Three New Story Previews

It skips a generation

 So you’ve just discovered that you’re a witch/wizard! So? That might have been an issue a few hundred years ago, but that got kind of old right quick when the less-magically-inclined realized they couldn’t kill the legitimately accused. From dissonance came begrudging acceptance which—in the present year of 2014—has long since turned to apathy.

 Maxwellian Longacre shares this apathy so acutely that it almost registers. His parents were magically gifted, as were his maternal grandparents, but not his father’s father. No, Grandpa Ehrlich Vesuvius Longacre was entirely lacking when it came to his family’s line of wizardly heredity, exactly like Maxwellian; Ian for short. Ian’s father died rather blandly when Ian was barely a toddler, so it’s always been him and his mother, Cindrella. Unfortunately, that changed last year when his mother remarried, to a wizard with two daughters positively beaming with magical ability. Thanks to a hasty move across the country and a bureaucratic mix-up, Ian has been enrolled into the Erudite School of Casting with his step-sisters. Suddenly his apathy isn’t enough anymore.

 This isn’t tattling, Ian told himself. This is bringing up a valid point. That point being it’s not cool to be eaten by one’s blanket. Ian came to a stop outside his parent’s bedroom door, took a deep breath, and then knocked.

 “Yes?” His mom said in her usual lilting voice.

 “It’s Ian. Is it okay if I come in?”

 “Of course, I’m just doing my hair is all.”

 Ian entered, utterly nonplussed by the myriad of floating brushes and self-contained, hot gusts of lilac scented wind that were styling his mother’s glittery blond hair. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

 “Of course, Ian. What’s up?” She looked to him without turning her head.

 Ian knew he had his mother’s undivided attention, despite the hair styling theatrics, which made it ever so slightly more difficult to say what he wanted. Still, “Delia has been enchanting my bedding to either eat me or attack me in some way when I wake up.” definitely needed to be brought to her attention.

Issued

 Alexandria Gibson slipped quite nicely into the role of hired killer. As valedictorian of her graduating class, Ivy League acceptance letters in hand, she had the next eight years of her life as neatly appointed as a Victorian era sitting room. Which made her sudden decision to join the Marine Corps the night before graduation all the more baffling. And just so we’re clear, she appreciates her life’s parallels to Grosse Pointe Blank, though she appreciates you not bringing that up even more. It took her 11 years to question the decision she made that May night all those years ago, but as she stares into the eyes of the 10 year old boy she just failed to kill she wonders now why she didn’t question it sooner.

 “I missed.” She said, still aiming the firearm at her target.

 Ethan could barely hear her words over the pounding of his heart and the driving rain. Against his better judgment he asked the woman to repeat herself. “What did you say?”

 “I said I missed. I never miss.” She looked at her hands. They were still as ever.

 Ethan gulped. All that surrounded the terrifying figure before him was a blur. He spoke haltingly. “Are you… are… are you gonna try again?”

 “I should.” She said, weighing the weapon as if it had suddenly become her destiny. “I really should… but I won’t.”

 “G-g-g…good.” Ethan said as even the woman began to blur.

 “I think so, too. So now you need to calm down, get up, and come with me.”

 “What?! NO!” Ethan attempted to scramble to his feet as the woman holstered her weapon and approached him, gliding forward like elegance personified.

That was then and so is this

 Avery Gingham is having a slight problem. It’s a Thursday, and while that’s great and all—Thursday never hurt nobody no how—it’s been a Thursday for near as long as he can remember. Well, that’s not entirely accurate. It’s been Thursday going on four months next, well, Thursday, but that’s a whole hell of a lot of the same day! And it is the same day every time. Occasionally there will be slight differences that Avery notices, and while they appear to be related it’s impossible to keep a running tally or catalog of them in anything but his memory. Every person and physical object resets come midnight, so writing it all down is an exercise in futility. Yet Avery knows it’s possible to escape this benign cycle…

 “Checking the mail?” Jerry said, tilting his head in passing interest as he watched Avery continue to walk on. “Where are you going? Could be something important in there.”

 “Two flyers for appliance store sales, a too soon invite to join AARP, four utility bills—three incorrectly addressed—and a key to possibly win a sports car I couldn't afford the taxes on.” Avery said without breaking stride, though he did walk a bit slower to get it all out.

 Jerry tilted his head a bit more. “You sound pretty certain, pal.”                                    

 “Certainty hasn’t a thing to do with it Jerry.” Avery said under his breath, though he raised his voice for what he said next. “Take a step to your right.”

 “A step to my wha-OWW!” Jerry reached for the back of his recently dented head. “Dammit, Junior! What did I tell you about throwing your Frisbee without looking?!”

 Avery remembered laughing the first few times this exchange happened, but it had since lost its luster. Which was a shame, because he was an ardent supporter or physical comedy.