6 min read
Magical Mishaps
October 31, 2018
“You know they say the veil between worlds is thinnest on Halloween night, right? When magic comes alive and the spirit world and ours intertwine most delicately,” Evan said, leaning over the bar top counter in the kitchen.
Reuben scoffed, raising an eyebrow. “Do you even know who you’re talking to? Of course I know that.”
They laughed, the casual conversation flowing between sips of coffee, while in the living room, Ryder lay sprawled across the couch. His ribbon draped lazily over the edge, and he stared up at the ceiling, half-listening to their banter while his mind wrestled with its own turbulence. So many questions swirled through his thoughts, unanswered and growing louder with each passing day.
Since the night he’d met the Trader, Ryder had been carrying a heavy secret, just as he had been asked to. The Trader’s words echoed in his mind: Keep it a surprise, until it’s too obvious to hide. Ryder hadn’t confided in anyone, not even Reuben. But it wasn’t just secrecy weighing him down — his powers hadn’t returned the way he expected, and the past week had been more confusing and troubling than he could have ever anticipated.
The morning after his meeting with the Trader, Ryder awoke with cautious hope. The Trader had promised to take away his poisonous touch, and in return, his powers were supposed to come back. Ryder wasted no time. He grabbed his spell book and headed to the Mystic Herb, intending to find a quiet place in the nearby forest to practice.
He saw Reuben in the shop, busy with a couple of customers, so he didn’t stop to chat. Instead, he slipped past and floated into the peaceful woods beyond, eventually finding a secluded spot where he could practice undisturbed. Ryder opened his spell book to his old notes, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest. He wasn’t sure what to expect but was desperate to see if he could still conjure like before.
Taking a deep breath, he floated up and imagined something simple — a small tree with leaves and fruit. He extended his hand, and to his surprise, an area of ground before him began to glow with strange, swirling shades of violet and green. That wasn’t how his magic used to look. The energy gathered, and from the glowing patch of earth, a small bud began to sprout. But instead of flourishing into the vision he held in his mind, the growth twisted and coiled into an unnatural, gnarled shape. The energy dissipated, and Ryder felt drained — more exhausted than he ever remembered feeling after such a simple spell. He floated closer, touching the frail creation, which barely resembled a tree at all. It was more like a tangled mass of crooked vines, brittle and uneven.
Disappointed, Ryder sighed and turned back to his spell book. He tried to will new notes onto an empty page as he had in the past, but the words appeared muddled and warped, almost illegible. The drain on his energy was overwhelming, and the result was worse than his messy handwriting. He felt defeated, questioning what had gone wrong. In the past, his imaginings had flowed effortlessly, but now…everything was so different.
Discouraged, he returned home, hoping it was just an off day and that things would improve with practice.
The next morning, Ryder returned to the same secluded spot, feeling a cautious sense of determination. But when he arrived, the tree he’d imagined was still there, only now it looked worse—wilted and broken in places. That wasn’t normal. His conjured creations usually vanished once their purpose was fulfilled, dissolving into tiny rainbow specks. But this one lingered like an unwanted memory. He approached the withering shape and touched a branch, watching in disbelief as it snapped off and fell to the ground like any other dead twig. Why is it still here? he wondered, feeling a pang of frustration.
Instead of dwelling on the questions, Ryder decided to try something simpler. He opened his spell book again, only to find that the ink he had imagined onto the page the day prior had run, leaving ugly black streaks across the paper. It hurt to rip the page out, but he had no choice. Closing the book, Ryder steadied himself and floated above the ground, concentrating on something as basic as a single crow’s feather.
He envisioned the feather with dark midnight-blue hues and delicate barbs. His freckles glowed as he summoned his power, and once again, the same violet and green energy swirled in his hands. The feather materialized slowly, but it looked all wrong — the rachis was too thick, the vanes too thin, and the quill was oddly shaped. The color was off too, a pale blue instead of the deep shade he’d imagined. Ryder was left feeling completely drained. His magic was struggling to manifest even the simplest forms, and the results were far from what he pictured in his mind.
Trying to push through the frustration, Ryder picked up his pen and began to write down his notes by hand. His handwriting wasn’t perfect, but at least it was legible. He described every detail of his attempts, noting the unusual colors, the warping, and the lingering fatigue. He left the feather on the ground and went home, feeling a gnawing doubt that he couldn’t shake.
Over the next few days, Ryder avoided practicing altogether. He kept to his room, unsure if he even wanted to continue trying. His mind was weighed down with questions and insecurities.
Finally, a week after meeting the Trader, Ryder ventured back into the forest. When he arrived at his secluded spot, he was stunned to find the imagined tree still there — now completely dead, its twisted branches lying in a pile of sticks and twigs. Nearby, the patch of earth where the violet-green plume had appeared was covered in dirt, decomposing rapidly. Ryder had never seen one of his imaginings decay like this, and it left him feeling more uneasy than ever.
He wrote detailed notes about the strange decomposition and returned home, feeling a deep uncertainty about his abilities. For the first time, he questioned whether he should even continue practicing magic at all. A few days had passed since that unsettling incident, and Ryder hadn’t practiced since.
