"Undecided"? Yes. It means I've yet to make up my mind. This is why we need an adult. A leader who can make strong choices for their kingdom. Everyone else here was capable of making a decision. I won't send my armies to face unknown danger based on a two-minute speech. I may be a child, but apparently, I'm the least impulsive of us all. Besides, I hardly call "we'll do what everyone else does" a decision.
In Zo's mind, it never felt like the day was properly begun until Lyn woke up, looked around at the room they'd been staying in, frowned, and said—
Day 13
"Where are we? And why does it feel so... familiar?"
"Well you see," Zo replied, as he always did, peeking at the underside of the egg he was frying, "we're stuck in a time loop."
Day 14
"A time loop?" Lyn swung her feet over the side of the bed, seeming to realize for the first time that she was in one.
"Don't worry, it's clean." After confirming they were, indeed, in a time loop, one of the first things he had suggested was finding a comfortable place to set up camp. Somehow it had worked, and they had ended up there every time things reset. "And there doesn't seem to be anyone around, so I don't think we're stealing or trespassing."
Lyn raised an eyebrow.
Day 15
"Well, we might be, but no one minds. It's a ghost town. Everyone seems to have disappeared." And since it was a time loop, they never ran out of cooking gas. Or food supplies. That, at least, was convenient.
"Disappeared?" Lyn stood up, adjusting her shirt from how it had gotten scrunched up in the night. Despite her attempts to look bright-eyed and alert, he could see the sleepiness that still hung from her eyes.
Day 16
"Our best guess so far is that it's connected to the time loop." Zo flipped the eggs. If this all persisted, he could open up a fried-egg restaurant once they got out; he was getting an absurd amount of practice flipping eggs.
"That makes sense." Lyn padded over to the window, still barefoot, and pushed the shutters open. "Do we have any evidence, or is that just, well, a guess?"
Her gaze swept the view, which he knew without looking was nothing more than the empty lines of blocky, one-story buildings and the too-smooth black-top of the streets. The neighborhood was pressed together as if sheltering from the plains beyond the town, with such a veneer of newness covering it all that each house might have been churned out of a factory yesterday. They hadn't been, though, considering the subtle signs of wear and tear inside the houses.
"Eh, a bit of both. Something weird is clearly going on with the area, and we know time is affected, too, so it's a logical guess that the two are connected. Whether that means some psycho wiped the town out before setting up their experiment, or just that their timey-wimey dealybob messed up physics in general is still up for debate. Do you want toast?"
"Yes, please."
Day 17
"Good. We have to finish the bread before it goes stale." Zo left the 'in case we get to the next day' implicit.
"I'm surprised we still have butter. I thought it would have gone bad in your pack."
"It smells a bit odd, but so far we haven't been affected by it."
Day 18
"Okay, but how do you know we're in a time loop?" Lyn asked, setting the table.
They were in a ground-level studio apartment, so the dining room, kitchen, and bed were all in the same space. No couch, which Zo took to mean that the owner was either poor or a cheapskate. Either way, it was disappointing. Still, the carpet wasn't bad. He'd slept on worse.
"Because you've asked me that so many times I've lost track of the number," Zo said, "and you seem thoughtful every time, like you're not as surprised as you thought you'd be."
She nodded and set a fork down carefully, wearing the expression she always did just then, brows squeezing down over far-away eyes.
"In all fairness, though," Zo clarified, "I mostly lost track because I wasn't really counting, and then it seemed pointless to start. It's been over two weeks, though, I'm fairly certain."
Day 19
She smiled, and the tension in her brows eased a bit. "This all does feels familiar. Like, I don't remember the other days, but all of this feels like I should, somehow, know what happens next. But I don't."
"I do know," Zo replied, "and it's getting a bit tiresome."
"Fair."
Zo nodded, slotting toast into the toaster. "Very. Whoever owned this place pretty much only had eggs in their fridge. I'm not sure how many more days in a row I can eat those without losing my mind."
Lyn looked up sharply.
