| SORCEROUS SIGNALS |
| Written by Aspen deLainey / Artwork by Lee Kuruganti |
| Tombs for Tomes |
“Conplosi apage,” Magellan intoned as he entered his computer room. The lights immediately lit, the
computer loaded. He sat before the screen, confident that today he would finally receive an acceptance.
His email slowly opened, showing fourteen spam and two inbox emails. He opened those first.
‘Get 15% off any second suit this week only,’ the email promised. Magellan promptly deleted it.
He crossed his fingers as he opened his second, from a publisher. It read:
‘Thank you so much for your submission to the anthology. I’m sorry to tell you that your story was not
selected. I had a number of really great submissions, and it was a very, very tough decision. Ultimately,
the stories I chose fit better with the direction I wanted to take the anthology.
I’m sorry I don’t have better news, but I thank you for thinking of us, and I wish you the very best of
luck with your writing.’
Magellan glared at his screen. “Another damn PFO. I am as good as anything they’ve ever seen. Probably
better,” he grumbled, pulling up his contest folder to find the next publishing contest he wanted to enter.
As the computer loaded his file, Magellan flipped through his snail mail. A slim envelop from a publisher
caught his eye. He dropped the rest of the mail in his hurry to open the missive. This could be the
acceptance.
Lush paper unfolded to reveal a rich letterhead of the major publishing house.
‘Dear Sir,’ it began. ‘We regret to inform you we are not accepting new or unpublished authors at this
time. Once you have established yourself in the publishing world, please send us an updated resume with
your accomplishments. At that time we will be happy to appraise your manuscript. Sincerely,’ signed by
an editor.
Magellan cursed loudly. “Damn, damn, damn!” He rose, kicking the chair, the desk, the filing cabinet.
“Another one bites the dust. It’s catch twenty two. You have to be an established author before anyone
will look at your writing. There’s too damn many authors out there! Publishers don’t spend nearly
enough time reading through beginner’s works before they send out these letters.
“What really needs to happen?” he mused, “Hmmm. Maybe if once an author dies, all his works are
recalled, never to be read again. Wonder if I could do that? Then I’d be publishable. Everybody I read on
that forum says they feel the same way. I could make us all happy. Just get rid of any dead authors’
works. Jeez, I hated reading all that old stuff while I was in school. Should have been destroyed when
they died, I swear. I’d be doing everyone a favor. Wonder how I’d manage this?”
Deep in thought, Magellan wandered out of the study, into his library. He sat in his favorite chair, waving
at the fire. “Arsi,” he ordered. Obediently the fire roared.
From the table beside him, he drew his old grimoire, leather tooled, gold edged, belted and locked. He’d
been writing in this book since he was an apprentice. It held all his spells, workable and not—with the
reasons for failure written in dark green script. He browsed, flipping the pages.
About halfway through the book, Magellan thought he saw a way. Maybe not all the way, but a
beginning. If he spliced parts of a settling ghost spell, not the exorcism part, the literature part of the
quill spell, and maybe, just maybe his own impromptu ideas, carefully worked out, he might get a spell to
disable their works. It’d be a great spell, if it worked. If it didn’t, well he’d just get another letter from the
Wizard Council to clean up his act. No big deal.
Magellan carefully bookmarked those spells he thought he might use. Bibliorts in any magical book had to
be chosen with utmost care. He employed blank vellum for that purpose.
Extraneous words could be dangerous in those books. If they interspersed themselves, accidentally of
course, within a spell, the spell could be activated. Even though no one had spoken the words.
Magellan still had several glass bell containers clapped around strange manifestations; like the matchbook
cover with careers printed on the inside he’d used to mark his place while he was retrieving materials for
an enactment. For some reason, the locksmith ad had interacted with his ‘honey I’m home’ spell. Badly.
Now the paper cover, vacuum sealed into its own bell, desperately tried to escape and open every exit,
not just in his home. He’d sealed it in with ten bicycle locks to keep it at least somewhat happy. He
reinforced the spell around that bell at least monthly, just to ensure it stayed trapped. One day he had
to sit and work out a spell to deactivate that spell. If he only knew what exactly had happened.
His large mantle clock chimed the hour, disrupting his thoughts. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be late for
his show. Master Magicians were never late. The fickle public might turn their backs and disbelieve. Then
he’d be forced to get another mundane job.
Not a good thought.
Magellan had been fired from many mundane jobs. Somehow he’d always managed to screw up, like the
time he’d spelled the machine at a coffee shop to serve by itself, cups of coffee. Unfortunately, he forgot
to have them turn themselves off at closing. The sinks plugged, but the machines kept on refreshing
their coffee every hour, on the hour. The floor had been awash with cold brews by morning. Every mug
overflowing, some creamed and sugared. He’d lasted in that job long enough to clean up, then the
manager sent him on his way.
Now he refused to put his mageship qualifications on his resume—safer for everyone. He wouldn’t be
asked to perform any particular magic spells, and if something went wrong, he wouldn’t be held
responsible—he hoped.
Magellan grabbed his portable scrying glass, the quill he had been spelling last night along with bright
green post-it notes. He settled his top hat and cape. “Mellis exeo sum sedes,” he called as he shut the
door. He could hear all the locks settle into place as he raced down the steps.
His bike, parked under the streetlight, quivered as it felt him mount. “Porsus pulpiti,” he commanded as
he lifted his feet off the ground. The bike pedaled itself furiously, steering towards his current
employment, a bar where they let him show magic tricks to half-drunk customers and pass the hat. He
actually was making a name for himself, getting quite popular. Lately on Friday and Saturday nights
people lined up to see his tricks.
He had a deal with the establishment. He’d been asked to spell one of the draft barrels to serve lowering
alcohol content beer throughout the night, without losing its taste. Management reasoned it sobered up
the customers. Well, that’s what they thought. In reality, he’d developed a spell that vanished the
alcohol after fifteen minutes, no matter where it was, as long as it was out of the barrel. Magellan figured
he kept the management and customers happy, and still had sober customers after a night of drinking.
Everybody won.
That spell he’d developed for his own weight loss program. Magellan wanted happy clients. He figured if
his clients could eat whatever they wanted, and still lose weight, they’d buy his prepackaged foods. But
the FDA never approved the disappearing calories trick. They didn’t believe in it at all. All Magellan wanted
to do was help, and earn money so he could follow his one true dream. He wanted his clients to buy their
main courses from him. He’d spelled the fats and all extra calories to disappear one hour after
consumption. He even eliminated extra salt. And he always instructed the clients to eat a salad first—a
large salad. He’d called his diet foodstuffs ‘Time Bits’. It really worked, of course. Everyone on the diet
lost weight, even though his clients weren’t actually dieting. They just didn’t have the time to fully digest
the food before it disappeared. And all his customers loved the diet. Magellan knew of several mages who
still used his spell.
