All posts tagged: magic

NaPoWriMo – Day Eight: Troll Men

In the borderlands are wooden glens where troll men stump on hollow legs, and wait for the pretty faced prince to come with sword and horse in need of trophies to convince   some foreign king of his cause.   He’ll trade his sack of skulls for a wife he’s not yet met but been told of in fairy tales, in tavern songs and children’s rhymes. He knows her hair is gold, her lips ruby, eyes sapphire tongue silent to go with a quiet mind.   But he’ll do as princes do when winning princess from their father’s. He’ll forget to show kindness to the widow on the road for she is ugly, dirty, worthless, and the witch will curse his blindness and bless his wife not yet met with a tongue and lips not made of gems.   In the end he’ll find a queen, new upon her father’s throne without the need of troll remains or princes bearing their bones. She’ll return him to the forest glens where troll men stump on hollow …

Spell Spun

The recipe called for three teaspoons of shimmer, from unshed tears. Half a fractured heart, cored and peeled. A handful of sweat scraped from the hollow of a good man’s throat, and the promise of forever, bottled and preserved in lies, steeped for sixteen years, and cracked open with a whisper of ice.   For Today’s Daily Prompt: Shimmer I was genuinely struggling for a response to today’s daily prompt so I’m afraid you’ve got his nonsense.

One Last Hope

Grendal, Chief Clansman of the Ruling High Council For Witches, Warlocks, and the magical sorts, did not appreciate being woken before dawn. His bones complained about the cold and his knees refused to cooperate as he traversed the endless staircases and corridors that led from his rooms to the Grand Hall, where the rest of the council was supposedly waiting. ‘Where is everyone?’ Looking around the room he could see four others, only one of which had bothered to change from their night clothes. Looking at the swaying man Grendal reconsidered the assumption and decided that he’d not been to bed in the first place. ‘Well,’ Grendal demanded, ‘where are the rest of the sods?’ ‘Succumb?’ said one of the others. Elmer Throttle sat hunched in his seat, the folds of his dressing gown tightly roped around his midriff and a single fluffy slipper poking out beneath the hem. ‘He believed himself to be a Warawhump, whatever that is. He won’t come out of the cook’s wine cellar and appears to have crafted himself some form …


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Do you Believe in Magic?.” The caravan was small, moving down the southern roads from Hareth towards the open planes of the Burnt Desert. I joined them mostly by mistake, a misunderstanding in some backwards tavern far off the road to nowhere and very decidedly unhappy to see me traipsing through their doorway. What actually happened in that tavern was something of a blur. Next thing I knew my horse is tied to the back of a cart, my hands are bound to the saddle and a Hedge Witch is trying to poke my eyes out with her glare. ‘Don’t even try it,’ she hissed. ‘I know a warlock when I smell one.’ A friend of mine once said that ‘magic is just science we haven’t quite worked out yet’. I thought it was a fantastic way of looking at the world and I sort of clung onto the idea from there on out. It made sense to me. As a writer magic can be an important tool. …

Power Base

“You want me to build what?” Edwin spluttered, his voice bouncing off the open bonnet above him. Leaving his wrench on the engine he pulled himself upright and glared at the woman currently standing in his workshop. “I am not getting started with that crap again.” “Come on Eddie” pleaded Melissa, “Just one.” “No,” said Edwin. “Last time I charmed something for you Rome burned, and I mean literally.” “So I was a rebel teenager,” shrugged Melissa. “For five-hundred years?” “I mature slowly, but I swear I’ll behave myself this time!” “No Mel, it’s over. I’m not your witch anymore.”

Working Out The Kinks

She wasn’t supposed to save him, she was supposed to strike the final blow and end his suffering. That was the task dealt to her by the Valkyries and that was the task she had every intention of carrying out. Until she saw his face. Unmarried and without family, Eveline’s mother was labelled a whore when the village learnt of the pregnancy. Considered witches by many, Eveline and her mother keep to their woodland cottage, selling tinctures and salves to those who dare to venture close enough. That is until the autumn of 1066 when William, Duke of Normandy lands of English shores to take the Crown. When Eveline sleeps she sees the battle to come. She knows that the English King will fall and the Norman army will march on towards London where William will take his throne. The death of another King is not what wakes her screaming though. The remains of the Battle of Hastings will bring about Eveline’s greatest folly, a folly that she will spend lifetimes trying to fix.   …

Make-Believe Map

There are cracks in the yellow plaster where the heat from our radiator swelled too thick against the walls. On mornings when the city wears its age, supporting the same white eyebrows that danced in laughter beneath your grandfather’s furrowed forehead, we count countries. Making up names for the yellow lands within the lines that don’t fit onto the maps we know, and assuming stories to account for the slight changes to the U.K’s shape. ‘Rising Sea Levels Swamp Isle Of Man’ informs the weather man off CNN; his voice broadcast from your tongue to every country we can see. ‘Giant Squid Consumes The Heel Of Italy And Part Of Alaska Melted By Newly Discovered Tectonic Fracture.’ Some days I will remind you that we are too old for make-believe. Too old to put stock in imagination and waste time on delusions of magic. You’ve never believed me on that. To you I must be magic to be true. Inspired by: