This entry is an attempt to redeem a poor performance in Magical Beings.

“Get lost, you weasel!” Nebseni threw a worn sandal in the general direction of the furry creature nestled amongst the scrolls and tablets.

“I refuse to be spoken to in such a tone,” the creature replied, the black spot on the end of its tail twitching in irritation. “I am not a weasel, as you well know. I am a stoat. And my winter coat is looking ever so wonderful, don’t you think?” The stoat emphasized this point by running its paws down the length of its snow white pelt.

“You’re right,” observed Nebseni, “and I think it would make a wonderful set of ear muffs.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“I created you, weasel. I can do as I please.”

“What kind of wizard would you be if you killed your own familiar?”

“Better than the kind that has a weasel for a familiar. Don’t you hear how they laugh at me?”

The stoat raised his snout and preened. “They are just jealous.”

Nebseni ignored him and moaned to himself, not for the first time, “If only I had been more careful! No one has dared summon an incubus in four hundred years, and I had one trapped in my pentagram. Imagine! An incubus familiar. Then all Hell broke loose, literally. I barely escaped with my life, and when it is over, what do I see, sitting in the middle of my shattered pentagram? A rat! A stupid, dirty, disgusting, weaselly rat!”

“Now just a minute, my friend. I did not ask to have this so-called gift of sentience, not when it comes with a lifetime of servitude to an ignorant, ungrateful wretch. I was minding my own business hunting up grubs then, ‘poof,’ here I am.” The stoat turned his back on the sulking young wizard. “Maybe if you finished the job by giving me my name…” his voice trailed off.

Nebseni studied his fingernails while the silence stretched out.

“I was thinking,” ventured the stoat, “that ‘Nebseniku’ has a nice ring.”

The wizard flew off his stool. “What? ‘Pride of Nebseni?’ Are you joking?” Nebseni stormed from his study. The stoat, having no choice, followed.

Sunset found the unhappy pair strolling the battlements. They neared the great turret that stood in the north corner when they heard a heated argument coming from around the bend; the words muffled by the brisk wind. Nebseni rounded the turret while the stoat scampered up its side.

Nebseni saw raven-haired Anu pressed into the corner where the turret jutted from the crenellations, her ivory skin flushed a deep crimson. Hesket, Nesbeni’s chief rival in the Academy, leaned in close with one hand against the wall, trapping her.

“Hesket!” Nebseni called out.

Hestket whirled to face him. A good six inches taller than Nebseni, Hesket stepped forward and loomed over him.

“Seni, how good to see you,” Hesket said, false sincerity oozing from each word. “And your lovely possum, where is he today? I’ve grown so accustomed to seeing the two of you slinking around together.” He rushed on before Nebseni could reply. “It’s safe for him come out today. I’ve sent my hawk off to gather dream moss for the festival. It’s so nice to have a familiar who can fly, don’t you think? He is still a bit ill-mannered, I must confess, so do keep an eye on your little prairie dog while he is about, won’t you? I would hate for anything….unfortunate…to happen.”

Nebseni took a step back, hoping to create a space for Anu to make her escape. Hesket took the bait and pressed forward to keep his advantage.

Hold up your hands, a new and unexpected voice spoke in Nebseni’s head.

Nebseni held up his hands, palms forward, in the wizard’s neutral position. Hands so exposed could not cast magic. Weasel, is that you?

Nebseni could feel the answering sigh with every fiber of his being. Yes, it’s me, ‘weasel.’

But how…

I’ve been doing some reading while you have been so busy ignoring me. Keep talking.

Nebseni launched into a nonstrop stream of nonsense, half bluster and half obsequiousness. A bucket materialized above Hesket’s head. Anu raised a hand to her mouth, astonished. A small gasp escaped her lips.

Hesket had scarce finished turning to face her when the bucket tipped and a cascade of kitchen slops rained down on his proud head. Anu burst out laughing.

Hesket spun round yet again, only to find Nebseni with hands still raised, looking as astonished as anyone. Nebseni took another step backwards. Hesket tried to follow, but the laces of his boots had somehow become knotted together, and he went down in a tangle of red velour and purple broacade, splattering dishwater in all directions.

Anu grabbed Nebseni’s hand and the two raced into the turret and down the stairs, Anu's laughter bouncing joyfully from the walls.

They stopped at the bottom of the circular stairs, breathless and dizzy. A white blur flew from the fourth step and wrapped itself around Anu's neck. She jumped, but then relaxed and began to stroke the silken animal.

“Nebseni, your ermine is so beautiful. What is his name?”

Nebseni paused. He could feel his familiar resting in the perfectly shaped hollow in his mind. He realized it had been there for weeks, but he had not wanted to look.

“Nebseniku,” he said. “His name is Nebseniku.”

893 words.

A blank page is terrifying.

****

On my way home from my job I dropped into an old bookstore. It was musty and dim, yet something drew me to the back of the store. There, in the dimmest corner, a book lay open on a table. It was as large and heavy as church bible. The pages were of some odd paper, almost leathery, but they were all blank. It demanded that I buy it. I can’t explain it any better. I hoisted the behemoth under my arm, paid for it and rushed home to look at it again.

Over the next few hours I tried to write in the book, but nothing would form words on the page. Pencil left no mark and ink only smudged illegibly. I pounded the tome in frustration, but only succeeded in cutting my finger on some sharp edge in the binding. A drop of blood fell on the book. I tried to wipe it off, but it stuck fast. I had found my ink, but what to write? I fell back on the banal. I wrote about my day at work, but remembering how my boss had dismissed my idea to save the company a small fortune I wrote that he had fallen in front of a moving train and that I was promoted to his position.

The next morning I slept late and rushed to work, only to find the office in complete disarray. Between her sobs the receptionist told me how someone had pushed the office manager under the wheels of a subway train. My heart thudded in my chest as I was called into the controller’s office. I was to take over as office manager. White and shaking, I staggered to my seat. Seeing that no work was getting done, I sent everyone home with instructions to be at work ready to work tomorrow and closed the office.

Once in my home I looked at the book. There in my blood was written how I had gone out in the evening and tracked down the office manager and pushed him under a train. I tried to erase the words, but just as nothing but blood would mark the page, nothing would erase the words. I tried tearing the page from the book, but only managed to tear the skin of my hand. I looked the blood and thought hard. Then I wrote how I woke up from a nightmare in which I had killed my boss. The red ink had almost stopped flowing when I wrote that I won the lottery.

The next morning I could barely force myself to get out of bed. I lurched into work half and hour late. There were no red eyes, no tears. Glory be, the office manager was still at his desk. Ten minutes later I was unemployed and loading the cardboard box of my work life into the trunk of my car. He accused me of stalking him and trying to push him under a train. I trembled with rage to think that I had saved the SOB.

On the way home I stopped in at the corner store and bought a lottery ticket. I had to wait in line behind some old man who was buying his ticket with the last pennies in his pocket. He handed me his slip and everything else in his hands. Finally I juggled the junk in my hands to toss some change on the counter. His ticket didn’t win, so he charged out of the door. Sighing in relief, I handed my slip to the attendant. The bells went off and people came out of the woodwork to see what a winner looked like.

At home the book was waiting for me. Written in bloody words it told how I had switched the slips with the old man. He was the real winner. Not likely I thought I tore open the cut on my hand and wrote in fury.

The next day the papers were filled with horror. An old man fell in front of a bus. It swerved to avoid him crashing into my old office building. Dozens were dead or injured. Witnesses claimed that he was pushed. Police were investigating. The book outlined it all in blood. There was a knock on the door. I tore at my hand and scribbled furiously. The knocking got louder. I was untouchable. I was the most important person in the world. The knocking stopped.

I ran to the door and opened it. No one was there. I went out to street – quiet. I ran down the road looking for someone, anyone. Empty, all was empty. I searched until I dropped in exhaustion. There was no other living human being, not in the city, not, I was sure in the world. I had killed them all. I dragged myself back to my home.

The cursed book was waiting for me. My blood told me how I had lied and cheated. How I used the money from my winnings to support questionable bioresearch just to make more money. Page after damning page it talked about the horrible disease that my greed unleashed. At the end, only one page was left blank.

I had one page to fix everything. What could I possibly write? I held my handover the blank page frozen with terror.

Contest link

Now
Regrets
Memories
Tokens from life
All jumbled around
The pockets of my mind
The legacies of a youth
Spent in youthful abandonment
Where time was just a mark on the clock
Before a life of choice and compromise.

Tomorrow will be the same as today
Decide the future on some other day
Growing up uncomplicated
Neverending dreams of love
Taking life as it comes
Blissful ignorance
Finding a path
Flirtation
Laughter
Then

Half

Jim Evans stood at the doorway of Hartfield Hospital room number 298. In front of him, he saw his wife, spread across a narrow bed and unconscious, as well as two doctors and a nurse. The nurse was the first to speak.

“Mr. Evans, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Drs. Long and Hilliard.”

The men exchanged greetings and hand shakes, and the nurse stepped out of the room.

“Mr. Evans,” Dr. Long began, “Dr. Hilliard and I are pleased to inform you that your wife’s surgery went exceedingly well. She should be back home in approximately two months.”

“Thank you…” Jim began, but he was quickly interrupted by Dr. Long.

“Now, I assure you your wife is in good hands with us. I must tend to other patients, but Dr. Hilliard will be taking care of her.” Dr. Long turned to towards Dr. Hilliard and began to give him instructions. “Dr. Hilliard, please use the utmost care around Mrs. Evans. She is in a very…fragile state.”

“Yes, Doctor, I will…”

“Very well then. Mr. Evans, you are welcome to come and visit your wife at any time.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Jim said, “I’ll visit as often as I can.”

As Jim walked out of the hospital, he was pierced by an overpowering sense of hopelessness; he could feel darkness piercing through him. Having finally reached the parking lot began to think. He knew that his wife, Karen, had been in a car accident, but he didn’t know anything about it – how had it happened?

************

It had been a beautiful August morning. Supplies were running low at the Evans household, so Karen had resolved to go to the grocery store. At first she had thought about taking the children with her, but (thank goodness) she decided she would leave them at home with their father. The trip to the grocery store was, at first, a pleasant one, but with one peculiarity: there was a white SUV that had been adjacent to Karen the entire time. Karen made her best attempt to see who was in the SUV, but the windows were tinted, so it was a fruitless effort.

Suddenly, the SUV swerved into Karen’s lane, knocking her car out of the road, throwing her into a ditch. Karen couldn’t remember anything after this, except the vague image of being lifted out of her car and into an ambulance.

*************

As the weeks crawled along, Jim became increasingly worried about Karen. Sure, the doctors had said that she would be fine, the surgery had gone well, but there was a hideous cloud of doubt wafting in the back of his mind; he could not help but wonder if the doctors were right, if she really was going to be alright.

Jim made certain to visit Karen every day. Sometimes there would be a slight improvement, but overall Jim had not noticed Karen was getting better. Doctor Hilliard, however, begged to differ. He said she was making tremendous improvements and would be home before Jim knew it. For some reason, Jim didn’t trust the doctor – he just didn’t seem…professional.

Of all the times that Jim visited Karen, there was one that stuck in his mind more than any. She was normally very weak, and was doing well to open her eyes, much less speak, but on this occasion, she mustered up the strength to speak.

“S…U…V…………White……Wreck.” And that was all she said.

One day, two months after the wreck, during one of his visits, Jim was greeted by Dr. Hilliard.

“Good morning,” Dr. Hilliard began, “I’m afraid today has not been a good day for Karen. Come with me…I’ll explain.”

Jim was escorted into the same room where all of his visits occurred, but this time it was different, Karen wasn’t there. Both Dr. Long and Dr. Hilliard met Jim in the room.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” Dr. Hilliard said, “But your wife passed away this morning. We haven’t found the precise cause of her death yet, but…”

“Dr. Hilliard,” Dr. Long said as he watched tears trickle down Jim’s cheek, “May I see the records of the treatment you’ve given Mrs. Evans?”

“Certainly, Doctor,” Dr. Hilliard said in a choked, nervous voice.

“Doctor, come with me, I must speak with you in private.”

The two doctors walked into a small nearby staff room. Dr. Long was the first to speak.

“Dr. Hilliard, you only gave the patient half the dosage of her medication! That’s why she died!”

“Oh dear…What a terrible mistake on my part,” Dr. Hilliard said earnestly, but with somewhat of a satisfied look on his face. “I don’t think I can handle breaking the news to Mr. Evans. Please, express to him my sincere sympathy…I must go.”

Dr. Long wanted to tell Dr. Hilliard that he couldn’t go, it was his responsibility to tell Mr. Evans of his mistake. For some reason, however, he couldn’t find it in him to do so, and thus he let Dr. Hilliard walk out. Dr. Long wondered, ‘Why would he actually document it if it were intentional…Wouldn’t he try to cover it up? It must have been a mistake…Right?’ Dr. Long was puzzled.

Dr. Hilliard walked out to the parking lot, looked around him, and walked towards his car: a white SUV. The whole ride home, he had a grim smile on his face that simply would not fade.