by Red Tash
The Wizard Takes a Holiday
by
Red Tash
Copyright 2011, Red Tash Books
ePub edition
Now including short fiction by Claudia Lefeve and Ash Krafton.
See respective authors for copyright information.
Work summary:
The Wizard Takes a Holiday is a flash fiction humorous rural fantasy of about 1500 words, by Red Tash.
https://RedTash.com
Application of the Scientific Method to Family Management is a short story in the humorous speculative fiction vein. Approximately 4500 words, by Ash Krafton.
https://AshKrafton.com
Southern Hospitality is a flash fiction historical horror short of about 1000 words, by Claudia Lefeve.
https://www.ClaudiaLefeve.com
Lucian's First Trick is the story of a young man's last night in the childhood realm of his mundane life. Sometimes when you say “Trick or Treat,” you get what you ask for. Approximately 3500 words. By Red Tash, this story originally was published in Sirens Call Issue #5, October 2012.
https://RedTash.com
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The Wizard Takes a Holiday
I stroked my beard, fluffing it proudly, and propped my feet on the boombox in front of me. The drive-in was crowded, and all around me, men, women, and children were dressed in what were supposed to be frightening costumes. Serial killers. Ghouls. Lots and lots of fake blood.
I’d seen the real thing. They couldn’t scare me.
I peeled open my cardbox box of chocolate covered raisins, and balanced a skiff of deep fried pickles on my thigh, waiting for them to cool. What delicacies! What a vacation! I took a long sip of the off-brand Red Crème soda I’d found at the primitive, but well-stocked snack bar. What a pleasant summer night.
Next to me, a family had backed their minivan into a tight space, and children of all ages spilled out the trunk in a tumultuous explosion of bright summer clothing and tan skin. Multi-color quilts went down on the grass immediately. The mother tossed out bags of snacks which the kids tore into with relish. Bright orange cheesy puffs. Popcorn. I raised my can in salute.
The littlest of the bunch, no more than a toddler, approached me with her hand outstretched. She held the other behind her back. I smiled, wishing I could wipe her nose for her, or magic her entire face clean, but knowing neither was my place. She proffered a bright orange cheese snack, and I obliged, lest I hurt her feelings. She opened her other fist, revealing a tiny brown toad, half-squished. I swallowed hard on my snack and made a mental note to place an anti-salmonella charm on myself as soon as no one was looking.
For all I had heard about Americans and their wastefulness, I had to admire my present company’s devotion to the antiquated custom of viewing film outdoors. Despite a sold out crowd, the natives waited patiently for the restrooms, doubtlessly slowed more than normal by the necessity of peeling off a variety of costumes. Instead of hiding inside the air conditioned caverns of the local WayTooManyPlex, these country denizens were gathered on a late summer’s night out of doors, among the mosquitoes and the inevitable stickiness of the evening dew to watch a horror film festival.
Here, they could move about freely. Here, they could make the solitary viewing experience a social one. Here, a tiny snot-nosed tot was free to offer an old wizard a cheese snack, at his own risk.
Oh, is there anything like getting away from it all to make you appreciate the joy of living? I couldn’t wait to see what the night would bring.
We were mid-way through the opening feature when I heard a series of bangs at the top of the hill, behind me.
The proprietor of the drive-in cut into the broadcast. “A reminder, folks. We know you are excited, and we all love to celebrate Night O’ Fright here at the Georgeville Drive-In, but fireworks are never allowed, and offenders will be asked to leave.” There was a pause, some static, then “Please enjoy the movies here with us, under the stars.”
A groan went up from the back row. Not the disappointed groan of revelers denied their fun, however. No, in my reckoning it was something much worse than a few American hicks moaning and banging around for their kicks.
The hair stood on the back of my neck, a signal I had learned long ago never to ignore. I reached beneath my lightweight wizarding cap to scratch my scalp. Next door, the children were rapt in attention, completely desensitized to the classic horror flick gracing the aluminum screen. I searched the tangled mass for the baby of the bunch, and her squishy toad.
Another bang, and this time, a roar. A young actress’ muted scream resounded through the drive-in’s antiquated speaker system, and echoed from the radios tuned to its frequency, all around me.
“Confound it, anyway,” I whispered under my breath. If there were no local wizards in the vicinity present to take care of this, I supposed I had better. Besides, I felt oddly compelled to defend the little cheese snack girl, should the need arise. “So much for vacation.” I set the fried pickles down and set out in search of trouble, once again.
I found the troll on the edge of the drive-in. Someone had most definitely magicked the beast, as well as the drive-in staff, not to mention the majority of patrons crowding the back aisles. Truckloads of teenagers were happily swinging glow sticks and swilling cheap beer, paying no attention to the hulking twelve-foot blue-skinned giant in overalls who threatened their safety.
I sighed, appraising him best I could in the growing darkness. A young thing, he was. He bounced a tractor tire into the back of an oversized pick-up truck, where it rebounded back to him. Every few bounces he turned his head and roared.
I looked around. No one appeared to take any notice of me and my wanderings. I suppose even an old wizard can still catch a break, from time-to-time.
