Magic in Suburbia

Magic in Suburbia

Elisabeth Waters

Table of Contents

Tell Me a Story

Golden Vanity

Connecticat

Ice Princess

Blood Calls to Blood

Weather Witch

Things That Go Grump in the Night

A Prince Among Frogs

Copyright

Tell Me a Story

Elisabeth Waters

Although I had been making jokes about the time warp for years, I never really believed in its existence until the night it grabbed me.

Anyone who knows me will tell you two things: (1) I claim to keep a time warp on my desk for losing important papers into, and (2) my house is so messy and disorganized that a time warp couldn’t find anything in it either. My study is littered with the fallout of my thirty-year writing career—reference books on every available shelf and most flat surfaces, manuscripts slithering gracefully onto the floor, reams of paper stacked in odd corners, all covered with a dusting of paper clips, rubber bands, and pencil stubs—some days it’s hard to find the typewriter. Add to this my absent-minded-professor husband and my two teenage children, and it’s easy to see that a time warp would be quite superfluous. Well, it may be superfluous, but it’s there.

It had been one of those days when everything went wrong. I was used to losing pens, pencils, typewriter ribbons, the odd ream of paper, and five-year-old manuscripts to the time warp, but this afternoon I hadn’t been able to find the manuscript I had been working on that morning. My husband informed me that I had misplaced it and it would turn up, my daughter assured me that the time warp would return it as soon as it finished reading it, and my son asked for an advance on his allowance. I wouldn’t mind if the time warp would swallow my purse briefly at moments like that, but naturally the purse sat in plain sight on the kitchen table. My son would probably figure out a way to get it out of the time warp anyway. And, of course, once he got his advance, my daughter needed money for new shoes, and my husband was running out of lunch money. By the time I gave up and crawled up to bed I was considerably poorer—and I still couldn’t find that darn manuscript!

~o0o~

I was dreaming, and I didn’t know where I was. I woke up and sat up in bed to orient myself. I was in my own bed, my husband was snoring next to me and the clock on the bed table said 3:15 am.  Then the numbers on the clock started flashing, the way they do after the power has been off, but instead of their usual 12:01 am, they were flashing numbers at random, and, while I was still wondering what was happening, nothingness picked me up and swallowed me.

It was the most horrible sensation—or rather, lack of sensation: I couldn’t see anything but a sort of murky gray; I couldn’t feel anything at all, not even air against my skin or moving through my lungs; I tried to scream and didn’t make a sound, or if I did, I didn’t hear it. I thought I must be mad, and then I heard the voice inside my head and knew I was.

Go on! What happens next?

What!?! I still couldn’t hear myself, but apparently the voice could. An image appeared in my mind of a page of manuscript, the last page I had written that morning. It stopped in mid-sentence.

The story. What happens next?

Who are you? At that point I didn’t care what happened next in my story; I was more interested in what was going to happen next in my life. Am I dead?

No, of course not. I’m ‘the time warp you keep on your desk for losing important papers’—and that’s unfair, I’ve never taken anything important, and I always return the stuff anyway. What happens next in the story?

I’ll say one thing for the time warp; it didn’t get sidetracked easily. How would I know what happens next? I haven’t written it yet.

Yes, you do know. How else could you write it? It’s got to be in your mind. What happens next?

You’re already in my mind. If it’s there, why can’t you find it for yourself?

Because it’s in your subconscious, and I can’t access that far down in your mind. I thought even writers knew that. What happens next? It sounded like a child, nagging for yet another chapter of his bedtime story.

I don’t know. I can’t access my subconscious either, not until I sit down at the typewriter and start typing. Something bumped against me in the gray murk. I reached out and ran my hands over it. It was my typewriter.

What happens next?

If it could act like a five-year-old, I could treat it like one. Do your parents know that you’re running around swallowing people and typewriters?

Well... pause for thought, they never said I couldn’t! it finished triumphantly.

I must be making progress; for the first time it hadn’t said ‘what happens next.’ Keep trying. Why did you grab me?

So you could finish the story. I’ve finished all your old stuff, and I’ve read as far as you’ve written down on this one, and I want to know what happens next.

You mean that every time one of my old manuscripts disappeared, that it was you reading it?

Yes, but I’ve finished them. What happens next?

And when you took paper, and typewriter ribbons, and pens...

"I was trying to make stories. But I can’t! I’m only a time warp, and I can’t create! Even with all the same materials, you can create stories, and all I can do is make a mess! If I try really hard, I can return stuff I took near where I got it from, but usually it comes out at random. I need you to make the stories."

So you grabbed me. An awful thought swept through me. Can you put me back?

But I want a story! Definitely the wail of a small frustrated child.

I can’t write in the middle of a time warp.

But you said that a writer, by definition, was a person who couldn’t stop writing.

Just what I needed: a small child (I’m using the term loosely) with a retentive memory, among its other retentive qualities, who’d apparently been auditing my writing classes. There are some things that will stop a writer. No paper, no pencils, no light, no time. I need my desk and my writing supplies, but even more, I need my family, my world, my life, and my experience. I need time, flowing past me in an orderly fashion, giving me structure to hang events on. I need time for these events to stir around in my subconscious, before they come out again as ideas and stories. I can’t write in a time warp.

But I want the story! I have to know what happens next!

Then you’ll have to let me go. Once I get back home, I can continue to write, and then you’ll have the rest of the story—but you had better give it back pretty soon; my editor wants it too.

You can give him a copy.

Only if you don’t grab it before I have a chance to copy it. I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll make an extra copy of everything I write, and I’ll put it in the bottom drawer of my desk, and you can take it from there. In return, I want you to stop grabbing everything else.

"You’ll give me a copy of all your stories?"

All of them. A higher copying bill is a small price to pay for not being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night like this.

"Okay. But you’ve got to keep giving me stories. If you stop, I’ll grab you again, and hold onto you until I do figure out how to tap your subconscious. And I want the rest of this story right away. I really want to know what happens next."

~o0o~

My typewriter slipped away from under my fingers and the gray murk swung around me and turned black. The next thing I knew it was morning, and my daughter was standing over my bed, yelling at me because her alarm hadn’t gone off and I hadn’t wakened her and now she was going to be late for school unless I got up right that second and drove her to school. And the clock was still flashing.

So I got up and drove her to school, and I came home and reset the clock, and I went to the typewriter and finished the story. And now I’m hard at work on another one. Most writers’ deadlines are set by human editors, but mine are set by the time warp.

Golden Vanity

Elisabeth Waters

Edward lay sprawled face down in the mud, listening to the ringing of his ears. Above his head he could dimly hear the herald proclaiming his opponent, Sir Orland the Invincible, victor of this round in the Autumn Tourney of the Society for the Re-Creation of the Age of Chivalry. Sir Orland strode off the field to get ready for the next round, and the herald bent concernedly over Edward.

Are you injured, my lord? Shall I summon the chirurgeon?

Edward rolled over, tried to sit up and protest that he didn’t need a doctor, and blacked out.

The next thing he knew he was lying on a cot, stripped of his armor, being sponged with cool water. It was very quiet in the chirurgeon’s tent, enabling him to hear every word of the heated argument going on just outside.

"You could have