The bike screeched to a halt, resting against the wrought iron railing of the club stairs. Already there was
a line-up. He jumped off, greeting the bouncer as he ran down the stairs. He still had to clip the scrying
glass on his ring before the show.
Gerald, the club owner, pulled out his pocket watch as Magellan scurried backstage. “Just under the
wire,” he complained. “Magellan, it would be nice if you came a wee bit early. Sally and I wanted to have a
chat before the show.”
“I’ll stay after, for just for a bit,” Magellan promised as he closed his wardrobe door. He sat at the
makeup mirror to enlarge his eyes. He used to wear a turban, but decided it looked too phony. Now he
donned huge gold loops in his ears, tied a cravat around his neck, tucking it under his fitted vest, rolled
up the sleeves of his white shirt and removed his sundial. Then he decided to leave that timepiece on.
Some of his magic tricks could use the gnomon for a fulcrum. Maybe he’d surprise everyone with one of
them tonight. But he had found, during his tenure on stage, he needed to get a read on that night’s
audience. He didn’t script each night. The tricks all depended on his audience.
Over the door a light glowed, Gerald’s idea of a stage cue. Magellan fixed the scrying glass to the ring
band on the palm side of his finger. He pocketed the crystal ball and quill, before grabbing his stage
staff. He walked on stage murmuring, “Conluceo,” as he thumped the end on the floor. The crowd
gasped as the staff glowed, runes flickering up and down, crawling designs. This was a show staff, just
fancy stuff. His working staff stayed at home for the most part.
His cape billowed as he stalked into the spotlight. He touched the brim of his hat. It rose, hovering;
turned over and floated to the back of the room where it sat on the stool set up just for it.
“Natus sum,” he ordered. A waist high, ornate table tottered over on spindly legs to share the spotlight
with him.
He unpocketed the tiny crystal ball, touched it with his staff, “Augesco!’ he directed, holding his hand
over it. The ball cloaked itself in a green mist as it grew to larger than full size. The mist dispersed.
“Morari ibi,” he instructed. The globe hovered just enough off the surface for his audience to see.
“Commorari,” he murmured, letting go of the staff. It hovered behind him, looming as if it was peering
over his shoulder.
He placed the blank post it notes and quill on the table in front of the hovering globe. “Perscribo,” he
intoned.
Then he turned to his audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice gently carried over the hushed whispers in the lounge. “Tonight we will
seek answers from beyond to your questions. We do, however, request no relatives be summoned.
Tonight, tonight gentlebeings, we will instead look for the lost, the misplaced. I guarantee the answers
will be as truthful as the questions. Your lost will be located. If the item is not exactly where the ball
explains, I will read it again for you next week, free of charge. Please stand, one at a time and tell us,” he
gestured at himself and the ball, “exactly when you last saw the item. We need a clear mental picture of
your lost item, as well as you can describe it.”
A heavily made up woman stood first. “I lost my virginity. I don’t remember exactly how. Could you tell
me?”
Laughter swept through the room.
Magellan frowned. “I did mean actual physical items. Though I suppose we can consider the hymen a
physical item.” He placed his hand against the hovering ball, scrying glass angled so he could see. “Ratus
sum,” he thundered.
The ball glowed purple, hazed over and hummed as if in thought. Magellan watched his scrying glass.
“You lost your virginity in the parking lot of your high school. You were in the back seat of a yellow T-
bird with a young man. You were wearing a striped skirt which you did not take off, just lifted.
“Next, questor please.”
The woman colored. The man beside her protested, “You told me you were a virgin when I married you!”
“I thought I was. I hadn’t done anything for a long time. I thought it grew back,” she retorted.
The audience chuckled.
A young man stood, prodded by his date. “I lost my wedding ring. I took it off somewhere last summer.
Can you see it?”
Again the ball glowed purple. “It is at the bar where you removed it,” Magellan informed him. He opened
his mouth to give exact directions. The young man assured him that now he remembered. Magellan
smirked. He knew that bar kept a snifter for rings during Stampede for all the married people who
wanted to pretend, just during carnival, they weren’t married.
Several other customers asked for small items. Magellan found watches, rings, shoes, an heirloom
necklace, hidden money, lots of other jewelry, and hats. His post it notes answers, written by the quill,
tore off, floated through the air and stuck to the questioners, detailing their item’s location.
He was getting ready to end the show when…
An older man stood. He cleared his throat several times before whispering, “I lost my daughter. Can you
see her?”
Magellan stared, startled. “When did you last see her? How old is she?” He demanded, growing angry. He
didn’t mind the virginity question at the beginning. That had been fairly obviously a joke. But this? A
daughter? How could anyone lose a daughter?
“She was seventeen. We were traveling. I stopped for gas. She went inside to grab a snack. I was tired.
I forgot to check the car when I finished filling. I drove away. I have looked for years and never found
her. This is her picture. The top one is from her seventeenth birthday, the bottom one we had aged to
what she might look like now. Maybe you can find her? We’ve tried everything else. Please try. I haven’t
anything to lose.” The man wavered on his feet, before crumpled to the chair. The pictures fluttered to
the floor.
Magellan held out his hand. “Veni!” he thundered. The pictures rose off the floor, racing towards him.
They vibrated above the glass, quivering. A purple flame shot up from the globe. Haze engulfed it and
the pictures. His scrying glass sparkled, glitter raining from it. “She lives,” he rasped through the pain of
a lost soul. The quill crept trembling over the post-it notes. It scribed an address, ripped itself off, flying
to the man. It pasted itself on the cloth of his shirt above his heart.
“I am not sure if she will be pleased to see you, but she lives there,” Magellan stated.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I will pass my hat. Any donations would be greatly appreciated.”
His hat, which had lain quietly, floated before each person who’d made a request, dipping until they paid
what Magellan believed their request should cost them.
The woman who had asked about her virginity thought to escape. The hat caught her and her escort at
the door, wobbling in front of them, effectively halting their progress, until she placed several twenties
into it, to the amusement of the rest of the audience behind her.
Magellan smoothed back his hair and straightened his cape as they left the room. “The things I have to
do for a living,” he snarled. He knew he still had an appointment with Gerald and Sally. He hoped it
wouldn’t take long. He wanted nothing more than to be at home, writing and researching. Especially
researching for the spell that would allow him to get published.
Finally the room was empty. Magellan shrunk the crystal and herded the pen, post-it notes and globe
back into his pockets. He snapped his fingers. The staff returned into his grip. He waved his hand at the
spotlight and it dimmed. He wanted this day over.
Scrying wasn’t difficult, but finding people, especially when they weren’t certain they ever wanted to be
found, drained him. She couldn’t have hidden from him. But he wondered if he had done right giving her
address to the man who said he was her father.
The bartender mixed him a soda and lime drink, bringing it to the table he sat at waiting for Gerald.
“Great act,” he commented.
Sally appeared first. She sat across from Magellan, anxiously awaiting Gerald, who sidled up bearing
drinks for them both. “Magellan, that was terrific! How do you do it?” Sally gushed once Gerald sat.
“Old family recipe,” Magellan gave her a wan smile as he joked. Sally knew he’d never tell how he
managed any of his tricks. She always asked though.
Gerald stared at the table, playing with the puddle of condensed water from his glass. “Magellan,” he
finally raised his eyes to meet Magellan’s gaze. “Son, I’ve got good news and bad news.”
Magellan raised an eyebrow.
“We’ve been bought out,” Gerald explained. “We weren’t planning on selling, but the offer was too good
to be turned down. Sally and I are going to retire. But the deal depends on you. They don’t want to buy
unless you sign a contract. They want you on stage here for at least two years, six nights a week, three
one hour shows. Son, I know we never had a contract. I didn’t figure, in the beginning, you were going
to draw the crowds you’ve brought in. Especially lately. They noticed. They want to have a marquee with
your picture and advertise your magic tricks. They want to advertise. So it’s all up to you. Sally and I
hope you will consider the offer. We’d love to retire somewhere warm. Maybe buy a trailer in one of those
hot resort towns and sit back to enjoy our old age.”
Magellan opened his mouth to refuse.
“Read the offer son. Don’t decide tonight. Take a few days. They are offering cash money up front, to
you; if you sign their contract. You won’t have to pass the hat anymore. You’ll get paid half the cover-
charge at the door and a percentage of the drinks. This place has been doing better and better since you
talked me into your magic show. You are off the next two days. Let us know on Tuesday. They will be
here to see your show and talk to you.” He took Sally’s hand, helping her up. They left the room arm in
arm, leaning into one another as if they were one.
Magellan cursed as he locked his show staff up in the warded locker at the corner of his dressing room.
He exited, climbed on his bicycle. “Itum domus,” he mumbled, tucking the contract into his cape pocket.
He would read it tomorrow; not before.
Though rain fell softly all around him on his journey home, he didn’t get more than damp. He parked his
bike against its usual lamp post, “Caveo tu,” he requested. It would be safe.
He stumbled up the stairs to his door. “Mellis versatus sum sedes,” he informed his residence. The door
unlocked.
He threw his cape onto its peg as he grabbed himself a cup of tea from a thermos he’d left ready before
the show. He sipped its warmth as he lowered himself to his armchair. He waved at the fireplace, “Arsi,”
he spoke, needing the warmth.
The grimoire, still on his coffee table, drew his attention. He needed to work on that spell for publication.
“What to do, what to do,” he mused as he flipped the pages.
With a fresh sheet of paper, his quill and the grimoire, he ran through all the enabling spells he knew,
sifting words and ideas for the best way to go about his idea.
Yes he’d start with a page spell, or maybe a verse spell. His poetry’d been turned down too. No he’d
make it a line spell. That’d get all of them, verse or prose. He’d show them! Then he’d send the works
home to roost.
His quill twitched as he sent his thought down its vein. Ah the joys of magic. He fought his subconscious
for a word here and a phrase there. He had to get just the right flavor to the spell, the right action.
The quill faithfully wrote down each of his choices, crossing them out as he changed his mind.
For hours they worked. Finally, Magellan looked over the ink splotched, lines scratched out page. “Yes,”
he crowed. “This will work perfectly.”
He picked up a clean sheet, ordering his quill to write and embellish. Every grimoire needed decorations.
Otherwise how could he remember the joy as he completed a spell. “Alius unum ambussi afae,” he
chortled. He loved to confuse people with pseudo Latin phrases. And really, didn’t that sound so much
better than ‘another one bites the dust’?
He unwound the bindings on his grimoire, adding the page within its warded covers. Didn’t want the spell
going off before he was ready. And he wanted it where he could find it again, to make notes, if it didn’t
work quite the way he’d aimed for.
“Let’s see,” he pondered. “If I don’t eat tonight, shower in rain water tomorrow, I’ll be almost ready for
tomorrow night.”
He grabbed his calendar, the one with the moon phases written on the dates. “Yes,” he approved. “It’ll
be the dark of the moon. Perfect for a dark spell. I can’t wait to see their faces. I am a genius!”
As the sun rose, Magellan fell asleep, dreaming of his delicious end game. He would become a published
author by next week at the latest. Publishers would be crying out for new authors, new works. It had
only taken frustration, perspiration and inspiration—his. Dreams could come true if you just worked at
them hard enough.
The next morning, despite hunger pains, Magellan walked himself through the spell. He rechalked his
circle. He honed his sacred knife. He found unused candles and cleaned the candle sticks. He checked to
make sure his robe was clean. The rainbarrel held enough water for his shower and to fill the goblet. For
incense he would use pages from an ancient book, rolled into cones. Fitting, he thought, for wiping out
old works.
By nightfall everything was ready. He’d memorized the steps he had to dance, the order of his activation
and his words. Nothing could go wrong.
He entered the circle, closing it behind him with his athame and chalk. He lit the candles in the proper
order, north, east, south, west, intoning his request for protection. The incense smoldered beside the
candles, held upright in the purified water. He could feel the cleansed air across his forehead, like a
breeze ready to carry his command across the world.
“Yes,” he thought. “Now!”
Pagina aput pagina
Versus aput versus
Litterae dilabor rursus ut ossuarii
He’d written those words in English first. ‘Page by page, Line by line, Letters scatter back to bone,’
before researching his Latin translation dictionary for a more appropriate incantation.
He turned as he proclaimed the words. Each corner needed addressing separately. Finished, he stood,
trembling from the effort. Time to break the circle and check.
He barely got one toe outside the warding when he felt hmself whisked away. He stopped whirling to find
himself in the middle of the largest wizard hall on Earth, alone in a bronze circle. With many unhappy
senior wizards surrounding him no less.
He watched books disappearing from the high shelves.
“What have you done, you numbskull?” The Merlin bellowed. “Show me your spell!’ He demanded.
Magellan pulled the copy he’d kept on his person, just in case he’d forgotten the word order.
The Merlin grabbed it out of his hands, spoke two words and enlarged the writing for all to see.
Magellan could just barely make out the large screen TV in the back corner. A news report showed
thousands of books raining over cemeteries. Letters bounced from the pages onto quiet graves, burying
them in alphabet mulch.
“I did it!” he crowed. “I made room for new authors!”
