more urban fantasy
Jan. 21st, 2026 06:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deird1I've got a few more drabbles, to match the ones I did earlier.
Lessons
“…and you teach…”
“Teach? No.” Mrs Galloway’s voice is sharp, but her eyes are both soft and shrewd. “Teaching magic is illegal, honey, everyone knows that.”
“Yeah. I know. It’s just–”
She picks up her teacup and says, “What I am, is old. And like all old people, I tend to… talk to myself.” A lifted eyebrow. “A canny observer could probably learn a lot by listening in. No harm in that, right?”
“…Right.”
The silence holds for a moment, and then Mrs Galloway smiles.
“I’ll be at home tomorrow afternoon, if you feel like keeping an old woman company.”
Night
She shouldn’t be out this late.
Trix quickens her steps, feeling more than hearing what is behind her. It pulls to her – tugging, tempting – and she shakes her head and keeps walking. Nearly home.
Her feet trip over nothing.
It’s still behind her. Whatever it is. If it exists.
Trix looks up – looks back – and for a second darkness consumes everything around her. She can’t hear, can’t see.
She fumbles for the beads at her wrist – protection – and shouts into the black: “Leave me alone!”
Nothing. Just a normal street. All is calm.
Trix hunches her shoulders and hurries on.
Bribe
When August was six, her brother was born, and she became responsible for the honey wine. Every evening for a month, she took a bowl out to the front step, poured a serving of honey wine, and sang The Honey Song (known by non-six-year-olds as The Threshold Calling).
Now, it’s her job to teach her nine-year-old cousin.
Most importantly: it must be a fresh bowl; it must be placed one step past the door; it must be done before sunset.
“Now we sing. ‘Fresh drink here, we ce-le-brate. Come and take some, don’t be late. Ba-by’s born, time to sing…’ ”
Golf balls
Marco Ravasi is on tv, and on trial, for malicious magic.
Mum turns up the volume as his lawyer says, “Mr Ravasi has never intentionally caused weather anomalies, nor any other unnatural phenomena.”
Tegan doesn’t comment, but Randall has opinions. “It’s not like he murdered people.”
“The storm caused a lot of property damage, sweetie,” Mum tells him.
“Ooh, hailstones. Scary, scary ice. They know that roofs exist, right?”
Mum sighs in exasperation. Tegan says nothing.
Ravasi could get six years if he’s convicted. For fifteen minutes of hail.
Tegan shifts nervously on the couch. Outside, clouds begin to gather.
Present
All Mr Cavendish ever says about it is “You’re a good boy, Jack. Good boys deserve jam.” and a fresh jar is pressed into his hand.
***
Jack’s doing his homework at the Cavendishes’ table while Granny Evelyn makes cocoa and Mr Cavendish sits whittling. He fumbles the knife and swears quietly.
“Michael! Children present.”
“Sorry, Evie. It’s this damn – darn arthritis.” He flexes his fingers, wincing.
The knuckles are swollen and painful. They’re… wrong. Jack reaches out and touches them, his own fingers hot.
Mr Cavendish freezes – says nothing – stares.
***
Nowadays whittling’s easier again, and Jack gets regular free jam.
Favour
Trix walks up to her one morning and says abruptly, “Hang on to this, will you?”
Which is why August’s locker has a bag of charms, herbs, and chalk hidden under a schoolbag when Trix’s locker gets inspected that lunchtime.
It’s not like they’ve spoken more than twice.
After school Trix is leaning against a wall nearby, nonchalantly inspecting her nails. August hands the bag over, wordlessly, and Trix says “Thanks for that.” She walks away – then stops, turns, says “You should come past the Warwick Bridge sometime.”
The one over the old creek?
August just nods, and Trix leaves.
Pursuit
He runs, trying not to stumble, trying to find his way, while the voices behind him grow louder – and angrier.
The moon is full, but the tree branches and the shadows they cast mean that he can still barely see. He’s navigating through memory and the feel of forest floor beneath his feet.
There’s the gravel path.
Now the big stump.
Down the slope, and–
Lights flash behind him, footsteps thunder, as his pursuers come ever closer.
Quickly, quickly…
There’s the grove – the old birch – the carving.
