Tag: magic

The Bridge

https://pixabay.com/photos/bridge-fog-river-night-mist-7703146/

It only appeared in the fog, the old bridge. Not the morning fog when the rising sun burned off the surface of the river. The rare sunset mist defying the golden glow spilling over the horizon. The mist that was both there and not there, with impossible shapes darkening it. With the bridge that couldn’t be.

She had seen it before. A child’s vision, obscured by the cynicism of time. Only his disappearance had made the memory real. She hadn’t been to the river that night, when they said he drowned. She hadn’t been there, but she knew anyway. He would never have drowned.

He had crossed the bridge. Of course he had crossed. He probably just wanted to look, to know where it went, what those dark shapes in the fog became when met face to face. He wouldn’t have thought about it at all, never would have meant to leave her like that. But mist never lasted.

She could see it now, old stone glowing gold in the damp. He could come back now. Any minute she would see him, a little older, rushing back to reassure her and plead his remorse. But how would he know? What if he missed the fog as she had that night? Already the mist began to lift, and she could almost make out the wall across the river.

With a gasp she ran, oblivious to the sole of her foot scraping through the hole in her shoe. The worn strap on her old knapsack fragmented under the sudden strain, depositing her entire life behind her. She clutched the stone as she stumbled onto the span, gasping, desperate. If she held on, if she kept going, it couldn’t vanish. He would come.

She stumbled forward, calling frantically. The sun flared once behind her before gloom closed in. A few more tottering steps, just a few more and she would find him. He hadn’t been able to come to her, she would go to him. They wouldn’t need to go back.

A shadow coalesced beside her. She whimpered, not afraid, relieved. Here was someone to help. The figure smiled, took her hand. She followed, docile. The mist had lifted, of course it had, she didn’t need it anymore. The bridge had brought her home.

Portal

https://pixabay.com/photos/tree-path-sunrise-sunset-future-8485930/

Hugh carefully backed around the corner he had just rounded and leaned against the cool stone, sucking a deep breath into his startled lungs. Eyes wide, he took another peek. The hole in the wall was still there. It definitely wasn’t there before. He trembled; his old nurse maid would have mumbled about witchcraft and made a ward sign with her gnarled fingers.

Hugh shook himself. Twelve winters was far too old for nursery superstitions. What would his father think to see him shrinking here? A hole in the wall meant a threat, and a man would face a threat ready to defend. He tightened his fist around the handle of the short blunt sword boys in training were allowed to carry.

His skin crawled at the unreasonably warm air pouring through the gap. The sides were too smooth; a ballista would have left broken edges and rubble, and would have sounded throughout the keep. He drew the sword and held it ready with both hands, staring at the lumpy green hill impossibly leading from the third story in which he stood.

Swallowing hard and refusing the urge to look down the corridor for help, he stepped through, head brushing the leaves of vines and bushes growing in illogically ancient cracks in the stone. The village that should have lain below had vanished, along with the valley overlooked by his father’s castle, replaced by a windbeaten plain studded with sparse weedy trees.

A figure even more bent and wizened than old Beatrice emerged from behind the nearest one, a crackling chuckle rolling from beneath bird-like eyes. “Wouldn’t it just be my luck to get a lad, after all! Well, no matter, perhaps you’ll do. Welcome to Oblia, boy.”

Book Sale

The month of March is all about books! This week in particular, at least for Smashwords readers, is super special. Books of all shapes and sizes are discounted all week, just begging to be downloaded and devoured by eager imaginations!

_Chosen_, a story of magic, dragons, and prophecy, is one of those. Seline finds herself face to face with the myths and legends that made her childhood bearable, and embarks on a mission to save two worlds from a powerful evil. A nobody all her life, she must also come to terms with her true identity and learn to use for good the power hidden deep within her.

This book is a great read for anyone who loves the fantasy genre. A wide cast of characters, magical accidents, adventure, a hint of romance, and of course dragons will appeal to young and old alike. This week only, and only on Smashwords, _Chosen_ can be downloaded for 50% off, bringing it under $4! Check it out, along with all the other amazing reads highlighted this week.