Day 20
"Relax," he said, waving his spatula, "they respawn every day, so I don't think it's even technically stealing. If it is, we can pay them back later. There's a fully-stocked but unmanned convenience store down the road, one which we have very nobly not taken anything from, every single day."
"Good," Lyn sighed. "After all, if we get out today, we wouldn't want to be rewarded by jail for petty theft." She tacked on a fierce look at the end of the sentence.
Zo shrugged, and let Lyn interpret the gesture as she would. "Eggs are almost done."
Day 21
"Good. I'm weirdly hungry. Also, thank you for breakfast."
"Don't mention it," Zo smiled. "It's nothing I haven't done many times before."
Themes: This tale touches on several of the acts of mercy, but the most prevalent are probably bear wrongs patiently, counsel the doubtful, and admonish the sinner
Word Count: 1,232
Author’s Note: This is the third and final installment! Thank you to everyone who has patiently stuck with this story to its conclusion. I appreciate it more than I can say. <3
────── ⋆⋅✦⋅⋆ ──────
Part III
“Feast in my hall, O foemen, and eat and drink and drain,
You never loved the sun in heaven as I have loved the rain.”
— G. K. Chesterton, “The Last Hero”
“There is nothing like suspense and anxiety for barricading a human's mind against the Enemy. He wants men to be concerned with what they do; our business is to keep them thinking about what will happen to them.”
— C. S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters
⋆⋅✦⋅⋆
Half-dazed and in a state of high alarm, I patrol the long aisles of the library at a run, head thrumming, heart racing to the tempo of the rain strafing the windows overhead. The tempest that accompanied The Guest's arrival has yet to abate, and the room around me remains dim, the air damp and heavy. I suspect every shadow of resembling The Guest, expecting him to manifest around every corner. I am unsure whether I am fleeing from him, or intending to confront him, and to what end. What has he done, after all, but prey upon my peace?
And with this thought, something underfoot catches me mid-stride. I stumble and fall headlong, arms semaphoring, even as I fail to give voice to a scream that has been building up inside me for three days and nights. All this silent implosion accomplishes is further ruin: I collide hard with one of the bookcases, my flailing arm sweeping a row of fragile volumes from their perch on the nearest shelf. Like a flock of disturbed gulls, they take to the air, pages flapping, wings tearing, before crash landing with me onto the floor. I lie still and stunned, feeling the vibration of the library against my cheek, as though I have my ear pressed to the sound of its heartbeat. Then I sit up and examine the object that tripped me.
It is, unsurprisingly, another book.
My mind is full of matches and bonfires, and my inner landscape becomes a desert of ashes, the music of my thoughts indistinguishable from the roar of scattering winds. Perhaps burning is the only way to eradicate the rot that has taken hold of this library—to blot out the humiliation of my failure to protect and preserve it. It seemed a simple, straightforward assignment, back when I fancied myself capable of meeting its requirements.
No, I admit to myself, not just capable. Noble. Selfless. And in a way—brave.
The higher-ups should have known better, I think. I trusted them without question. Followed their instructions to the letter. Believed it wholeheartedly when they said they knew my appointment was for the best.
Where were they now, and why must I await their pleasure? For how long must I serve at the edge of my true country, watching the homebound ships pass me by on placid waters, their sails reddened by a sun that sets faithfully on their own endeavors, while mine continue indefinitely into the gray hours of midnight?
I want to go home.
But I have not yet been relieved of my charge. I nudge the book at my feet with the toe of my boot, just short of kicking it, and tilt my head to catch sight of the title. At the same instant, a dry, scratching noise reaches my ears (what now? vermin?) and I spin around to see The Guest, clipboard in hand, scribbling furiously.
The sight both angers me and leaves me feeling caught-out, condemned. Has it all been a test, I wonder? An unasked-for promotion, or perhaps a demotion? And for what? Complacency? Hubris? For thinking my part somehow essential, my role important? Everything in The Guest's posture speaks of accusation. And with these painful questions comes an overwhelming desire to see what is being written about me.
I rise swiftly to my feet, take a step forward. The Guest retreats in equal measure. I take another step forward, faster this time, and The Guest makes as if to run. Poised to pursue, it is only the subtle suggestion of something in The Guest's expression that gives me pause. A smile that isn't a smile. A glint—of triumph?—in his ever-roaming eyes, which dart from me to something on the floor behind me, and back.
Looking over my shoulder, I see the books lying in various states of disarray. I feel a twinge of pity. And responsibility for the mess.
I hear the scraping of pen against clipboard again as I turn my back on The Guest (let him be disappointed, I decide) and return to the scene of my collapse. I collect the fallen volumes one by one, brushing off covers, smoothing bent pages, and carefully returning them to their proper places on the shelf. Last of all, I reach for the book that tripped me.
The Guest is at my elbow. Without glancing up or giving any indication, I move quickly to wrench the clipboard out of his small, grasping, ink-stained fingers. He resists me, and tugs it back—but too late. I saw what I needed to see.
The clipboard is blank.
(Pearly white, in fact. Like sunshine on snow. Well I remember it gleaming on the mountaintops of the land where I was born.)
The Guest stares at me, unblinking.
I clear my throat before speaking. My voice is faint and trembling, but certain of what I am about to say, like someone who has cried and shouted through the night, only to settle upon a quiet resolution come first light.
"You have written nothing, added nothing, to what is set down and safeguarded within this library," I observe. "You may confuse or obscure the existing texts, or wantonly deface their current bindings, but I do not think it is within your ability to permanently harm or remove them, or prevent their mending, unless—" I pause, remembering with regret the manner in which I knocked them down in my own fear and haste, "—but there is no unless."
The Guest wavers before my eyes, his pathetic form losing its urchin-like appearance, amorphously seeking a shape that will speak traitorously to my compassion, my longing, my anxiety, even my hatred or boredom. I find that I am in all ways disinterested.
"I do not believe you are as powerful, or even as interesting, as you wish to appear."
And with that he is finished.
Like a lingering wisp of storm cloud, carried helplessly away by a brisk wind, he does not disappear all at once, but rather shrinks and slips from me and my thoughts, as I turn back to the task at hand. The final book recaptures my attention, and I retrieve it from the floor with mild curiosity, until I see the name inscribed in gold upon its soft, drab cover.
EMERY
It sends a jolt through me, a true strike to my core, illuminating every corner of my still-shadowed consciousness and driving out the sluggish remnants of what feels like a long illness, suddenly relieved. My head clears. My heart lightens. I can hear the warblers taking up their morning song as they make their nests among the thickets and shrublands of my habitation.
"Thank you," I breathe.
And then the breath becomes a laugh, and the laugh stirs the dust, revealed in the light of a watery dawn, just peeking through the windows above. I return the book to its apportioned spot on the shelf, unopened. I have work to do. I recall the many books that have collected on my desk while I have stood stationary and distracted, as one upon an unfamiliar shore. But the fog has lifted, and the beloved voices of those I have neglected on the beach, calling out that they wish to go home, home, home, draw me forth like a beacon.
personal goal of writing one @inklings-challenge story for each genre this year: accomplished!
It was a slightly-less-than-average day for Julia. She overslept and had ten minutes to get ready before rushing out the door; even then, she very nearly missed her bus. In the break room, she finally noticed what tupperware container she'd grabbed from her fridge at home and discovered she had chosen plain white rice for lunch. Then Anne caught her on her way to her office and warned her that Mr. Boyle was back from his latest trip and planned to be in the office all day to catch up on meetings.
Julia collapsed into her chair, shoulders slumping under such an ominous beginning to her day. It took considerable concentration to start up her usual array of programs and check her emails. Her first hour of work was largely unproductive. Every sound of footsteps passing her door made her jump, for fear that The Boss was already on the prowl.
By lunch time she was sure that the next thing to go wrong would end with her in tears. It was only by some miracle that her lackluster meal didn't do it—thankfully she'd found some salt.
