If you could be a door or a window, what would you be and why?

The Wizard lived in an old RV illegally parked on an empty lot at the end of a forgotten dead end street.  He'd been there for as long as any of the kids could remember, and they'd never see the faded Winnebago move.  The weedy dirt patch had been spruced up with a homemade tire planter, a string of fat Christmas lights, and a wooden wind chime the kids said was really made of bone.

Most of the adults thought The Wizard was a meth-head, cooking in his RV, but they didn't know any of the signs and were just judging based on appearance.  If any of them had gone into the RV, like Jake had, they'd know it was clean and followed what The Wizard taught him was "feng shui".

Pageant Question: When you look into the mirror, what do you see?

The big, yellow wrecking machines were at it again, this time on the next street over, but Jenny still jumped when she heard their diesel engines roar to life.  It was her street that had been the most recent victim of the city's progress.  Her block, which in its heyday had shoulder to shoulder houses, was now toothless and grey.  Rocky lots with the tops of filled-in cellars poking through the third-rate fill the demolition crews used to fulfill their city contracts were more common than living houses.  Now the block behind Jenny's house was getting the same treatment; onward the machines would churn, block by block, until they hit the expressway that decades ago replaced what had been an award-winning park.  On the other side of the cement scar, people still prospered.  On Jenny's side, people hung on.

Jenny was lucky that she owned her house without a mortgage and she had enough to pay taxes and bills on time through her unconventional work.  She spent most of her personal days on the upper floors as her front rooms were devoted to her business: fortune telling.  Jenny shoved her feet into work boots and threw on a sweater before setting the house alarm.  Even a lived-in house wasn't safe from copper pipe thieves, even in the daylight.  The early morning dew from a devastated former front lawn dampened her boots as she scanned the last and newest empty lot on her street, created only a week ago.  While she liked to get to the demolition sites before the crews were completely done, she hadn't been able to get out because of a sudden string of appointments.  It seemed like the word-of-mouth was finally gaining momentum.

A sudden sparkle in  the mud caught her eye.  It was a fragment of mirror.  Jenny freed it with her right hand and planted her boots firmly against the rocky clods.  Angling it over her left shoulder, she rotated the piece from side to side, up and down, peering beyond the reflection.

Pageant Question 34: If you could un-invent an invention, which would you choose and why?

My boyfriend is from another dimension.  True story.  He appeared in my bedroom, naked and screaming.  If that's not a fantastic way to start a weird relationship, I don't know what is.  It happened like this:

Me: sleeping, twisted in my ancient Hello Kitty sheets and comforter, drooling onto my pillow.

The sound and feel of a giant vacuum pulling all the air from the room, followed by a loud *pop!*

Han (my boyfriend): writhing on the ground in pain, sucking wind as hard as he can and letting it back out in a hair-raising scream.

My parents: moved to Vegas and left me the house when I graduated high school two years before, so I was alone.

My neighbors: tiredly expect my life to be weird.

Han, which is a ridiculously short abbreviation of his real name, has been living with me for a few months now.  I call him my boyfriend, but that's what I have to do because he lives here.  He is not, technically, my boyfriend.  I don't have anybody who could really care, but, still, it's easier to say "boyfriend" than to explain why this dude lives in my house and is with me all the time.

Pageant Question 16: Tell us about a book you’ve read that has influenced your life, and why?

Jamie's toes had gone numb from the cold and her knees would have bruises from  scuttling around the Circle of Power she had drawn on the stone slab floor in her workroom, but she couldn't stop until the Summoning was finished.  She had worked for months leading up to this moment, and her discomfort was nothing compared to the agony Falk must have suffered all this time.  Jamie used her fear for her mentor's life as motivation to learn the most complicated and dangerous spell she had ever attempted.  If it went wrong, the best possible scenario was sending herself into one of the various hells that could open within the Circle.  The second best possible scenario was sending only half her body and bleeding to death.  The other scenarios were worse.


Because I was inspired to think about which books have influenced me, I include here for you a partial list, from earliest read to most recent, and I heartily recommend them all:

On Beyond Zebra, Dr. Seuss
The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins, Dr. Seuss
The House with a Clock in Its Walls, John Bellairs
The Haunting of Cassie Palmer, Vivien Alcock
I Will Make You Disappear, Carol Beach York
The Silent Tower and The Silicon Mage, Barbara Hambly
The Talisman, Stephen King
The Dark Tower series, Stephen King
It's Always Something, Gilda Radner
Cruel Shoes, Steve Martin
The Time Traveler's Wife, Audrey Niffenegger
Ready Player One, Ernest Cline

Pageant Question 9: What is your biggest disappointment in life?

"What about Old Lor, there, hmm?" the man at the bar nodded sideways at the wisp of an old man dozing in one of the armed chairs nearest the fire.

