A story about alcohol and being an arch-mage

"Archmage Bumblebob"

A chair drifted lazily over Jerry's head as he found a seat in the rear of the mess hall. Jon slid into the seat beside him and Harriet took the one opposite. Light flickered across them as a candelabra danced past. Jerry looked about them to make sure it was safe to speak then motioned his friends closer.

"I have to get to Bumblebob. I have to warn him-" Jerry's words were cut short as he noticed the telltale gestures of magecraft aimed in his direction. McDragon. His old nemesis motioned over his mashed potatoes with his scepter. A round glob of potato rose into the air before McDragon thrust his scepter, pointed directly at Jerry.

Without hesitation Jerry reacted. Scepter already in hand, he waved the magical device toward the onrushing mash. In an instant the projectile was vaporized, dissolving into the nether like warm ether. Another of McDragon's sinister pranks foiled.

Unfortunately the rest of the mess hall had not missed the interaction. In an instant the room was a cascade of magically propulsed food. Corn and peas and potatoes flew everywhere, splattering against walls and knocking levitating chairs from their rhythms.

A story about alcohol and being an arch-mage

"Why I Became a Police Officer"

I was an arch-mage, Kev was an Oreo, and Mills had pulled some things together from his closet to make an almost-passable cowboy. He would have been just at that age where he suddenly started feeling like he was too cool to dress up for Halloween, but had decided he’d go along with us younger kids one last year. It was only after we got to the next block, behind the tree on Mr. Pearson’s house, that he took the bottle out from his bag.

Now remember, Kev was an Oreo here. He was only 10. I think he was just happy to be included. I was old enough to know what it was, but young enough to still have unquestioned moralistic values forced into my consciousness, so I had said (“doing the voice,” Mills insists), “Come on, Mills, that stuff is bad!” I don’t think he’ll ever let me forget that line.

We ended up going to Montrose Park and sitting on the playscape, drinking alcohol (which was a mickey of rye, by the way). Kev had about three shots worth then went on the swings, even more raucous than usual. Mills and I shared the rest of the bottle. I hated the taste of it, but he insisted the worse it tasted, the drunker we would get. He was right. First we couldn’t even stand, so instead we sat there and ate the candy from the five or so  houses we’d already been to, which wasn’t enough to satisfy. We needed more.

A story set in Argentina in 1932, in which a teacup plays a crucial role

“The Pre-Teen Years: Family Hardship”

Father was a hard-working man who supported the entire family (all six of us). He had been a line supervisor for one of the biggest factory in Buenos Aires since the early 1920s. After the communist executions started, it wasn’t long before the factory was shut down. We didn’t understand why at the time – we didn’t know this time would go on to be called the Great Depression. Knowing that now, it seems fitting.

It was a Sunday. Father had been out of work for over a year, and we were sitting around the kitchen table, all of us, listening to the radio. It was the election, and we were being given a new president. Perhaps we were hopeful that this would bring about change for us, that maybe some of the factories would re-open and father could have his job again (that wasn’t what happened at all – the Great Depression would continue for tears to come, although I would eventually leave the city before the end of it). Arturo was only 4 at this time, and he had been crying on and off all day for hunger. Mother could only give him water and cradle him, trying not to cry herself. (She never did; I think she was the strongest of all of us.)

A story set in Argentina in 1932, in which a teacup plays a crucial role

"Time for Tea"

"Damn it Henry, if you could warn me before the rough stops I'd be most appreciative."

"By all means I shall, Jenson, assuming they're expected, but that one was most certainly not."

"What do you mean? Where are we?"

"Well, if I were to hazard a guess. . .hmm"

"Well?"

"Yes yes, give me one moment to get my bearings would you Jens? I'd say. . .South America, early 20th century, give or take."

A story with an assassin in it that ends during a business meeting

“First Day”

Having just turned twenty-nine, Sam was going to be the youngest person ever on the board of Salience.