Julia managed two bites of rice before her stomach protested. "Honey, you need to calm down," she whispered to herself.
She scooped up another spoonful of rice, then paused, wondering why her voice had echoed just then.
"Hi."
Julia squawked and startled back, almost tipping over her chair. Rice went flying. Somewhere, pencils clattered. Julia clutched at her desk, her heart in her throat, and looked up into smiling green eyes.
She hadn't heard the man enter her office. She had no idea how he'd gotten as far as her desk without her noticing.
"Sorry," she gasped, reaching for her trash can and a tissue.
"I have some butter if you want any. For your rice."
Julia stared. The man was a coworker, one of the custodians, Colt. She only knew his name because she'd misheard it the first time as "Cole", and the woman training her had been quick to correct her.
He didn't look like a "Colt". She wasn't sure what a "Colt" might look like—maybe dressed in jeans and boots. Or maybe speaking with some sort of twang. This Colt stood with an elbow propped on the high counter of her desk, a sweaty bandana around his dark hair, and he had just offered her butter in the most classic Midwestern slurry of consonants imaginable.
Butter.
"I'm…. What?" Julia managed.
Colt straightened, coughing. Or laughing. "Sorry. Your rice. It looks…dry? There's butter in the break room if you want some."
"Do you usually pack sticks of butter with your lunch?"
"Sure. Doesn't everybody?" He smiled in a way that suggested a private joke, shrugged one shoulder. There was a grease stain on his sleeve.
"Um." Julia slowly went back to scooping up loose rice. She brushed it into her hand, then into the trash can. "Uh, no. No, thanks. This is fine."
"'Kay."
Colt didn't move.
Julia raised her eyebrows. "Did you need something?"
"There's a Mexican food truck down the block today. Their tacos are amazing." He held up a finger. "No cilantro."
Ok, now this was getting weird. "I'm good." Julia offered her best customer service smile and pointedly turned back to her computer.
Colt hummed to himself, but took the hint and shuffled off. Julia watched him go out of the corner of her eye, wondering when she'd ever mentioned that she hated cilantro.
She didn't finish her rice.
Which was probably a good thing. An hour later she was walking back to her desk from the printer when the director, John Boyle, rounded the corner. His eyes landed on Julia and she froze like a rabbit. Her stomach was sinking before Boyle had reached her.
He opened with a string of curses. "How did you miss this?"
Julia's mouth opened, but if she said anything, Boyle's rising tone covered it.
He waved a flier in her face. "Did you even proof this? Look at it!"
Julia took the flier in shaking hands and skimmed over it. It was an announcement for a fundraiser—
The date was wrong. She hadn't updated the year when she'd copied over the draft from the last fundraiser.
Her stomach plummeted like the HMS Challenger. "I— No, I don't— I'm sorry," she stammered.
She might have said more—probably did—but Boyle wasn't finished yet. Didn't she know better? This went out in an email blast to donors! Did she have any idea how this made them look?
At the back of her mind, Julia noted that the hallway stayed conspicuously empty throughout Boyle's tirade. Then, as suddenly as he'd come, he was gone.
Julia clutched at the flier and forced herself not to flee back to her desk. It was an honest mistake. Anyone else might have laughed. She would go and change it right now.
She had almost reached her office when she noticed Colt coming toward her from the other direction, practically running. When he saw her, he paused, his face going pink.
Julia spun on her heel and retreated.
She took a round-about way to the employee entrance, pausing only to throw the flier into the nearest trash can.. No one was in the parking lot. Julia skirted the corner of the building and made her way unhindered toward the little walled courtyard against the east wing. After checking that no one was loitering at the end of their lunch break, she sat down on the stone bench under the little Japanese maple.
And then she had a good cry.
Unfortunately, it didn't really help. Crying from panic and frustration rarely helped. She came out on the other end of that emotional upheaval feeling gross and hot with an upset stomach, like she was a toddler who'd heard rumors of nap time and had lost all sense of proportionality.