“Sorcerious Revelio!” I called softly, stealing my wand from beneath my summer robes.
A faint glow lit the back of the pick-up truck. Surely the troll charmer would be found inside.
Imagine my surprise upon reaching the back of the truck, ready to scold my fellow wizard for inappropriate use of sorcery in a public place—American customs be damned—only to find the little cheese snack girl, smiling up at me, her face even messier than before.
The troll bellowed, and I cast a protective enchantment around us. His tire froze in mid-air, and he banged his fists against the magical field.
The little tot erupted instantly into tears. She pointed furtively at the creature, crying “Pay! Pay wid me!” She wiped her grubby nose with the back of her hand as she cried, her last playmate still gripped tightly inside, from the look and smell of it.
“Alas, Poor Toady,” I said. I reached down and stroked her hair.
“Toady?” she said, opening her hand and offering me what was surely meant as a fine gift. I wondered how often the wee one had made accidental sacrifices of such wild and plentiful offerings. I imagined she’d discovered like most magical children do, that the average family commode makes for a proficient cauldron of sorts. Oh, the grisly potions a mere babe
could conjure!
I cursed the troll with a tiny bit of amnesia—only enough to send it home to its own mother. He had been innocent, I thought, and perhaps like this young lady, the junior of a brood with whom the elders would not deign to play.
I walked my young friend back to her parents’ van, and whispered “You’ve got quite the charmer, there” to the frantic mother, who had by then realized her baby was missing.
“Oh, if you only knew!” the mother cried. “This one’s more trouble than the rest put together!”
I could only smile, as I settled back in for the Night O’ Fright Double Feature, once again comfortable in my reclining lawn chair. Another young actress screamed through the tinny car speakers, and everywhere nearby there was joy—and nothing to fear.
**
An excerpt from Troll Or Derby:
Chapter One
Burning Down the House
Deb
Meth fires are blue, the hottest kind of flame. I’d heard it before, probably from Derek, but now I was seeing it firsthand. Lucky me.
A sickly smell hung on the air. The remains of chemicals, plastic, and pharmaceutical ingredients brutalized my lungs, but I couldn’t back away. I wouldn’t—no matter what.
The trailer crackled with flame, and Gennifer was inside. Tall, eerie tongues of fire licked the outer walls--ten feet high, at least. I had no idea flames could reach that size.
Plasticine, sticky smoke—brown and thick—engulfed me as I neared the trailer. I didn't know where to look for my sister, but I was sure she was inside. A moan, then a scream—I could hear her through the thin aluminum walls.
The trailer was melting into sludge and toxic smoke, and it cracked and popped on a warping metal frame. I didn’t know if I should try and run through the fire at the kitchen end of the mess, where a gaping hole belched sickening fire. Maybe I could try to get Gennifer to open or break a window and climb out from the other side. I wondered if she’d have it in her to bleed a little, to save her own life.
The window was way too high for me to reach.
"Open the window, Gennifer! Climb out!"
She was never right when she was doing the drugs Dave gave her—could she even understand what I was saying? Could she hear me?
I thought maybe I could pitch something hard enough into the glass to break her out. I ran to the woods, looking for a log or branch I could ram through the window. Everything was too rotten to be of any use—sticks and limbs crumbled in my shaking hands. Gennifer's screams were getting louder, higher pitched. Was she on fire? Why wouldn't she help herself?
If only I had a crowbar.
Then I saw them—tools. The trailer was up on blocks, with no underpinning. Of course Dave would be too cheap to finish out his rustic rural meth lab. I crawled beneath, the leaky septic line christening me as I stooped, groping for the abandoned tools. I hoped the mobile home wouldn't collapse on top of me before I could crawl back out, but it wasn't sounding so good.
Dave and his gang of junkie slaves had been working beneath the trailer, and sure enough, they’d been too distracted, dumb, or high to put away a set of screwdrivers, some ratchets, and a really, really heavy wrench.
It’s no crowbar, but it’ll have to do.
Liquid shit dripped on me, but I didn't have time to care. My sister was screaming her head off in a burning trailer and I was reasonably certain she was out of her mind on drugs.
I flung the wrench at the window, but it didn't break. I tried again, and again, but only managed to crack the damned glass, and Gennifer still hadn't appeared at the window to save herself.
There was only one thing to do. I grabbed the wrench and ran to the kitchen end of the trailer. I took a deep breath of fresh air, then I hurled myself through the cloud of fumes. The fire and smoke obscured everything, and I shut my eyes against the sting of chemicals. For a moment, I thought I saw the shapes of blue and orange dancers in the flames.
I braced myself for the heat, but I didn't feel it. Pops and hisses all around me sounded like whispers or cackles. The fire was eating through the trailer, and I felt the floor giving out with every step. I wouldn’t let it take Gennifer—I wouldn’t let it consume me, either.
The hallway was short, and the door Gennifer was locked behind very thin. Her screams were so loud, there was no point trying to yell to her that I was coming in, especially if it meant inhaling more smoke.