"What about him, Shane?"  The Traveler spared only a narrow-eyed glance at the old man.  Most people didn't spare him even that as he wasn't much to see.  Wild grey hair bristled out from under his crushed, felt hat and over the layers of his invariably filthy clothes.  The Traveler was, in contrast, impeccable, in the newest traveling fashion.  Travelers were hired to move merchandise, or even people, across the untamed lands, and they were well-paid for it.  This Traveler thought highly of himself, as he had always, so far, been successful with his deliveries.  Today, however, was his third day in the luckless, so-called "town" of Janesburg.  If it weren't for the unprecedented pay he was receiving, the Traveler would have abandoned the commission, but he saw this job as his next step up.

Traditionally, Travelers were hired, and they sub-contracted as they saw fit.  In this case, the Traveler had hired Shane on his first day to be his labor.  Shane was in his late 30s, but strong, knowledgeable, and surprisingly intelligent for a labor-hire.  Shane had been trying to help the Traveler fill out their company with a mage for these past three days, but no reputable magic-worker would take them up on the Traveler's increasingly generous pay.  The job, they said, was too dangerous, and even impossible, which is how they came to be sitting, midday, in the local tavern, pondering their options.

"Well," said Shane, leaning in, "he's a mage."  The bartender, near enough to overhear, barked a laugh.  "He is, though!  At least, that's what they say."

The bartender shook his head, "They say a lot, they do, but Old Lor's reputation was made by cruel children for sure."

The Traveler turned on his bar stool to better look at the old man.  Old Lor was dust in a sack.  A ruined mop in a coat.  A pile of drunken bones.  He was no mage, of that the Traveler was sure.

Shane, however, was becoming increasingly positive the rumors were true.  The more he looked at Old Lor and remembered the tales, the more sure he became, especially when thinking about the pay from this single job and how it could start him on his own path as his own man.  Confidence welling up, Shane stood.  "I'll find out."  Both the Traveler and the bartender watched in fascination.

330

The apprentice was much more upset about the latest training session than the mage, though he kept his hot indignation down to a simmer as he carried his master's supply cases back to their workshop.  Once inside, however, Obidiah's indignation boiled up.

"That was... awful!" he cried, being careful to set down the cases first.  "What a load of arrogant...self-centered...twits!  Why didn't you chastise that lot?"

Master Daniel smiled and shook his head, "It would do no good."

"But they need to know how wrong they are!"  Obi puffed, so outraged, it was difficult to find constructive words.

"They would not understand," replied Master Daniel.  "So far, you have attended me with groups where those who think they already know are outnumbered by those who wish to learn.  This group, however," he spread his hands in a gesture of inevitability, "was overly-concentrated with those of little skill and much inaccurate knowledge."

Obi growled in frustration and paced the stone floor.  "They were arrogant without any reason.  They were disrespectful.  They wasted our time!"

Master Daniel smiled and held Obi's shoulders, "Yes.  It is up to us to find those who are willing and able to learn.  We cannot let ourselves be frustrated by the, how you say, the 'twits'."

328

The enchanter bent low over his crystal bowl, concentrating on seeing images in the shallow water.  He was focusing not on the King nor any of the Royal Family.  Nor was he focusing on his enemies.  The enchanter was focusing on a seamstress.

264

Jarod's hands ached as did his knees, but the need to finish was greater than the pain.  The fat piece of chalk slipped from his fingers again and again and he finally gripped it with both hands, knees digging into the stone floor as he leaned forward to complete the diagram.  Jarod finally sank to his right hip, the last sigil in place, and stretched his legs out carefully, avoiding smudging the drawing.  A greater ache began in his stomach when he thought of the night to come; the night where he would perform the high magic needed to complete the spell.  It made his already tired body and mind sink into an agony of weary dread.  Anticipating pain and knowing there was no way to avoid it and, even more than that, willingly inflicting it upon oneself was worse than the act itself.

260

I have a piece of broken mirror in a wooden box on the back of a bookshelf in my workroom.  I have not taken it out of the box since the day I found it.  I would say I haven't thought about it since that day, but this is not a place for lies; it is a place to find the truth, even if it disturbs me.  Even if I must look into the mirror over my shoulder once again.

220

The wizard was dying, and he knew it.  It was slow, but he could no longer ignore that it was happening.  On his knees in his workroom, the cold from the flagstone seeping into his bones, Cal wondered who would ever find his bones.  After some moments, he was able to heave himself up by the edge of the wood table and stood, breathing, Yes, I'm still breathing, till his heart stopped its murderous thundering.

"Help," he whispered.  "Who will help me?"  The wizard Cal could not find an answer.

216

Chlora's master sacrificed another of her finger joints the night before, and she wasn't feeling well enough by the morning to stir the fire and make breakfast.  She cradled her truncated hands to her chest, curled on her straw in the corner of the master's workshop.  The demon breathed heavily in the middle of the room, within the protective circle.  Undoubtedly, the master was still sleeping in his feather bed, waiting Chlora's call for the morning meal.  She knew if he woke on his own before she rang the silver bell, she would pay with bruises and maybe even bones.

213

Gods, I was hoping my eyesight wouldn't give out completely before I ever had a chance to see the world, even a small part of the world.  I pressed my cool fingers to my eyelids and willed them to rest.  Rest and clear the blur and the dry and the wavering focus that I feared would someday not leave.  A complete night's rest would be good, though it wasn't going to happen as long as Master Grieg wanted all his spells copied within a week.