Lost in his thoughts, he nearly jumped at the sound of a familiar sound. Knock. Knock-knock. Calista’s signature rhythm. She was here to join them for the Halloween festivities. Just another evening, or so it seemed…
Reuben scoffed, raising an eyebrow. “Do you even know who you’re talking to? Of course I know that.”
They laughed, the casual conversation flowing between sips of coffee, while in the living room, Ryder lay sprawled across the couch. His ribbon draped lazily over the edge, and he stared up at the ceiling, half-listening to their banter while his mind wrestled with its own turbulence. So many questions swirled through his thoughts, unanswered and growing louder with each passing day.
Since the night he’d met the Trader, Ryder had been carrying a heavy secret, just as he had been asked to. The Trader’s words echoed in his mind: Keep it a surprise, until it’s too obvious to hide. Ryder hadn’t confided in anyone, not even Reuben. But it wasn’t just secrecy weighing him down — his powers hadn’t returned the way he expected, and the past week had been more confusing and troubling than he could have ever anticipated.
The morning after his meeting with the Trader, Ryder awoke with cautious hope. The Trader had promised to take away his poisonous touch, and in return, his powers were supposed to come back. Ryder wasted no time. He grabbed his spell book and headed to the Mystic Herb, intending to find a quiet place in the nearby forest to practice.
He saw Reuben in the shop, busy with a couple of customers, so he didn’t stop to chat. Instead, he slipped past and floated into the peaceful woods beyond, eventually finding a secluded spot where he could practice undisturbed. Ryder opened his spell book to his old notes, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in his chest. He wasn’t sure what to expect but was desperate to see if he could still conjure like before.
Taking a deep breath, he floated up and imagined something simple — a small tree with leaves and fruit. He extended his hand, and to his surprise, an area of ground before him began to glow with strange, swirling shades of violet and green. That wasn’t how his magic used to look. The energy gathered, and from the glowing patch of earth, a small bud began to sprout. But instead of flourishing into the vision he held in his mind, the growth twisted and coiled into an unnatural, gnarled shape. The energy dissipated, and Ryder felt drained — more exhausted than he ever remembered feeling after such a simple spell. He floated closer, touching the frail creation, which barely resembled a tree at all. It was more like a tangled mass of crooked vines, brittle and uneven.
Disappointed, Ryder sighed and turned back to his spell book. He tried to will new notes onto an empty page as he had in the past, but the words appeared muddled and warped, almost illegible. The drain on his energy was overwhelming, and the result was worse than his messy handwriting. He felt defeated, questioning what had gone wrong. In the past, his imaginings had flowed effortlessly, but now…everything was so different.
Discouraged, he returned home, hoping it was just an off day and that things would improve with practice.
The next morning, Ryder returned to the same secluded spot, feeling a cautious sense of determination. But when he arrived, the tree he’d imagined was still there, only now it looked worse—wilted and broken in places. That wasn’t normal. His conjured creations usually vanished once their purpose was fulfilled, dissolving into tiny rainbow specks. But this one lingered like an unwanted memory. He approached the withering shape and touched a branch, watching in disbelief as it snapped off and fell to the ground like any other dead twig. Why is it still here? he wondered, feeling a pang of frustration.
Instead of dwelling on the questions, Ryder decided to try something simpler. He opened his spell book again, only to find that the ink he had imagined onto the page the day prior had run, leaving ugly black streaks across the paper. It hurt to rip the page out, but he had no choice. Closing the book, Ryder steadied himself and floated above the ground, concentrating on something as basic as a single crow’s feather.
He envisioned the feather with dark midnight-blue hues and delicate barbs. His freckles glowed as he summoned his power, and once again, the same violet and green energy swirled in his hands. The feather materialized slowly, but it looked all wrong — the rachis was too thick, the vanes too thin, and the quill was oddly shaped. The color was off too, a pale blue instead of the deep shade he’d imagined. Ryder was left feeling completely drained. His magic was struggling to manifest even the simplest forms, and the results were far from what he pictured in his mind.
Trying to push through the frustration, Ryder picked up his pen and began to write down his notes by hand. His handwriting wasn’t perfect, but at least it was legible. He described every detail of his attempts, noting the unusual colors, the warping, and the lingering fatigue. He left the feather on the ground and went home, feeling a gnawing doubt that he couldn’t shake.
Over the next few days, Ryder avoided practicing altogether. He kept to his room, unsure if he even wanted to continue trying. His mind was weighed down with questions and insecurities.
Finally, a week after meeting the Trader, Ryder ventured back into the forest. When he arrived at his secluded spot, he was stunned to find the imagined tree still there — now completely dead, its twisted branches lying in a pile of sticks and twigs. Nearby, the patch of earth where the violet-green plume had appeared was covered in dirt, decomposing rapidly. Ryder had never seen one of his imaginings decay like this, and it left him feeling more uneasy than ever.
He wrote detailed notes about the strange decomposition and returned home, feeling a deep uncertainty about his abilities. For the first time, he questioned whether he should even continue practicing magic at all. A few days had passed since that unsettling incident, and Ryder hadn’t practiced since.
Lost in his thoughts, he nearly jumped at the sound of a familiar sound. Knock. Knock-knock. Calista’s signature rhythm. She was here to join them for the Halloween festivities. Just another evening, or so it seemed…