The thing about writing is that it really does take practice – even more so when it’s the kind of writing with word limits. I’m feeling a bit like the tinman, my write brain sitting dormant and rusty for a few months, creaking painfully as I try to get back into the swing of things.
This week on Trifecta, the word is:
1: a device for producing a striking display by the combustion of explosive or flammable compositions
2: plural a display of fireworks
3: plural
a : display of temper or intense conflict
b : a spectacular display <the fireworks of autumn leaves>
This is a continuation of the story Which Witch, the rest of which you can find in my Fiction tab.
The photos below are of a piece of paper art by Su Blackwell. She does book sculptures, as well as installations such as this, and it is hard to believe it’s just made of cut paper. It’s magical, like the words leapt off the page to show you the story within.
“You don’t WHAT?! “
Agata stared, flabbergasted, at the old man seated across the broad mahogany desk, his liver-spotted hands steepled, his wrinkled face calm and solemn.
He raised an eyebrow slightly at her tone of voice, and repeated in a crisp accent, “We do not accept young ladies in this program, madam.”
“You don’t accept witches into your school of witchcraft?” she heard the shrillness of her own voice and winced internally.
“We do not accept ladies into our school of the Arcane Arts. It is simply too esoteric and complex a field of matter for a woman to benefit from. We would be glad to consider your admission into our poetry and languages department, however.”
The papers stacked neatly on the desk fluttered.
“Too complex?” she snarled, leaning over the desk as the inkwell rattled. “You don’t teach magic to women because we’re what? Incapable of performing spells?”
“Not incapable, Madam, simply too flighty and emotional.” He carefully caught a pen as it rolled across the glossy desk and set it in a stand. “Not to mention, prone to hysterics.”
Agata threw her hands up in disgust and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
The old man waited for her steps to fade and rang a bell. “Bradley,” he said to the nervous young man who answered, “Have someone sent up to tidy my office. I’ll have a cognac and my pipe in the library today.”
Bradley stared, wide-eyed at the winter-scene in the office. A thick layer of perfectly formed tiny paper snowflakes coated the entire room, including the head and shoulders of the Headmaster of Arcane Arts.
“W-what happened?” he stammered.
“The young lady was somewhat put-out.”
“Your pens are stuck in the ceiling plaster, Headmaster.”
“Yes, quite a display of fireworks. For a member of the weaker sex.” The Headmaster brushed the paper from the shoulders of his dark suit. “My pipe, Bradley.”
The old man walked out, cane in hand, KICK ME sewn neatly into his suit-back.
