Short Story: A New Sorceress on the Council

Waldorf ran his be-ringed fingers over the rough gray stubble on his chin. Just a moment ago, it had been a rather magnificent beard, falling in waves to his belt. Scissors had made short work of it, and now he could comfortably run a razor over what remained. His magic could have done the job well enough, but after two hundred years, Waldorf knew better than to try doing anything that close to his face with magic.

Gazing into his scrying orb, the wizard examined his jaw line as the razor glided through the cream on his cheeks. How had he forgotten his weak jaw line? His neck looked like an iguana's. Shaking his head, Waldorf pushed the orb with a stream of golden magic, adjusting its angle of observation to better see what he was doing.

Waldorf could hear his wife moving about the tower beyond the stout wooden door of the washroom he stood in. Here a stair squeaked, there a cupboard opened, then shut. He glanced surreptitiously at the thick iron lock, not knowing exactly why he was nervous. He was only shaving his beard after all... perfectly normal thing to do. The blade nicked a wattle on his skinny neck, and he grimaced. Slapping a handful of greenblane on the tiny cut, he moved the razor onward, working away at the scruff on his upper lip.

Several minutes later, Waldorf looked at the shaven lizard staring back at him in the scrying orb and sighed. Something needed to be done about his hair. This dirty gray just wouldn't do. An idea occurred to him. He glanced around, located his staff, and taking it in hand pushed open the window. A brisk summer breeze blew his long wispy hair about as he thrust his head outward, peering down the long tower wall to the second window down. His wife had a magical crock of dye down there in her sewing room, and it would be just the thing. Muttering some boring words, Waldorf waited a moment before reaching out to grasp the newly arrived stone crock that floated in front of him.

Smoothing his purple robes, he lifted the lid and sniffed the clear liquid inside, recoiling slightly at the scent. Bleh. The staff went back to leaning against the wall, and the crock was set upon the wash basin as Waldorf thought about what color his hair would soon be. Purple was obvious, it matched most of his robes. But would The Council laugh? Most likely. Brown was probably the safest color, it was what he had been born with.

Snipping carefully with the scissors, Waldorf cut his white hair short, hoping that he hadn't missed any strands on the back of his head. Any chunks of uneven hair would be covered by his wizarding hat wouldn't they? Best to not worry about it.

Now the unpleasant task of applying the dye to his head. Surely it would work, even if it was a bit unconventional. After all, his wife colored her new dresses however she liked. Removing the lid with distaste for the smell, Waldorf glanced around, wondering how to best get the magic liquid from the crock to his hair. Was there a ladle? Did he just pour it on? No, that sounded rather sloppy.

In the end, he decided to simply dip his fingers in the watery substance and rub it quickly into his hair, imagining a handsome color of brown all the while. That step was very important, requiring steady, controlled thoughts to get the desired results. Waldorf closed his eyes as he worked, the acrid smell of the dye burning his nose and throat.

Finally he opened them and gazed into the scrying orb. There was still a shaven iguana gazing back him, only this time it had a mop of jet black fluff on its head. Apparently the dye was "Extra Strength" or something. Waldorf peered at the crock dismally. A label saying so would have been nice. Still, this black was better than wild white hair and a massive beard wasn't it? Looking objectively at himself once more, he supposed he did look younger, more... dashing.

Someone cleared their throat and Waldorf jumped and glanced around, startled. His wife Delores stood in the open washroom doorway, her hands planted on her ample hips. Waldorf glanced at the treacherous iron lock, then back to his wife's eyes. Oh my.

“Delores...,” he said weakly, “I didn't know you were about....”

Waldorf's wife stared at him with blue eyes like disapproving ice cubes until he wilted. Shoulders slumped, Waldorf handed her the crock of magic dye as the black faded from his white hair. Several more moments of squinted displeasure, and Waldorf's wife slowly swung the door shut, leaving the wizard once again alone in the washroom.

He knew exactly what she would have said if she hadn't chosen the "cold silence" route: 

"Walforf you old goat! Just what do you think you're doing? You look ridiculous! Is this because of that new young thing on The Council? Well I have news for you, you besotted old fool, no twenty-year old sorceress is going to look twice at the likes of you! Now fix your hair and get to work on that weak chin of yours!"

Waldorf cringed at the thought and ran his be-ringed hand over his smooth chin as he looked in the scrying orb. It looked as if he would be growing an entire beard tonight, and by the look in Delores's eyes, he was to remain here until it was finished.

The two-hundred year-old wizard snatched up his staff as he plopped onto a stool in the corner, and settled in for a very long night.