Water of Life

https://pixabay.com/photos/bowl-pottery-ceramic-glass-rustic-169435/

Hera’s hands rested on her trembling knees, breath coming in deep gasps. The bowl perched on a rock nearby, but her head swam, threatening to make her black out. She knew why the Wise Ones required this journey. She did know. But the sick trying to force its way up her throat questioned.

The bowl was old, older than even the oldest Wise One. And ugly. Hera thought it looked like a rotten orange, which churned her stomach even more. It had been found long ago by a boy on the cusp of manhood, drunk from out of need and carried home out of curiosity. Not until the boy failed to age for years after did the ancestors learn its nature. And its danger.

So many had died for the bowl in those days. So many twisted by its gift, a curse to the undeserving. So those who were left set it here, to be retrieved only by one with great strength of character. At the coming of age, every boy and girl set out to climb the mountain between sun up and sun down. Once up for the bowl, once down to drink, then back up to replace the bowl. Few succeeded.

Everyone believed Hera would fail. The smallest and weakest of those born in her name year, she stood small chance at physical prowess. She smiled at the secret she knew. To use the bowl, strength of will mattered most. She stood on the mountain, where many turned back too soon.

She forced a deep, ragged breath and reached for the bowl. With the first step down her legs threatened to give way, but she took another step anyway. The hardest challenge was yet to come; few made it up the mountain, but fewer still could bring themselves to return the bowl after drinking. Only the wise ones knew the fate of those without honor. Hera would not fail. She would be a Wise One. She must be a Wise One.

Potion

https://pixabay.com/illustrations/poison-bottle-medicine-old-symbol-1481596/

“Take this bottle. It holds everything you need to accomplish your quest.”

“This bottle? Are you sure?”

“Of course! This is my personal creation, the most advanced I have ever produced. When you arrive at the Dungeon, wait for sunrise. Set the bottle in the exact center of the trapdoor just as the red sky turns gold. It will cast a glowing key into the invisible lock, granting you entrance. But under no circumstances drink any of the liquid inside before entering the dungeon, or all will be lost.”

“Don’t – what? Why would I drink it? It’s marked poison! With a big skull and crossbones! Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! That is all part of the master plan. No one would ever want to drink poison, therefore I created this disguise to ensure the key remained in your possession until required.”

“So, if it isn’t poison, and you said don’t drink it before entering, when do I drink it? And what will it do for me?”

“Has your skull thickened? The liquid will kill you, it is acid of the highest potency! Unless you intend to rot in the Dungeon forever with your precious Cleric, you must pour it over the invisible lock before the trapdoor closes behind you and traps you inside.”

“You’re insane. If I do manage to rescue the Cleric on the strength of your planning, it will be a miracle.”

“Naturally. I will be raised to Eternal Mage for this. I promise not to forget you when I have been sanctified.”

Summer Flash Sale 2022

I do believe dragon breath is scorching my area. The heat is driving everyone inside, so time for some new reading material. Magic, dragons, prophecy, and myth drive Seline toward a destiny she never imagined.

Available in ebook at most major retailers through the following link – Https://books2read.com/u/baDgr6

On sale in paperback form exclusively through Amazon at the following link – https://www.amazon.com/Chosen-Heather-N-Russell/dp/B09BF7W792/

Grimdark

https://pixabay.com/illustrations/bridge-forest-fantasy-trees-light-19513/

He stood at the base of the bridge, his hands twisting behind him. Don’t show fear, they had warned. You don’t want to attract the grimdark, they had said. He kept his face carefully blank (he hoped), but his hands fidgeted. He wondered if the grimdark could hear his heart pounding.

The orange light of the forest began to coalesce at the apex of the bridge while shadows advanced. He tried to make himself stand straighter, focusing on the light in front of him. He took a single step forward, his boot scuffing against the wood planks. The light pulsed and shimmered, and he paused, swallowing hard.

Low notes whispered to him, and he looked around wildly before realizing they came from inside his head. They swelled in volume, a deep bass thrumming against the inside of his skull. This wasn’t right! He clutched his temples, salt drops leaking from his eyes, and stared with growing horror at the light. Burnt orange flames reached for him as the pounding notes churned his brain. He screamed, and the light went out.