"It's just an honest mistake," Julia whispered to herself, wiping at her snotty nose. Of course she hadn't grabbed a single tissue during her retreat. "He'll forget about it by tomorrow."
She didn't even have the energy to be mad at the injustice of it all. With any luck, Boyle would be gone again tomorrow, and the office could go back to business as usual. No one else would care that she'd overlooked a typo. Some of them would laugh; the rest would forget about it immediately.
Julia did hear Colt approach this time. His heavy work boots scuffed on the gravel path outside the courtyard. He walked by the entrance, very obviously checking to see if she was in there. His footsteps retreated, then returned. He passed the entrance again. His shoulders were hunched up clear to his reddening ears.
Julia buried her face in her hands and sniffled mightily.
Don't get mad at him, she told herself. He's not doing anything wrong. Unless you counted packing whole sticks of butter in your lunch bag. She still wasn't sure what that was about.
Colt's boots tromped one more circuit before coming to a stop just inside the courtyard. She could hear him scuffing his toes on the grass and the first of the leaf litter.
Somewhere beyond her current distress, Julia felt oddly flattered. She wasn't the only one who'd noticed Colt making up excuses to talk to her not long after she'd been hired. He was usually awkward about it, but it had never been anything but weirdly sweet.
Slowly, Julia raised her head. She could only guess how horrible she must look just then.
Colt somehow still looked guilty.
The silence had shuffled past uncomfortable and was approaching horrific when Julia finally asked, "Did you need something?"
Colt shuffled closer. "No. I…. I wanted to make sure you were ok?"
"Oh." Julia dragged her sleeve across her nose again. There was no dignified way to clean up. She considered asking Colt if he had a spare rag she could borrow. "Why?"
Colt blinked. "I mean…. He was pretty loud." His flush was spreading up to his cheeks now. "I should have— I'm sorry. I lost track of time."
There really wasn't a polite way to tell someone they weren't making any sense, was there? At least not one that came to mind just then. Julia shrugged helplessly. "It's not your fault."
"Yeah, but—." Colt had almost reached the bench now. He stood there, looking more miserable than Julia felt.
She could understand that. If one of her friends started crying, she usually looked away until the horrible noises stopped, and then she offered a hug. She really hoped Colt wasn't going to offer her a hug.
"I'm ok," she said, and tried smiling. "He was just so loud."
"Yeah. Very."
Another silence, though less awkward than the first one.
"Um. If you need anything…?"
Julia groaned, rubbing at her eyes. "I need to get back to my desk. But thank you." And, weirdly, she meant it.
After checking one more time that she was alright, Colt made a dignified escape. Julia watched him go and decided she wouldn't mind seeing him again. Only not when she was having a breakdown.
###
When Colt woke up, he assumed his day was going to be the same as always. It was raining, a soft patter outside his open window. Cars passed in the street outside with a sizzle of tires on wet asphalt.
So far, so predictable.
He rolled blearily out of bed and shuffled toward the bathroom, making a wide sweep of the hamper in the hall. He couldn't remember why he'd left it right there—
Colt's toes bumped against something. He froze. Opened one eye.
The wicker hamper sat in front of him, where he'd moved it out of long habit last night.
Not in the middle of the hallway where it always was.
He stood staring at the hamper for a solid minute before he realized that the article of clothing on the top was not his black hoodie. It was a pair of jeans.
In a daze, Colt wandered through his morning routine. His toothbrush was leaning forward in its holder, not back. There was an empty milk jug by the kitchen trash, and a stick of butter missing from the fridge. His keys were on the couch, where he had carelessly tossed them last night. The book he'd been reading had a new crease in its spine.
Somehow he made it to work. He was late, but Jamie wasn't there to scold him.
The bulb in the break room was still out. Had he replaced that yesterday? No. It was one of the yesterdays where he'd been distracted. Really distracted, all day, as evidenced by him losing track of time and Julia getting yelled at by Boyle.
Julia.