Every wizard in the room scowled at him.
A chair appeared behind him. Force caused him to sit. Bindings were spelled around his wrists and ankles
and a gag inserted itself into his astonished, wide-open mouth.
“Until we undo your horror, you will not move,” The Merlin promised.
The wizards grouped, studying the words Magellan had so painstakingly devised. They murmured
counter spells, disputed with each other over the effectiveness of each one.
Magellan’s pride withered until he finally heard a few grudging words of praise. “Elegant,” one whispered.
“Very concise,” another agreed.
Magellan’s chest swelled with pride. Okay. He’d screwed up big time in their eyes. But he’d done it with
flare. That was worth something.
The TV images caught his eye again. The reporters onsite chattering about Shakespeare’s real grave, as
an alphabet litter mounded over the grave of some lord. In Italy, more than one scattered grave received
DaVinci’s works.
Magellan gazed with fluttering pride. At least he had shown the world exactly where these famous writers
rested. And who should have gotten credit all these years. That had to be good for something, didn’t it?
Hours he sat, bound to the chair. Wizards came and went, apprentices sneered at him as they ran
errands for their mentors. The TV stayed on, taping the unfolding sequence of unbound books, falling to
the wayside once they’d emptied their contents. Small mountains of books at most sites. Dickens’
cemetery collapsed, the burrowed hills unable to withstand the weight of his many tomes. Shakespeare’s
gravesite, in the heart of London, was buried, overflowing onto streets as tome after tome after tome
emptied its content and like riffraff, dropped willy-nilly. Streets and sidewalks everywhere littered with
blank books.
Inside the hall, the wizards had managed to halt the outflow of their books—grimoires from eons past.
The books fluttered, covers acting as wings; up to the ceiling and down, looking for escape, looking for a
way back to their creators. The Merlin couldn’t let that happen.
And still the enclave sought a reversal.
Night fell. Magellan could see one star in an overhead skylight.
A young sorcerer exclaimed success. His work shone like a beacon as all the other wizards studied it,
trying to decipher the long term effects. They decided to try it, a rumbling of ayes, washed over Magellan.
Forty-four minds warded the bodied circle. Forty-four voices intoned the spell. Forty-four figures fell,
exhausted as the energy expanded to the four corners of the earth.
Magellan was not the only one who watched the captured books settle slowly, closing their covers one
last time before replacing themselves onto their shelves.
All eyes turned to the TV in hopes. Would the spell replace the text in all those abandoned books?
Singly, books hovered over the alphabetic coverings littering all the cemeteries. Letters fought letters in
moonlight, seeking their rightful places back in their tomes.
“This will take weeks,” The Merlin complained. His staff flared. Beds of all types lined the hall. The wizards
who accomplished the spell were lay gently to rest. As long as there were words unfettered by bindings,
these wizards’ power needed to be nearby. They were helpless until the spell ended.
Magellan sat, still bound, watching. His chair, in that bronze circle, sat in the only open spot in the hall of
beds. Apprentices and journeymen belittled and jeered him as they passed. Magellan took the scorn
manfully. Which one of them had ever tried a spell that affected the whole world? Not that he was ever
going to do that again.
Four days it took.
Four long days the wizards watched as their spell reclaimed the books. The news broadcast filmed every
one of the major authors’ books reclaim their letters and words. Scrying glasses had been set up to
keep track of all the lesser known authors’ gravesites. Wizards on the beds stirred to join in the
countdown of the final book replacement. The hall rocked with the exclamations of success as the last
book returned to its shelf.
Magellan’s chair rose above all the exhausted wizards, turning so he faced The Merlin. The Merlin had
donned his most wizardly robes, fondling his favorite staff as he sat on the ornate stone, wood and
leather seat—the wizards’ throne.
As one, all the wizards in the room turned to look upon Magellan.
Magellan quavered. He knew he could have his powers stripped for this bit of magic. Not only had he
forced every wizard in the world to lend the hall their power, acting together for maybe the first time, but
he had also unveiled their community to the mundane in a way that wouldn’t be forgotten. He put on his
bravest face. No one would ever be able to say he was a coward.
“Son,” The Merlin began. “As much as I deplore your usage of power for your own gain, I must admit
you concocted one robust spell. I do not remember any one of us managing a feat of this magnitude.
Therefore, your punishment will be served at my side, as my apprentice. You all know that for some time
I have been seeking one who could not only learn my spells, but expand on them. I think we can all see
the potential in Magellan. If he can create chaos at this level by himself, he needs to be overseen and
trained deeply.
“Any one disagree?”
Silence deadened the room. Glares of pure hatred sent by journeymen who had sought the position he
was just awarded, stabbed Magellan.
Magellan just smiled back at them. This was a punishment?
“I will undertake your training in one month. Magellan, you are hereby banished for that length of time.
You will do no second level magic during the banishment. Please take that time to put your affairs in
order,” he waved in Magellan’s direction.
As the chair fell back to the floor, it loosened all the bindings. Magellan sprawled on the floor in front of
it. He rose, dusted himself off and sauntered to a portal.
The Merlin met him at the gate. “You will be working with me four nights a week. You may keep your
mundane job on the other nights.”
Magellan raised an eyebrow.
“You still have to eat, son. I won’t pay you. This is a punishment. And you will feel punished, believe me.”
With that, The Merlin vanished.
Magellan strode through the portal, whispering home as he held a detailed picture of his desired
whereabouts in his mind’s eye. He collapsed in his chair, at home.
Before he did anything else, he needed to pen, in green ink, the mishaps that followed his newest spell.
He owed it to himself to keep careful record.
He finished with a flare, sealing the grimoire. He rose, searching through his cape for the contract Gerald
and Sally wanted him to sign. He sat to read, sipping tea he had heat spelled. The contract wasn’t bad.
He could live on the residuals. He crossed off the five nights weekly, changing it to three nights of two
shows each night. He called George, apologizing for the delay—it had been four nights rather than two,
after all.
Gerald assured him the buyers were still interested. They could meet tonight, after the show and discuss
the details.
A noise startled Magellan as he hung up the phone. A thin envelop, bearing a publisher’s logo flipped
through the air from the mail slot. Magellan immediately opened it; sure he would see another refusal.
Dear Sir,
We would be pleased to accept your manuscript into our publishing platform. Our contract is attached. If
you have any questions, do not hesitate to call. We will be glad to assist you in any way through our
publishing process. Sincerely, the editor in chief.
Magellan finally had his heart’s desire. He was going to be a published author.
computer loaded. He sat before the screen, confident that today he would finally receive an acceptance.
His email slowly opened, showing fourteen spam and two inbox emails. He opened those first.
‘Get 15% off any second suit this week only,’ the email promised. Magellan promptly deleted it.