At age twenty-three, straight out of his undergrad, he’d started working in the call centre. ”Right down there with the rest of them,” his dad used to say. He’d never gotten any special treatment.

After less than a year, he was promoted to junior underwriter, and a year and a half following that, senior. Soon after he became department manager. He had employees reporting to him that had been at the company for years. Most were older than him. Some by decades. They never showed any outward resentment – he always feared the day that would start, that he might overhear a snide comment behind a cubicle. He thought he did once, and he froze in terror, unable to think, He didn’t know how to handle disrespect from his employees, his team. How would he be able to confront them? But it turned out they were talking about one of the other managers, thank god. He remembered laughing out loud about it. But the truth was, he deserved to be in the position he was. He earned his way here. He never got any special treatment, never any handouts. This was all his. They knew this.

A story with an assassin in it that ends during a business meeting

"Corporate Martyr"

Greg double-checked the device strapped to his waist one last time before buttoning his blazer and stepping out of the car. Doubts regarding the amount of explosive rushed through Greg's mind but he pushed them away and marched inside.

The Mill-Industries corporate headquarters was as busy as it was any other day. The front desk personnel each gave him a quick nod and a tight-lipped smile before returning to the endless ringing of the phones. The asocial environment of Mill-Ins had pressed Greg into a profound depression, today he was rather happy for the lack of attention.

He pressed on through the lobby toward the elevators. A few nameless office drones stepped aside as he approached, allowing him to step right to the front of the line. He felt the same guilt now that he had been feeling for years as he stepped in front of each of them.

"M-Mister Chairman." One young worker smile nervously and bowed her head as Greg stepped past. He didn't even know her name. He didn't know any of their names. They treated him with so much respect, like a king even, yet he had never done a single thing for them.

A storm destroys your uncle's shed and kills his six-year-old son

"Forecast"

"He was always such a good kid, you know? Quiet and sweet. Spent so much time out in that old shed, just reading I think." Uncle Derek's words collapsed into sobs. We sat together for a few minutes beneath the blue sky, the only sound across the entire farm was the gentle echo of my uncle's sniffling.

Finally Derek was quiet again, wiping his red nose on the back of his sleeve. I put an arm around the old man's waist and we continued our march across the field. At the far corner of his land I could just make out the dilapidated form of the shed where my young cousin Ellis had died.

Our footsteps left obvious imprints across the tilled field. It had been nearly 3 weeks since the storm and Derek still hadn't gotten around to planting. He was nearly 50, strong and grizzled after a lifetime of working the fields. Six years ago he and his wife, my aunt Laura, had finally conceived. Many had said it was too late for them, that the child would likely have serious problems, but against the odds they had a healthy young boy. Ellis was quiet but already showing some smarts for his age, and he seemed to enjoy the family business. Derek would finally have someone to take over the farm.

A storm destroys your uncle's shed and kills his six-year-old son

"Where I Learned About Mortality"

I had only met Stanley once, when I was in first grade – Christmas of 1991. It was at Aunt Karey’s house in Gravenhurst. We had all came the afternoon of Christmas Day, after having first Christmas with our respective parents – which, let’s be honest, was the main attraction. But this was second Christmas, and sometimes our grandparents got us stuff our parents wouldn't. I always looked forward to second Christmas.

Stanley lived in Port Elliot – I had no idea where that was at the time, of course, but I knew it was far. I just wanted more people to play water guns with. There ended up being all five of us kids there (including Stanley and his brother, Shane, who were the only cousins I hadn’t met before that day), and I remember that being the most fun second Christmas ever. Aunt Karey had a crawl space and we dragged pillows and blankets in it to make a fort, then we brought our toys in. Stanley got a Lite-Brite (the ones with the plastic pegs, back then) and I remember us being so into that, for some reason. Some of the other boys played Game Boy but I was a little sad I never got one so I tried not to get too into that. I remembered we high-fived when we were leaving, and we thought we’d at least get to hang out again next Christmas, because look how much fun it was! But that was the last Christmas he was alive for.