He slams his hand flat against the runes.
Suddenly the grove is empty.
Lessons
“…and you teach…”
“Teach? No.” Mrs Galloway’s voice is sharp, but her eyes are both soft and shrewd. “Teaching magic is illegal, honey, everyone knows that.”
“Yeah. I know. It’s just–”
She picks up her teacup and says, “What I am, is old. And like all old people, I tend to… talk to myself.” A lifted eyebrow. “A canny observer could probably learn a lot by listening in. No harm in that, right?”
“…Right.”
The silence holds for a moment, and then Mrs Galloway smiles.
“I’ll be at home tomorrow afternoon, if you feel like keeping an old woman company.”
Night
She shouldn’t be out this late.
Trix quickens her steps, feeling more than hearing what is behind her. It pulls to her – tugging, tempting – and she shakes her head and keeps walking. Nearly home.
Her feet trip over nothing.
It’s still behind her. Whatever it is. If it exists.
Trix looks up – looks back – and for a second darkness consumes everything around her. She can’t hear, can’t see.
She fumbles for the beads at her wrist – protection – and shouts into the black: “Leave me alone!”
Nothing. Just a normal street. All is calm.
Trix hunches her shoulders and hurries on.
Bribe
When August was six, her brother was born, and she became responsible for the honey wine. Every evening for a month, she took a bowl out to the front step, poured a serving of honey wine, and sang The Honey Song (known by non-six-year-olds as The Threshold Calling).
Now, it’s her job to teach her nine-year-old cousin.
Most importantly: it must be a fresh bowl; it must be placed one step past the door; it must be done before sunset.
“Now we sing. ‘Fresh drink here, we ce-le-brate. Come and take some, don’t be late. Ba-by’s born, time to sing…’ ”
Golf balls
Marco Ravasi is on tv, and on trial, for malicious magic.
Mum turns up the volume as his lawyer says, “Mr Ravasi has never intentionally caused weather anomalies, nor any other unnatural phenomena.”
Tegan doesn’t comment, but Randall has opinions. “It’s not like he murdered people.”
“The storm caused a lot of property damage, sweetie,” Mum tells him.
“Ooh, hailstones. Scary, scary ice. They know that roofs exist, right?”
Mum sighs in exasperation. Tegan says nothing.
Ravasi could get six years if he’s convicted. For fifteen minutes of hail.
Tegan shifts nervously on the couch. Outside, clouds begin to gather.
Present
All Mr Cavendish ever says about it is “You’re a good boy, Jack. Good boys deserve jam.” and a fresh jar is pressed into his hand.
***
Jack’s doing his homework at the Cavendishes’ table while Granny Evelyn makes cocoa and Mr Cavendish sits whittling. He fumbles the knife and swears quietly.
“Michael! Children present.”
“Sorry, Evie. It’s this damn – darn arthritis.” He flexes his fingers, wincing.
The knuckles are swollen and painful. They’re… wrong. Jack reaches out and touches them, his own fingers hot.
Mr Cavendish freezes – says nothing – stares.
***
Nowadays whittling’s easier again, and Jack gets regular free jam.
Favour
Trix walks up to her one morning and says abruptly, “Hang on to this, will you?”
Which is why August’s locker has a bag of charms, herbs, and chalk hidden under a schoolbag when Trix’s locker gets inspected that lunchtime.
It’s not like they’ve spoken more than twice.
After school Trix is leaning against a wall nearby, nonchalantly inspecting her nails. August hands the bag over, wordlessly, and Trix says “Thanks for that.” She walks away – then stops, turns, says “You should come past the Warwick Bridge sometime.”
The one over the old creek?
August just nods, and Trix leaves.
Pursuit
He runs, trying not to stumble, trying to find his way, while the voices behind him grow louder – and angrier.
The moon is full, but the tree branches and the shadows they cast mean that he can still barely see. He’s navigating through memory and the feel of forest floor beneath his feet.
There’s the gravel path.
Now the big stump.
Down the slope, and–
Lights flash behind him, footsteps thunder, as his pursuers come ever closer.
Quickly, quickly…
There’s the grove – the old birch – the carving.
He slams his hand flat against the runes.
Suddenly the grove is empty.