He crossed his fingers as he opened his second, from a publisher. It read:
‘Thank you so much for your submission to the anthology. I’m sorry to tell you that your story was not
selected. I had a number of really great submissions, and it was a very, very tough decision. Ultimately,
the stories I chose fit better with the direction I wanted to take the anthology.
I’m sorry I don’t have better news, but I thank you for thinking of us, and I wish you the very best of
luck with your writing.’
Magellan glared at his screen. “Another damn PFO. I am as good as anything they’ve ever seen. Probably
better,” he grumbled, pulling up his contest folder to find the next publishing contest he wanted to enter.
As the computer loaded his file, Magellan flipped through his snail mail. A slim envelop from a publisher
caught his eye. He dropped the rest of the mail in his hurry to open the missive. This could be the
acceptance.
Lush paper unfolded to reveal a rich letterhead of the major publishing house.
‘Dear Sir,’ it began. ‘We regret to inform you we are not accepting new or unpublished authors at this
time. Once you have established yourself in the publishing world, please send us an updated resume with
your accomplishments. At that time we will be happy to appraise your manuscript. Sincerely,’ signed by
an editor.
Magellan cursed loudly. “Damn, damn, damn!” He rose, kicking the chair, the desk, the filing cabinet.
“Another one bites the dust. It’s catch twenty two. You have to be an established author before anyone
will look at your writing. There’s too damn many authors out there! Publishers don’t spend nearly
enough time reading through beginner’s works before they send out these letters.
“What really needs to happen?” he mused, “Hmmm. Maybe if once an author dies, all his works are
recalled, never to be read again. Wonder if I could do that? Then I’d be publishable. Everybody I read on
that forum says they feel the same way. I could make us all happy. Just get rid of any dead authors’
works. Jeez, I hated reading all that old stuff while I was in school. Should have been destroyed when
they died, I swear. I’d be doing everyone a favor. Wonder how I’d manage this?”
Deep in thought, Magellan wandered out of the study, into his library. He sat in his favorite chair, waving
at the fire. “Arsi,” he ordered. Obediently the fire roared.
From the table beside him, he drew his old grimoire, leather tooled, gold edged, belted and locked. He’d
been writing in this book since he was an apprentice. It held all his spells, workable and not—with the
reasons for failure written in dark green script. He browsed, flipping the pages.
About halfway through the book, Magellan thought he saw a way. Maybe not all the way, but a
beginning. If he spliced parts of a settling ghost spell, not the exorcism part, the literature part of the
quill spell, and maybe, just maybe his own impromptu ideas, carefully worked out, he might get a spell to
disable their works. It’d be a great spell, if it worked. If it didn’t, well he’d just get another letter from the
Wizard Council to clean up his act. No big deal.
Magellan carefully bookmarked those spells he thought he might use. Bibliorts in any magical book had to
be chosen with utmost care. He employed blank vellum for that purpose.
Extraneous words could be dangerous in those books. If they interspersed themselves, accidentally of
course, within a spell, the spell could be activated. Even though no one had spoken the words.
Magellan still had several glass bell containers clapped around strange manifestations; like the matchbook
cover with careers printed on the inside he’d used to mark his place while he was retrieving materials for
an enactment. For some reason, the locksmith ad had interacted with his ‘honey I’m home’ spell. Badly.
Now the paper cover, vacuum sealed into its own bell, desperately tried to escape and open every exit,
not just in his home. He’d sealed it in with ten bicycle locks to keep it at least somewhat happy. He
reinforced the spell around that bell at least monthly, just to ensure it stayed trapped. One day he had
to sit and work out a spell to deactivate that spell. If he only knew what exactly had happened.
His large mantle clock chimed the hour, disrupting his thoughts. If he didn’t leave now, he’d be late for
his show. Master Magicians were never late. The fickle public might turn their backs and disbelieve. Then
he’d be forced to get another mundane job.
Not a good thought.
Magellan had been fired from many mundane jobs. Somehow he’d always managed to screw up, like the
time he’d spelled the machine at a coffee shop to serve by itself, cups of coffee. Unfortunately, he forgot
to have them turn themselves off at closing. The sinks plugged, but the machines kept on refreshing
their coffee every hour, on the hour. The floor had been awash with cold brews by morning. Every mug
overflowing, some creamed and sugared. He’d lasted in that job long enough to clean up, then the
manager sent him on his way.
Now he refused to put his mageship qualifications on his resume—safer for everyone. He wouldn’t be
asked to perform any particular magic spells, and if something went wrong, he wouldn’t be held
responsible—he hoped.
Magellan grabbed his portable scrying glass, the quill he had been spelling last night along with bright
green post-it notes. He settled his top hat and cape. “Mellis exeo sum sedes,” he called as he shut the
door. He could hear all the locks settle into place as he raced down the steps.
His bike, parked under the streetlight, quivered as it felt him mount. “Porsus pulpiti,” he commanded as
he lifted his feet off the ground. The bike pedaled itself furiously, steering towards his current
employment, a bar where they let him show magic tricks to half-drunk customers and pass the hat. He
actually was making a name for himself, getting quite popular. Lately on Friday and Saturday nights
people lined up to see his tricks.
He had a deal with the establishment. He’d been asked to spell one of the draft barrels to serve lowering
alcohol content beer throughout the night, without losing its taste. Management reasoned it sobered up
the customers. Well, that’s what they thought. In reality, he’d developed a spell that vanished the
alcohol after fifteen minutes, no matter where it was, as long as it was out of the barrel. Magellan figured
he kept the management and customers happy, and still had sober customers after a night of drinking.
Everybody won.
That spell he’d developed for his own weight loss program. Magellan wanted happy clients. He figured if
his clients could eat whatever they wanted, and still lose weight, they’d buy his prepackaged foods. But
the FDA never approved the disappearing calories trick. They didn’t believe in it at all. All Magellan wanted
to do was help, and earn money so he could follow his one true dream. He wanted his clients to buy their
main courses from him. He’d spelled the fats and all extra calories to disappear one hour after
consumption. He even eliminated extra salt. And he always instructed the clients to eat a salad first—a
large salad. He’d called his diet foodstuffs ‘Time Bits’. It really worked, of course. Everyone on the diet
lost weight, even though his clients weren’t actually dieting. They just didn’t have the time to fully digest
the food before it disappeared. And all his customers loved the diet. Magellan knew of several mages who
still used his spell.
The bike screeched to a halt, resting against the wrought iron railing of the club stairs. Already there was
a line-up. He jumped off, greeting the bouncer as he ran down the stairs. He still had to clip the scrying
glass on his ring before the show.