Short Story: Darkness by the Funhouse

I thought I'd write something that wasn't fun or fantastical. I was reading an article today about job satisfaction, and how amusement park workers are among the lowest tier. It made me think about what it would really be like to be one them, and I found myself writing a short story. So here it is. Warning: there are some relatively adult subjects and language.

Seth rubbed his hands together against the cold wind. His knuckles were chapped, and small cracks were beginning to open up. His skin itched horribly, but he couldn't afford the gloves or even moisturizer to solve the problem. He blew on his numb fingers and wiped his running nose as he squinted his eyes against the wind. Red and brown leaves skittered across the asphalt and the skeletal trees creaked back and forth. It was well into November already, and even without snow, it was freezing. Raging Funland had decided to stay open through the fall this year, trying to squeeze the last few dollars out of the amusement park-going public. Seth was one of the few employees that had somehow ended up with a double shift this weekend, and he hadn't had the nerve to refuse. He was currently on hour four of his shift minding the Funhouse, pressing the cold button to advance the rail cars as people climbed in and out.

Seth knew he couldn't complain. His mother didn't work, so it was up to him to support the two of them. The extra shift would be just enough to keep the heat on for another month. Not to mention when he tried to get out of extra shifts, she yelled at him. He wasn't exactly afraid of her, she was too heavy to get off the couch, but he hated when she was mad. It was too loud. All he wanted was to be left alone when he got home, so he could go to his room without talking to her. He spent all his time in there, drawing or sitting on the bed. At least he could keep that much of the apartment clean.

A group of teenagers a couple of years younger than him walked past, laughing loudly as they waited in line outside the Funhouse. Seth watched them bitterly. They were all happy and warm, most of them attractive and probably popular. One of the girls in a pink parka was wearing tight jeans, and Seth absently watched her behind as she walked past. One of her friends glanced back and saw him, so he jerked his eyes away and scratched at a paint fleck on the black metal button stand. He felt his cheeks heat up as their laughter pummeled him. They were probably cheerleaders, and he hated cheerleaders, even if he couldn't help but watch them.

He pressed the car button again, not caring to give the mandatory safety speech. If anyone was stupid enough to stick their arm out while the cars turned a corner, it served them right. More people crowded past, their inane babble obnoxious to his ears. It was better than the Funhouse music though. Sometimes when there was no one in line, Seth could hear every off-pitch note from the metal clarion, repeated over and over. He wanted to curl up in a ball and scream. He tried his best not to.

How could all these people be happy? Seth watched the group of girls get into a car, hating himself for how much he wanted to look at them. He couldn't help it; it felt good to imagine the bodies under their clothes, and he almost never felt good. He rubbed the scars on his wrist, feeling the raised, bumpy skin. That was another thing he couldn't seem to help. His mother never noticed what he did, not even when he left the blood on the sink overnight.

"Miller!" an angry voice said suddenly from behind him, and Seth jumped. He turned around and cringed at the sight of his supervisor's bulk advancing quickly toward him. Bill Masterson had a gut that hung far over his belt, so large he couldn't zip up the ugly brown windbreaker he was wearing. He had a thick black beard like a wire brush and chew-stained teeth. The man stopped so close to Seth that his rancid breath washed over him. "Are you reviewing the safety guidelines for every group?" he demanded.

"Yes," Seth lied.

"You little shit," Bill gritted, and Seth looked at the ground quickly. "I know you aren't, I was just listening! I can't believe you just lied to me! Do you ever say it?"

"Yeah."

"Bullshit," his supervisor spat. "I warned you about this last time didn't I? My ass is on the line when you lazy piss-offs don't follow the rules! Do you want me to lose my job?"

Seth wanted very badly to say yes. He hated Bill Masterson more than anyone else, and listening to him yell was worse than his mother ever was. The man losing his job would make Seth genuinely happy for once. Instead he shook his head. "No," he whispered.

"Well it doesn't matter," Bill said, "You're fired Miller. Get your ass out of here."

Seth looked up in shock. "What?"

"You're done, dude."

"You can't, I need this job!" Seth sputtered, knowing from the stinging in his eyes that he was about to start crying.

"Not my problem," his supervisor said, raising a hand dismissively as he turned to walk away, "I'll send Rita to take over, and I want you to leave as soon as she gets here."

Seth stared at the man's retreating back, a fire flowing through his veins. He had never wanted to hurt anyone so badly as he did now. He clenched his fists until they started to shake. Bill got into a golf cart and sped off before taking a turn behind a building, where he disappeared from sight. Seth let his shoulders slump. What was he going to do? Fight Bill Masterson? He let out a gasp as impotent tears of anger fell down his cheeks.

He waited until Rita came, not even looking at the girls as they exited the Funhouse noisily, then he walked slowly back to the main office where he would turn in his Raging Funland polo shirt. What was he going to tell his mother?