I swung at the handle, holding the wrench like a baseball bat. The brass knob fell to the floor, a chunk of splintered wood still clinging to it. I kicked the bedroom door in, and Gennifer stopped screaming long enough to pass out.
Lovely. Now I’ll have to carry her.
She wore a black bra and jeans, and her skin was burning with fever. I put my hands under her armpits and lugged her over my shoulder. She had at least 75 pounds on me, so I should have crumpled under her, I suppose. Instead, I stumbled into the door frame as I carried her across the spongy floor of the burning trailer.
The heat touched my hair—I could hear it sizzle, could smell it burning, even—but I felt nothing but determination as I carried my sister out of that meth lab.
With Gennifer still on my back, I jumped. She fell hard on top of me, and I was just pushing her off, struggling for breath, when the trailer collapsed onto the ground. The sound of sirens in the distance was no surprise—the smoke was so black and thick that farmers in the vicinity surely could tell this was no typical trash fire. I pulled my sister as far away from the flames as I could and watched for the EMTs to roll up.
Gennifer groaned, and her eyes flickered open for a sec. She met my gaze and frowned. She closed her eyes again and drew a deep breath.
“I’m going to kill that son of a bitch,” I said.
“Dave didn’t do it,” she said. Her words were slurred. She reached up to rub her eyes, lazily, as if waking up from a nap.
“Yeah, right, Gennifer. He's such a saint, locking you in a burning trailer and all.”
I didn’t see the point of arguing with her, though. I let it drop.
Something sticky and hot dripped too close to my eyes, and I reached to wipe it off. Please don't let it be crap from the sewer line. I pulled my hand away, and it was covered in blood. Even better. I won't think of that now—nope, not at all.
The fire truck roared up the gravel driveway. Guys in black rubber suits jumped off the truck--someone put a face mask on Gennifer and asked me if there was anyone still inside.
I shook my head no, and then I fell through trees, air, sky, into the black. I felt my head hitting the hard ground near where my backpack lay, could hear the EMTs shouting, and then—nothing.
Chapter 1.5
I'd Love to Change the World
Harlow
I want you to understand something. I didn't rise up out of the ground fully grown, I wasn't the bastard child of an angry god, and I didn't become this way because I was cursed. My skin's not green and I won't turn to stone in the sunlight.
When I was young, I had a mother, and she was a troll. I had a mother and a father who were both trolls, in fact--and we were a family. Yes, I had a family. Just like you.
Scared yet?
Almost everything I know about humans, I've learned from their trash. Redbook and Woman's Day show up at my doorstep more than any other source, I reckon. It may not be a perfect picture of what your life is like, but I'm betting I've got a more accurate view of your lifestyle than you have of mine, at least for the time being.
For starters, there's a shopping mall full of differences between troll family life, and how human families live. Trolls, for instance, do not typically invest a lot of emotion into their own young--often don't even raise them. They especially don't socialize with their relatives for special occasions. You won't see us breaking out the patio umbrellas and the ice chests full of soda for a family barbecue. A special occasion in troll culture is when the villagers rise up and try to corral one of us i
n a cave, or something like that. At least, that's how it used to be. That's what my mom told me. I remember that.
I remember a lot more now than I did, when this adventure started—but I'll get to that.
Best I can tell, my nuclear family was more like a human family than a troll one. The extended family, as you English would call it, was a mess. A big, illegal, drug-running, slaving mess. But I'll get to that. This is my part of the story and I want to begin in the beginning. I'm not a storyteller. It's not my profession. Bear with me while I sort this out, okay?
Sure, you're going to think what you want about trolls. I mean, you've seen movies, you've read Rowling and Tolkein. I'm telling you that the real-live working-class trolls of the Midwest are nothing like you've been told. We're capable of great violence, sure, and I'll concede that our proclivity is largely toward evil, but let's face it—a lot of that comes down to breeding and culture.
In our world, might most definitely makes right. That's the fundamental law of troll culture, although most trolls would forego the flowery wording and just express it with a grunt and blow to the head.
Trolls as a species, though, are capable of great love. I know, because I've experienced it. You don't live with something like that and ever forget. If you do, you're a fool, anyway.
My parents weren't totally solitary like so many other trolls are. They even had a very close friendship with a fairy family called the Wheelers. If we'd celebrated holidays, the Wheelers were the ones we'd have invited over for a Fourth of July cookout. We didn't do that a lot, that I can recall. We did raid sinkholes filled with garbage on a few occasions, though. Good times.
The Wheelers were not just fairies, they were Protectors. Fleet of foot and quick of mind, their instincts were so well-tuned as to be mistaken for psychic powers, by most. According to my mother, in the old days humans and fairies alike worshiped or feared the breed of fairy the Wheelers were. Their massive black wings shimmering in air above a crowd of would-be foes were beautiful and awesome—I remember that, too. Sometimes. The memories come and go, unless I'm looking at Deb. Then I can't forget.
Anyway, these two particular Wheelers, Marnie and Mannox, were so powerful and strong, everyone lived in fear of them. Everyone but my folks, and me, I guess. The Wheelers were my fairy godparents. I don't remember much about them, but I remember that.