Gerald, the club owner, pulled out his pocket watch as Magellan scurried backstage. “Just under the
wire,” he complained. “Magellan, it would be nice if you came a wee bit early. Sally and I wanted to have a
chat before the show.”
“I’ll stay after, for just for a bit,” Magellan promised as he closed his wardrobe door. He sat at the
makeup mirror to enlarge his eyes. He used to wear a turban, but decided it looked too phony. Now he
donned huge gold loops in his ears, tied a cravat around his neck, tucking it under his fitted vest, rolled
up the sleeves of his white shirt and removed his sundial. Then he decided to leave that timepiece on.
Some of his magic tricks could use the gnomon for a fulcrum. Maybe he’d surprise everyone with one of
them tonight. But he had found, during his tenure on stage, he needed to get a read on that night’s
audience. He didn’t script each night. The tricks all depended on his audience.
Over the door a light glowed, Gerald’s idea of a stage cue. Magellan fixed the scrying glass to the ring
band on the palm side of his finger. He pocketed the crystal ball and quill, before grabbing his stage
staff. He walked on stage murmuring, “Conluceo,” as he thumped the end on the floor. The crowd
gasped as the staff glowed, runes flickering up and down, crawling designs. This was a show staff, just
fancy stuff. His working staff stayed at home for the most part.
His cape billowed as he stalked into the spotlight. He touched the brim of his hat. It rose, hovering;
turned over and floated to the back of the room where it sat on the stool set up just for it.
“Natus sum,” he ordered. A waist high, ornate table tottered over on spindly legs to share the spotlight
with him.
He unpocketed the tiny crystal ball, touched it with his staff, “Augesco!’ he directed, holding his hand
over it. The ball cloaked itself in a green mist as it grew to larger than full size. The mist dispersed.
“Morari ibi,” he instructed. The globe hovered just enough off the surface for his audience to see.
“Commorari,” he murmured, letting go of the staff. It hovered behind him, looming as if it was peering
over his shoulder.
He placed the blank post it notes and quill on the table in front of the hovering globe. “Perscribo,” he
intoned.
Then he turned to his audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice gently carried over the hushed whispers in the lounge. “Tonight we will
seek answers from beyond to your questions. We do, however, request no relatives be summoned.
Tonight, tonight gentlebeings, we will instead look for the lost, the misplaced. I guarantee the answers
will be as truthful as the questions. Your lost will be located. If the item is not exactly where the ball
explains, I will read it again for you next week, free of charge. Please stand, one at a time and tell us,” he
gestured at himself and the ball, “exactly when you last saw the item. We need a clear mental picture of
your lost item, as well as you can describe it.”
A heavily made up woman stood first. “I lost my virginity. I don’t remember exactly how. Could you tell
me?”
Laughter swept through the room.
Magellan frowned. “I did mean actual physical items. Though I suppose we can consider the hymen a
physical item.” He placed his hand against the hovering ball, scrying glass angled so he could see. “Ratus
sum,” he thundered.
The ball glowed purple, hazed over and hummed as if in thought. Magellan watched his scrying glass.
“You lost your virginity in the parking lot of your high school. You were in the back seat of a yellow T-
bird with a young man. You were wearing a striped skirt which you did not take off, just lifted.
“Next, questor please.”
The woman colored. The man beside her protested, “You told me you were a virgin when I married you!”
“I thought I was. I hadn’t done anything for a long time. I thought it grew back,” she retorted.
The audience chuckled.
A young man stood, prodded by his date. “I lost my wedding ring. I took it off somewhere last summer.
Can you see it?”
Again the ball glowed purple. “It is at the bar where you removed it,” Magellan informed him. He opened
his mouth to give exact directions. The young man assured him that now he remembered. Magellan
smirked. He knew that bar kept a snifter for rings during Stampede for all the married people who
wanted to pretend, just during carnival, they weren’t married.
Several other customers asked for small items. Magellan found watches, rings, shoes, an heirloom
necklace, hidden money, lots of other jewelry, and hats. His post it notes answers, written by the quill,
tore off, floated through the air and stuck to the questioners, detailing their item’s location.
He was getting ready to end the show when…
An older man stood. He cleared his throat several times before whispering, “I lost my daughter. Can you
see her?”
Magellan stared, startled. “When did you last see her? How old is she?” He demanded, growing angry. He
didn’t mind the virginity question at the beginning. That had been fairly obviously a joke. But this? A
daughter? How could anyone lose a daughter?
“She was seventeen. We were traveling. I stopped for gas. She went inside to grab a snack. I was tired.
I forgot to check the car when I finished filling. I drove away. I have looked for years and never found
her. This is her picture. The top one is from her seventeenth birthday, the bottom one we had aged to
what she might look like now. Maybe you can find her? We’ve tried everything else. Please try. I haven’t
anything to lose.” The man wavered on his feet, before crumpled to the chair. The pictures fluttered to
the floor.
Magellan held out his hand. “Veni!” he thundered. The pictures rose off the floor, racing towards him.
They vibrated above the glass, quivering. A purple flame shot up from the globe. Haze engulfed it and
the pictures. His scrying glass sparkled, glitter raining from it. “She lives,” he rasped through the pain of
a lost soul. The quill crept trembling over the post-it notes. It scribed an address, ripped itself off, flying
to the man. It pasted itself on the cloth of his shirt above his heart.
“I am not sure if she will be pleased to see you, but she lives there,” Magellan stated.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I will pass my hat. Any donations would be greatly appreciated.”
His hat, which had lain quietly, floated before each person who’d made a request, dipping until they paid
what Magellan believed their request should cost them.
The woman who had asked about her virginity thought to escape. The hat caught her and her escort at
the door, wobbling in front of them, effectively halting their progress, until she placed several twenties
into it, to the amusement of the rest of the audience behind her.
Magellan smoothed back his hair and straightened his cape as they left the room. “The things I have to
do for a living,” he snarled. He knew he still had an appointment with Gerald and Sally. He hoped it
wouldn’t take long. He wanted nothing more than to be at home, writing and researching. Especially
researching for the spell that would allow him to get published.
Finally the room was empty. Magellan shrunk the crystal and herded the pen, post-it notes and globe
back into his pockets. He snapped his fingers. The staff returned into his grip. He waved his hand at the
spotlight and it dimmed. He wanted this day over.
Scrying wasn’t difficult, but finding people, especially when they weren’t certain they ever wanted to be
found, drained him. She couldn’t have hidden from him. But he wondered if he had done right giving her
address to the man who said he was her father.
The bartender mixed him a soda and lime drink, bringing it to the table he sat at waiting for Gerald.
“Great act,” he commented.
Sally appeared first. She sat across from Magellan, anxiously awaiting Gerald, who sidled up bearing
drinks for them both. “Magellan, that was terrific! How do you do it?” Sally gushed once Gerald sat.