Colt spun toward the door and nearly collided with a tiny figure just coming into the break room. She squeaked as he dodged. His elbow caught on the door frame and he scrabbled at it to keep from sprawling across the floor.
Julia had hurried out of his way and now stood in the middle of the break room, clutching a tupperware container and staring wide-eyed at him.
Colt stared back. Her hair was down. He'd forgotten how long it was. And she wasn't wearing her top with the little yellow flowers on it.
His eyes moved to the transparent container in her hands.
"You—" Colt's mouth felt suddenly dry. Until that moment, he hadn't believed it. He'd been stuck for so long that none of the anomalies he'd encountered that morning had quite registered, but this….
Colt swallowed hard and tried again. "You didn't bring rice."
Julia glanced down at the container and laughed. "No, this is casserole." She grinned crookedly. "I meant to bring it yesterday. I grabbed the wrong container." Her grin turned rueful. "I hope today's a better day than yesterday."
Colt relaxed his grip on the door frame and smiled back at her. "Yeah." He laughed. "Yeah, I think it will be."
[Image ID: A MOGAI flag with six equal horizontal stripes. From top to bottom the colors in order are: dark orange, orange, gold, dark gold, orange, dark orange. /End ID]
Wrath name flag!
[PT: Wrath name flag!]
A flag for the name Wrath, in reference to the deadly sin!
[Image ID: A MOGAI flag with six equal horizontal stripes. From top to bottom the colors in order are: red, pastel red, white, red off white, pastel red, red. /End ID]
Patience name flag!
[PT: Patience name flag!]
A flag for the name Patience, in reference to the heavenly virtue!
[Banner ID: A pastel yellow banner with a sunflower on either side. In brown text with a white outline, it says "- Please let me know if this has been coined before! -" /End ID.]
[I know where this @inklings-challenge story is going, but ran out of time to get it there before the deadline. I plan to finish it soon.]
The third-class carriage was crowded, and Adrian a’Loretia sat less than comfortably beside a burly man chewing pepperleaf and a pair of chattering women. He at least had the place nearest the window, which let him forget his surroundings as best he could. Grey fields of stubble and groves of golden half-bare trees kept unwinding past him. Autumn was nearing its end, chill and damp, and his bad leg ached like a guilty conscience. Another glance at his watch showed that it was not quite three o’clock, with half an hour yet before they reached the station at Loretia. Only a moment, when compared to twenty years.
(He and his father were in the vestibule waiting to leave, waiting for the state police to arrive at the given time. There were voices outside; a heavy hand pounded on the door. “Let them in,” his father said.
Adrian opened the door, and they pushed into the house. Men in grey uniforms, men with ordinary faces that he might have passed by on the street. “Under the terms of the Appropriation Act,” the chief officer said, as if reciting a speech he had learned in school, “you are permitted to retain property the value of which is not more than sixty miré. We will perform an inspection to ensure compliance with such terms and escort you from these premises.”
The two of them watched as the officers began to search through the bags they had packed, unfolding shirts and riffling the pages of books. Adrian’s father stood tall and straight, unchangeably still the Prince a’Loretia. One of the men caught sight of the gold ring on his hand. “That ring. What’s it worth?” he demanded.
“It was a gift from my wife. It does not exceed the limit.”
“Surrender it,” the chief officer ordered, before the man who had spoken could reply.
The prince slowly took the ring from his finger and held it out on his palm.)
A sudden change of light brought Adrian out of memory. The train was passing through a tunnel in the side of a hill, and the window had become a dim mirror where his own pale face gazed back at him. It could no longer be called the face of a young man, with the first hints of grey in the dark hair, the fine lines drawn under the eyes. The years had run away from him into emptiness. His father had hoped that he would enter a profession; he had gone through a succession of petty clerkships. His father had hoped that he would marry and produce an heir; even if he’d felt any desire for marriage, he had nothing to offer a wife.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
He reached out a hand to help her to her feet, and she scrambled backward. That was the hand which held the dagger, the hand that killed her husband, and killed her with its touch. He gave an amused smile at her fear. “What’s wrong? I’m only a simple poet, not some ghost or master of arms. I can’t do you any harm."
