What Did One Need?

 The girl was out of luck with life. Her world was too small by half, her routine an endlessness that was not so much quotidian as pain. And with that, her mind grew quiet, tired. The kind of numb that came with the pointlessness of trying to make too much of nothing very important.

    What did one need to get the luck back?

    What did one need? 

    A few things. Two dresses, two shifts. Stockings - the kind that don't scratch. Boots for Winter. Soled slippers for Summer. 

    Books.

    Food.

    She packed two small books, the other dress, the other shift, stockings, slippers.

    A loaf of bread, a cheese. Two withered apples. 

    Her whole world on her back.

    She took a step.

    The numbness faded.

    She could feel the luck.

    She said yes to the old woman who needed the help. With the potions and the other things; reading when the light faded and such. And with the sorcerer who lived around the corner. The one with the floppy hat and the big library. 

    Oh, yes. She could feel the luck. 

     

Popular posts from this blog

A Little Story About Cake

 There was once a man who baked a cake once a week. He used only the finest ingredients —rich orange egg yolks, creamy yellow butter, crunchy golden sugar, whole cream, and fine-sifted flour. Mixed together, the batter was itself a thing of beauty, but when it came out of the oven hot and cooked all the way through it was nothing short of perfection.     Though the man dearly loved to eat cake, his love was only a memory of time gone by, for he had never had a slice of his own cake. Instead, each week, he would cut the cake into seven slices, and wait to see what opportunities arose. Perhaps someone would come to tea, or a little girl would come to borrow an egg. Sometimes, especially in winter, the birds that had stayed too long would look particularly hungry, and so a slice of cake would be laid out for them, too. And, more often than anything, several slices each week would go to the old woman who lived at the end of the lane in the ramshackle house with the broke...
Read more

The Shadows

The light shown on Anya’s fingers. It curled around her palm and danced. This, she thought, was the sheer pleasure of having magic.       But in the midst of her play, a shadow grew.   It was not unexpected; it was the cost of doing magic, for it always begot shadows.   But it never ceased to offer discomfort.   If she could find a way to practice her craft and leave behind the adjacent darkness, she would.          Anya was not fond of the dark, or shadows, or of the sense of unease that grew whenever she let the flickering brightness dance.   But, too, there was a feeling of wholeness in her work.   How could that be, such fulfillment when darkness lay about her?   A constant wonder—the weight of it only born by extinguishing the light for a time until she could bear it again.       Today was such a time.          Anya took the light, and threw it at the darkness....
Read more

There Be Witches

 There was a witch. And she was young and lovely.     This was a problem, of course. Witches should not be lovely. They should be old and haggard, however benevolent their heart. There was a witch. And she was old and haggard.     This was a problem, of course. Witches would do better in the general public eye if they are young and lovely. There was a witch, and she was tired and on the bitter side of sweet.     This was a problem, of course. Witches are always better taken with when they are robustly kind. There was a witch, and she was jolly and good.     This was a problem, of course. Witches are always taken more seriously if they show how hard they've work with a piercing gaze.  There was a witch.     This was a problem, of course. There were witches. There still are.     As it happens, they eat problems for breakfast.
Read more