“Old family recipe,” Magellan gave her a wan smile as he joked. Sally knew he’d never tell how he
managed any of his tricks. She always asked though.
Gerald stared at the table, playing with the puddle of condensed water from his glass. “Magellan,” he
finally raised his eyes to meet Magellan’s gaze. “Son, I’ve got good news and bad news.”
Magellan raised an eyebrow.
“We’ve been bought out,” Gerald explained. “We weren’t planning on selling, but the offer was too good
to be turned down. Sally and I are going to retire. But the deal depends on you. They don’t want to buy
unless you sign a contract. They want you on stage here for at least two years, six nights a week, three
one hour shows. Son, I know we never had a contract. I didn’t figure, in the beginning, you were going
to draw the crowds you’ve brought in. Especially lately. They noticed. They want to have a marquee with
your picture and advertise your magic tricks. They want to advertise. So it’s all up to you. Sally and I
hope you will consider the offer. We’d love to retire somewhere warm. Maybe buy a trailer in one of those
hot resort towns and sit back to enjoy our old age.”
Magellan opened his mouth to refuse.
“Read the offer son. Don’t decide tonight. Take a few days. They are offering cash money up front, to
you; if you sign their contract. You won’t have to pass the hat anymore. You’ll get paid half the cover-
charge at the door and a percentage of the drinks. This place has been doing better and better since you
talked me into your magic show. You are off the next two days. Let us know on Tuesday. They will be
here to see your show and talk to you.” He took Sally’s hand, helping her up. They left the room arm in
arm, leaning into one another as if they were one.
Magellan cursed as he locked his show staff up in the warded locker at the corner of his dressing room.
He exited, climbed on his bicycle. “Itum domus,” he mumbled, tucking the contract into his cape pocket.
He would read it tomorrow; not before.
Though rain fell softly all around him on his journey home, he didn’t get more than damp. He parked his
bike against its usual lamp post, “Caveo tu,” he requested. It would be safe.
He stumbled up the stairs to his door. “Mellis versatus sum sedes,” he informed his residence. The door
unlocked.
He threw his cape onto its peg as he grabbed himself a cup of tea from a thermos he’d left ready before
the show. He sipped its warmth as he lowered himself to his armchair. He waved at the fireplace, “Arsi,”
he spoke, needing the warmth.
The grimoire, still on his coffee table, drew his attention. He needed to work on that spell for publication.
“What to do, what to do,” he mused as he flipped the pages.
With a fresh sheet of paper, his quill and the grimoire, he ran through all the enabling spells he knew,
sifting words and ideas for the best way to go about his idea.
Yes he’d start with a page spell, or maybe a verse spell. His poetry’d been turned down too. No he’d
make it a line spell. That’d get all of them, verse or prose. He’d show them! Then he’d send the works
home to roost.
His quill twitched as he sent his thought down its vein. Ah the joys of magic. He fought his subconscious
for a word here and a phrase there. He had to get just the right flavor to the spell, the right action.
The quill faithfully wrote down each of his choices, crossing them out as he changed his mind.
For hours they worked. Finally, Magellan looked over the ink splotched, lines scratched out page. “Yes,”
he crowed. “This will work perfectly.”
He picked up a clean sheet, ordering his quill to write and embellish. Every grimoire needed decorations.
Otherwise how could he remember the joy as he completed a spell. “Alius unum ambussi afae,” he
chortled. He loved to confuse people with pseudo Latin phrases. And really, didn’t that sound so much
better than ‘another one bites the dust’?
He unwound the bindings on his grimoire, adding the page within its warded covers. Didn’t want the spell
going off before he was ready. And he wanted it where he could find it again, to make notes, if it didn’t
work quite the way he’d aimed for.
“Let’s see,” he pondered. “If I don’t eat tonight, shower in rain water tomorrow, I’ll be almost ready for
tomorrow night.”
He grabbed his calendar, the one with the moon phases written on the dates. “Yes,” he approved. “It’ll
be the dark of the moon. Perfect for a dark spell. I can’t wait to see their faces. I am a genius!”
As the sun rose, Magellan fell asleep, dreaming of his delicious end game. He would become a published
author by next week at the latest. Publishers would be crying out for new authors, new works. It had
only taken frustration, perspiration and inspiration—his. Dreams could come true if you just worked at
them hard enough.
The next morning, despite hunger pains, Magellan walked himself through the spell. He rechalked his
circle. He honed his sacred knife. He found unused candles and cleaned the candle sticks. He checked to
make sure his robe was clean. The rainbarrel held enough water for his shower and to fill the goblet. For
incense he would use pages from an ancient book, rolled into cones. Fitting, he thought, for wiping out
old works.
By nightfall everything was ready. He’d memorized the steps he had to dance, the order of his activation
and his words. Nothing could go wrong.
He entered the circle, closing it behind him with his athame and chalk. He lit the candles in the proper
order, north, east, south, west, intoning his request for protection. The incense smoldered beside the
candles, held upright in the purified water. He could feel the cleansed air across his forehead, like a
breeze ready to carry his command across the world.
“Yes,” he thought. “Now!”
Pagina aput pagina
Versus aput versus
Litterae dilabor rursus ut ossuarii
He’d written those words in English first. ‘Page by page, Line by line, Letters scatter back to bone,’
before researching his Latin translation dictionary for a more appropriate incantation.
He turned as he proclaimed the words. Each corner needed addressing separately. Finished, he stood,
trembling from the effort. Time to break the circle and check.
He barely got one toe outside the warding when he felt hmself whisked away. He stopped whirling to find
himself in the middle of the largest wizard hall on Earth, alone in a bronze circle. With many unhappy
senior wizards surrounding him no less.
He watched books disappearing from the high shelves.
“What have you done, you numbskull?” The Merlin bellowed. “Show me your spell!’ He demanded.
Magellan pulled the copy he’d kept on his person, just in case he’d forgotten the word order.
The Merlin grabbed it out of his hands, spoke two words and enlarged the writing for all to see.
Magellan could just barely make out the large screen TV in the back corner. A news report showed
thousands of books raining over cemeteries. Letters bounced from the pages onto quiet graves, burying
them in alphabet mulch.
“I did it!” he crowed. “I made room for new authors!”
Every wizard in the room scowled at him.
A chair appeared behind him. Force caused him to sit. Bindings were spelled around his wrists and ankles
and a gag inserted itself into his astonished, wide-open mouth.
“Until we undo your horror, you will not move,” The Merlin promised.
The wizards grouped, studying the words Magellan had so painstakingly devised. They murmured
counter spells, disputed with each other over the effectiveness of each one.