"I'm not so intimidating, am I?"
“No,” she replied with a glance at the bells on his hat. “I suppose not.”
For @inklings-challenge 2024! Posted on Ao3 because I think things are easier to read there than on Tumblr (and because I wanted to add some warning tags). The story is a little bluntly allegorical (I've always struggled to be subtle) but hopefully it will still touch some in a meaningful way.
Malcolm’s fingers cupped gently around the potatoes. His mother had cut each one carefully with a long, thin blade until they were almost uniform in shape and size.
“You have to be careful with potatoes,” she’d said. “One wrong chop and they won’t cook evenly. Potatoes are finicky like that.”
Malcolm tipped the potatoes into the pot, and his mother smiled. “Wonderful. Now you try with the carrots.”
Malcolm–the tender age of five–hesitated only a moment before taking the peeler from his mother’s open hand. His mother was one of the finest kitchen witches this side of the river, and was renowned throughout town for her cooking at The Blackened Branch. To Malcolm, magic was frightening and new, but his mother’s gentle reassurances gave him courage.
The peeler shook in his little fist as he brought it down to meet the carrot’s outer flesh. Malcolm’s mother stood behind him, watching him carefully.
One slice. Then two. The carrot shavings fell to the counter in dark orange folds.
“Very good, Malcolm,” his mother said. Her fingers brushed the top of his head. “Just be mindful that you don’t–”
Her warning was too late. The carrot shavings had aligned themselves on the counter, connecting at the corners into a crudely drawn circle. The orange circlet gleamed in the pale light from the kitchen lamps, which flickered as if struck by a sudden gale of wind. A moment later, they blew out completely, plunging the kitchen into a thick darkness.
Malcolm’s breath hitched. Before him, the kitchen counter between the carrot shavings melted away, revealing a deep, gaping hole. A horrid shriek bubbled up through the portal, the sound like fingers scraping a chalkboard, and a blackened fist rose from the center, fingers bent, clawing against the butcher block counter.
Malcolm jumped backwards, tottering off his stepping stool with a cry. Snatching a spoon off the counter, Malcolm’s mother swatted the hand with a sharp crack, sending it reeling back into the portal. With her other hand, she reached into her pocket and scattered sugar across the circle of carrot peelings. Within an instant, the portal had sealed itself shut again.
The lamps flickered back to life.
His mother turned to find him trembling on the floor, the carrot peeler still clutched in his fist. She smiled.
“Kitchen magic can be difficult,” she said gently, squatting down on the floor beside him. “Especially with carrots.” She pried the peeler from Malcolm’s hand and put it in the pocket of her apron. “When I was your age, I opened my first portal with a ring of mushrooms. You can imagine my mother’s surprise when she found out I was having a tea party with a hobgoblin in her kitchen.”
Malcolm sucked in a breath, but he couldn’t pull his eyes from the spot where the blackened hand had been only moments before.
His mother seemed to follow his thoughts. “It’s called the Other. It’s where the lost things go, when they no longer wish to be found. Some creatures from the Other are friends. Some are not. I was hoping your first experience would be a bit kinder.” Malcolm’s mother grabbed a jar of sugar from the counter and cracked open the lid. Reaching in, she took a pinch and held it out for Malcolm to see. “The Other does not know that which is sweet. Keep sugar in your pockets, always. You never know when it will help you in a pinch.” She twisted her fingers, and the sugar fluttered to the floor by Malcom’s feet. “That is your first lesson. Your second is a promise.” Her eyes, usually smiling, darkened. “Promise me you will never purposefully open the Other. No matter what you hear. No matter what you think you might know. You must promise me this, Malcolm.”
Malcolm shook his head, eager to never see whatever had tried to come through the countertop ever again, and in no hurry whatsoever to repeat what had summoned it. His mother smiled and offered him a hand to pull him back to his feet.
“Very good. Now,” she said, dusting sugar off onto her apron, “we have some soup to make.”