I blinked at the bleary ink, hoping I hadn't ruined another spell by getting sloppy.  Sloppy spells weren't merely irritating to wizards; they were deadly.  Though Master Grieg could be mean and stubborn and uncaring and unwilling to listen and hurtful, I didn't want him dead.  Much.

204

The wind whipped Dash's hair into his face, and he tried to push it back but it wouldn't stay.  The wind seemed to have fingers that pulled at him and fingered his coat and reached into the holes to make him shiver.  Dash shifted from foot to foot, trying to move his blood back into his toes, but it was no good.  The temperature had definitely dropped and there was no warming until the ceremony was over.  Dash found his mind drifting and he forced it back to his task.  As apprentice, he stood with the ash wood staff and wished on his bones that he wouldn't have to use it.

143

Carlin Samsose was the best wizard in the world.  Not many people knew him, so, therefore, hardly anyone knew he was the best wizard in the world.  Those who did know Carlin knew he was very good and tended to pass on a recommendation for his services only when pressed because they were afraid he'd no longer be their little secret.  Eventually, however, all secrets get out, and Carlin's services would be sought soon enough by the rich and the powerful and the power-hungry.

48

"It's a magic wand," Troy declared, holding the stick he found aloft so the other kids could see and appreciate it.

"It is not," griped his sister Athenea. "It could be a sword, though." Troy brandished it like a true swashbuckler.

"It's not a sword," piped up Luther. "It's a lightsaber. From Star Wars."

"I know what it's from," snapped Troy, who started making lightsaber swoosh sounds anyway.

"It's the bone of a child's leg." All heads snapped to Druelle. Dirty Stinkpants Druelle. Athenea was ready to retort, but stopped short at the way Druelle was staring, rapt, at the stick.

"It's a wand," Troy whined, going back to his original, and he thought best, assertion. Everyone else continued to watch Druelle, wondering what she would say next.

33

INTRODUCTION

This book is divided into four sections:

Section I.--General Suggestions for Becoming a Wizard,
Section II.--Wizardry Self-Taught at Home,
Section III.--The Wizard at his Task,
Section IV.--Materials for Use in Wizardry.

It has been prepared chiefly for those who do not understand the Art of Wizardry.

The manner in which the book is prepared makes it possible for one to be his or her own teacher.

The emphasis is upon Section II, which provides Two Methods for learning, at home, how to bring out the Magic that is within the grasp of all reasonably intelligent human beings.

However, Sections I, III, and IV contain practical assistance, in Spell Advice and Advanced Material, for those already competent wizards.

Section IV is a Compilation, for ready reference, of Quick Spells and Hexes which are modern.

As to the method underlying all magic, it should be said that there has been no better statement given through the centuries upon the art of wizardry than the words of Merlinowski:

"The powers of the earthen magic, and powers from within my own consciousness and fleshly being, are, when drawn forth, fearsome and encompassing of all the elements and ought to be given the most focused study and nervesome majesty and are, in my observation, brought forth through three processes; the first, that of calming the random powers; the second, that of directing them; and the third, that of thinking of them when complete. None of this may be denied in any sensible fashion from reasonable minds or sane intellects, truly." --From Der Magicoriere, A. III, c. xxiv.

In order to learn the elegancies of wizardry one could well afford to give his or her days and nights to the counsel of Merlinowski.

(Acknowledgement to Edwin Hamlin Carr, author of Putnam's Ready Speech-Maker: What to Say and How to Say It, for my blatant lifting of words and form for this "Once Upon a Time" entry.)

27

The narrow passageway was never meant to be lit in any fashion, and the tiny blue magelight highlighted to Bern why. He already knew it was a tight fit because his shoulders brushed both sides of the passage, but seeing the inside of the plaster lathe on his left and the rough hewn stone of the palace wall pressing on his right, barely two feet apart, made him feel a claustrophobia he hadn't felt in the pitch dark. The air was stale but oddly dust-free. Bern thought perhaps it had been spelled against it in the very stones so anyone using the passage wouldn't show the signs once they popped out in the library, which he hoped to do, if Marijel ever finished with her scribblings.

It was Bern's magelight but it was Marijel who was Listening to the people in the parlor so she could Compose the piece she was frantically transcribing from her brain into her music-ruled notebook. Bern watched in fascination as the black specks filled the page. He knew Marijel was Composing as fast as possible, but he still willed her to hurry.

9

The old witch died alone on the forest floor, clutching the only flowers that would decorate her grave, a small bunch of feverfew, not nearly strong enough for the pain.

A carrion bird found the witch's body and tried to feast on her eyes. The bird didn't have time to squawk before it died. Other animals happening upon her body turned and ran. The witch's body bled the remnants of powerful magic cast throughout her long life, but it also held a specific spell in its bones.

The flesh and clothes of the woman rotted and fell away as would that of the most common housefrau, or even the Queen, but the skeleton of the witch waited.