, restless in his rig. I shook my head and climbed down, unclipped the three clasps that held the harness in place along his long spine, and let it fall to the ground. He ran into the darkness without a second glance, and I walked away. It would all have to wait.

Inside, Jackson coo’d and rubbed against my calves as I made tea in the kitchen. I said nothing, choosing to leave the house quiet while I did everything myself. I even washed out the strainer and set it on the ledge to dry. Carrying the tea into the den, I almost spoke out of habit, but bit my tongue and started the fire with a flick of my finger rather than a waking spell. I sank down on the cushions, balancing my tea as I sipped the fragrant brew. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the scent of Earth teas. I called them by name, but none of the flavors remained in my memory.

I began to cry, racking sobs that pushed against my chest and tightened my forehead in a vise. Jackson pressed up against me, cooing concern. I couldn’t even stroke him for comfort. I gripped the tea mug so tightly I thought I might crush it between my palms. “I hate crying,” I ground out, gasping for breath and trying to relax and bring myself under control. I couldn’t spell this way, that was for sure. Who knew what I might do, trying for the simplest boiling water or bedside lamp?

It didn’t last long. Years of control slipped back in place, deep breathing calming my rapid heart and loosening the grip around my head. I gestured with my left pinkie and drew tissues out of the aether, blowing my nose and grimacing as my sinuses drained. I hated crying.

“Now,” I said to the room, when I was breathing calmly, with no trace of hiccups. “Let’s fix this…”

Dogs in House	Houdini
Time writing	20 minutes
February word count	11,243