Magellan’s pride withered until he finally heard a few grudging words of praise. “Elegant,” one whispered.
“Very concise,” another agreed.
Magellan’s chest swelled with pride. Okay. He’d screwed up big time in their eyes. But he’d done it with
flare. That was worth something.
The TV images caught his eye again. The reporters onsite chattering about Shakespeare’s real grave, as
an alphabet litter mounded over the grave of some lord. In Italy, more than one scattered grave received
DaVinci’s works.
Magellan gazed with fluttering pride. At least he had shown the world exactly where these famous writers
rested. And who should have gotten credit all these years. That had to be good for something, didn’t it?
Hours he sat, bound to the chair. Wizards came and went, apprentices sneered at him as they ran
errands for their mentors. The TV stayed on, taping the unfolding sequence of unbound books, falling to
the wayside once they’d emptied their contents. Small mountains of books at most sites. Dickens’
cemetery collapsed, the burrowed hills unable to withstand the weight of his many tomes. Shakespeare’s
gravesite, in the heart of London, was buried, overflowing onto streets as tome after tome after tome
emptied its content and like riffraff, dropped willy-nilly. Streets and sidewalks everywhere littered with
blank books.
Inside the hall, the wizards had managed to halt the outflow of their books—grimoires from eons past.
The books fluttered, covers acting as wings; up to the ceiling and down, looking for escape, looking for a
way back to their creators. The Merlin couldn’t let that happen.
And still the enclave sought a reversal.
Night fell. Magellan could see one star in an overhead skylight.
A young sorcerer exclaimed success. His work shone like a beacon as all the other wizards studied it,
trying to decipher the long term effects. They decided to try it, a rumbling of ayes, washed over Magellan.
Forty-four minds warded the bodied circle. Forty-four voices intoned the spell. Forty-four figures fell,
exhausted as the energy expanded to the four corners of the earth.
Magellan was not the only one who watched the captured books settle slowly, closing their covers one
last time before replacing themselves onto their shelves.
All eyes turned to the TV in hopes. Would the spell replace the text in all those abandoned books?
Singly, books hovered over the alphabetic coverings littering all the cemeteries. Letters fought letters in
moonlight, seeking their rightful places back in their tomes.
“This will take weeks,” The Merlin complained. His staff flared. Beds of all types lined the hall. The wizards
who accomplished the spell were lay gently to rest. As long as there were words unfettered by bindings,
these wizards’ power needed to be nearby. They were helpless until the spell ended.
Magellan sat, still bound, watching. His chair, in that bronze circle, sat in the only open spot in the hall of
beds. Apprentices and journeymen belittled and jeered him as they passed. Magellan took the scorn
manfully. Which one of them had ever tried a spell that affected the whole world? Not that he was ever
going to do that again.
Four days it took.
Four long days the wizards watched as their spell reclaimed the books. The news broadcast filmed every
one of the major authors’ books reclaim their letters and words. Scrying glasses had been set up to
keep track of all the lesser known authors’ gravesites. Wizards on the beds stirred to join in the
countdown of the final book replacement. The hall rocked with the exclamations of success as the last
book returned to its shelf.
Magellan’s chair rose above all the exhausted wizards, turning so he faced The Merlin. The Merlin had
donned his most wizardly robes, fondling his favorite staff as he sat on the ornate stone, wood and
leather seat—the wizards’ throne.
As one, all the wizards in the room turned to look upon Magellan.
Magellan quavered. He knew he could have his powers stripped for this bit of magic. Not only had he
forced every wizard in the world to lend the hall their power, acting together for maybe the first time, but
he had also unveiled their community to the mundane in a way that wouldn’t be forgotten. He put on his
bravest face. No one would ever be able to say he was a coward.
“Son,” The Merlin began. “As much as I deplore your usage of power for your own gain, I must admit
you concocted one robust spell. I do not remember any one of us managing a feat of this magnitude.
Therefore, your punishment will be served at my side, as my apprentice. You all know that for some time
I have been seeking one who could not only learn my spells, but expand on them. I think we can all see
the potential in Magellan. If he can create chaos at this level by himself, he needs to be overseen and
trained deeply.
“Any one disagree?”
Silence deadened the room. Glares of pure hatred sent by journeymen who had sought the position he
was just awarded, stabbed Magellan.
Magellan just smiled back at them. This was a punishment?
“I will undertake your training in one month. Magellan, you are hereby banished for that length of time.
You will do no second level magic during the banishment. Please take that time to put your affairs in
order,” he waved in Magellan’s direction.
As the chair fell back to the floor, it loosened all the bindings. Magellan sprawled on the floor in front of
it. He rose, dusted himself off and sauntered to a portal.
The Merlin met him at the gate. “You will be working with me four nights a week. You may keep your
mundane job on the other nights.”
Magellan raised an eyebrow.
“You still have to eat, son. I won’t pay you. This is a punishment. And you will feel punished, believe me.”
With that, The Merlin vanished.
Magellan strode through the portal, whispering home as he held a detailed picture of his desired
whereabouts in his mind’s eye. He collapsed in his chair, at home.
Before he did anything else, he needed to pen, in green ink, the mishaps that followed his newest spell.
He owed it to himself to keep careful record.
He finished with a flare, sealing the grimoire. He rose, searching through his cape for the contract Gerald
and Sally wanted him to sign. He sat to read, sipping tea he had heat spelled. The contract wasn’t bad.
He could live on the residuals. He crossed off the five nights weekly, changing it to three nights of two
shows each night. He called George, apologizing for the delay—it had been four nights rather than two,
after all.
Gerald assured him the buyers were still interested. They could meet tonight, after the show and discuss
the details.
A noise startled Magellan as he hung up the phone. A thin envelop, bearing a publisher’s logo flipped
through the air from the mail slot. Magellan immediately opened it; sure he would see another refusal.
Dear Sir,
We would be pleased to accept your manuscript into our publishing platform. Our contract is attached. If
you have any questions, do not hesitate to call. We will be glad to assist you in any way through our
publishing process. Sincerely, the editor in chief.
Magellan finally had his heart’s desire. He was going to be a published author.
| Make A Donation |
Aspen started writing fiction at three, in crayon on a picture book.
She received her first negative critique soon after—a spanking. That never stopped her, just kept her writing on
‘acceptable’ pages instead. In 2010, she finally sent a story out to a publisher. She bit her nails for two whole
months, agonizing over her baby. Finally, the email came—it got accepted! She’ll never look back!
She received her first negative critique soon after—a spanking. That never stopped her, just kept her writing on
‘acceptable’ pages instead. In 2010, she finally sent a story out to a publisher. She bit her nails for two whole
months, agonizing over her baby. Finally, the email came—it got accepted! She’ll never look back!