The Town

https://pixabay.com/photos/japan-kanazawa-shirakawa-go-3205106/

The hot glue gun sat cooling beside his hand. A quick inspection of the board, a wiggle here or tap there, showed nothing loose or out of place. It was finally finished. How long had it taken him to figure out the right materials for those mossy roofs? He couldn’t even remember. It hadn’t mattered, really; the model had to be perfect.

He wasn’t sure why, exactly. He had woken one morning with an overwhelming need to build it. A town he had never seen, but he knew every detail. He’d looked it up one day, trying to convince himself it was just imagination and didn’t have to be so precise. There it was, a tiny town somewhere in the mountains clear across the world. How it could even be recorded on the internet he didn’t understand. After that he gave up fighting the urge; he never repeated his search or dug any deeper either. He had been too afraid of the reasons to want to know them.

Now, as he stood over his work, tiny lights flickered in the windows. He blinked, but they didn’t vanish. Music drifted faintly from the treeline on the far side of the model, and the tops of brightly-colored trees around the houses quivered as if a gentle breeze tickled them. The laughter of children rose from the house nearest him. He didn’t wait for more but stumbled to the door on legs that felt like jello. In his terrified hurry he forgot to shut the door.

Writer’s Block

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Louise tossed her glasses down on the table and massaged her aching head with tense fingers. How long had she been sitting here, trying to make the words come? Long enough for the tea she had made to be cold and bitter, at least. The rain made watching the passage of the sun impossible, and she had left her phone in her bedroom.

Coming up here to her grandmother’s farmhouse was supposed to solve everything. No distractions, plenty of open spaces and quiet, the perfect place to let the creative springs flow. Except they weren’t. She sighed. Maybe she should just face it; she was a one-hit-wonder. Writers could have hits, too, right? Maybe that one idea was a fluke, and she’d never have another.

She passed her hands over her face and glared at the notebook through splayed fingers. Wait, that key hadn’t been there before. She glanced around suspiciously, and hurriedly rose to check both corners of the porch for intruders. No one was there, and she laughed at herself. No one could have been on the porch without making the old boards creak just like they were doing under her own feet. But that key. Where could it have come from?

She sank back down onto the woven seat of the old straight backed chair. Slowly she picked up the old-fashioned bit of iron and twirled it between thumb and forefinger. An idea trickled into her mind, the barest beginning of something, but it was a beginning. She dropped the key to reach for her pen, then paused in consternation. What was it again? Of course, the one idea she’d had was gone just that fast. She picked up the key again, and her mind flooded with story. She stared with open mouth for a moment, then shoved the key into her other hand and snatched up her pen again. This was going to be a good one.

Stones

https://pixabay.com/photos/ancient-house-middle-ages-san-gemini-2925168/

The house had been around longer than living memory. According to tradition, it had been built by the first settlers on the coast, the ancestors of the town’s founders. Supposedly, the patriarch of the clan, banished for some offense and accompanied only by his wife and baby son, had scavenged loose stones from the base of the cliffs and stacked them one by one, room by room, until he had created the mansion.

I wasn’t too sure about tradition myself, people tended to make stories bigger than the truth, but I wasn’t too sure about the house itself either. Something had always thrown me about it, something that made my vision want to skip over it. I had spent more hours than was good for me staring at that thing, but I thought I had finally figured out what was off. I just didn’t know why.

The windows didn’t fit. The stone frames were long, as if once the openings had been much larger, but the stonework was seamless inside the frames. The same hand had obviously stoned all of it. It didn’t make sense, but when I asked anyone about it they just peered at the house with a confused expression and said they didn’t see what I meant.

I couldn’t stand it; I had to know about those windows frames. I waited for the owners to leave on their annual month-long jaunt and snuck up to the house during siesta. I expected the stones to be hot when I ran my hands over them, but my skin sizzled on contact with the frames and I jerked my hand back with a cry. The windows and front door vanished, leaving three dark apertures gaping in the wall. Whispers called to me, insistent. I chose an opening and stepped inside.