InkWitch
Ink-weaver and magic-writer
Snap. The kettle begins to boil, and the kitchen fills with steam.
Snap. The bread dough I left to prove through the afternoon is baking, and the room smells of yeast and honey.
Snap. The lights come on, illuminating my study, lined with books and cluttered with papers.
They call me a magic man, the people of my village. They see what I can do, and it frightens them. "No one should have that much power," they yell, pulling their children away from me in the streets. "It's not right, playing around with how things are meant to be!"
But what do I care? I can't help who I am, or how I solve my problems. I can't help that the spark of inspiration, the flash of power that I control with a simple snap, came to me and not them. I just realised the secret first. I saw how it all worked, and let the knowledge surge through my brain. Why should I be shunned for being smarter than them?
Snap. Music begins to play, soft notes that soothe my nerves as I fill my pipe.
"Magic man." Ha! Are they really so simple and dull? Are their worlds so tiny that they cannot grasp the power that, truly, is within their reach too? There are times when I despair, I really do. It's not even as if I hide the source from them - they just have to embrace it!
Snap. The music dies, leaving me in the calm silence of the autumn night.
Snap. The lights go out, plunging me into a half-light, my pipe a red ember in front of my face.
I settle into my bed, staring at the stars through my window. Theirs is a magic I can never hope to achieve. But I shouldn't complain. When you're the only person in the tiny, backwards village who has connected their home to the national power grid and makes full use of this new-fangled electricity, it's sometimes hard to forget that your "magic" seems like a miracle to others.
Snap. I do like the sound that switches make, too.
Snap. The bread dough I left to prove through the afternoon is baking, and the room smells of yeast and honey.
Snap. The lights come on, illuminating my study, lined with books and cluttered with papers.
They call me a magic man, the people of my village. They see what I can do, and it frightens them. "No one should have that much power," they yell, pulling their children away from me in the streets. "It's not right, playing around with how things are meant to be!"
But what do I care? I can't help who I am, or how I solve my problems. I can't help that the spark of inspiration, the flash of power that I control with a simple snap, came to me and not them. I just realised the secret first. I saw how it all worked, and let the knowledge surge through my brain. Why should I be shunned for being smarter than them?
Snap. Music begins to play, soft notes that soothe my nerves as I fill my pipe.
"Magic man." Ha! Are they really so simple and dull? Are their worlds so tiny that they cannot grasp the power that, truly, is within their reach too? There are times when I despair, I really do. It's not even as if I hide the source from them - they just have to embrace it!
Snap. The music dies, leaving me in the calm silence of the autumn night.
Snap. The lights go out, plunging me into a half-light, my pipe a red ember in front of my face.
I settle into my bed, staring at the stars through my window. Theirs is a magic I can never hope to achieve. But I shouldn't complain. When you're the only person in the tiny, backwards village who has connected their home to the national power grid and makes full use of this new-fangled electricity, it's sometimes hard to forget that your "magic" seems like a miracle to others.
Snap. I do like the sound that switches make, too.