Musings of JR Simmang

Advanced Metaphorical Image Casting would have been better titled Advanced Stupid. Mrs Dunbar already had several nicknames: Mrs Dumb-Fart, Mrs. She Done Fart, most of them ended in Fart. In a way, it was her own little rebellion. Cassandra Little peered back over her shoulder, out the open door. She uttered a spell under her breath, and the world in front of her faded into a dull shimmer, and the hallway outside the door appeared in crystal clear view in the center of her field of vision. She allowed her mind to move slowly down the hall toward the artifacts that were collected in Goodnight Hall. "Sh, child," she heard in her head. She turned her vision and faced a short man who was probably older than he looked. His hands were disfigured, and he stood hunched over. His thick neck supported a too wide a face, and his mouth was crooked into a slanting smile. "Sh," he said again, and he held up a hand. "You're about to witness the coming storm."

My fingers betray my age. I had spent so much of my life admiring the hands of the Elders, and my own do not live up to my expectations. Elder Rathbone had elegant hands. I wonder if he'd felt the same pains, the same stiffness, the same disappointment. "Father," my son says, "you're being wistful again." He is absolutely correct. I am. "Do you wish to go for a walk?" Do I? I slouch into my chair and stare deeply into the horizon. I know Ms. Falterday is getting closer to me every day. I have not been inconspicuous. I know Mr. Mosely has tracked the elusive robberbrush. I know the Administration has begun its own investigation, and I know the Barbicans and the Order of Locke know exactly what it is I've done. "I don't," I reply. "Son, it might be for your own good if you decide to begin keeping your distance." I don't look directly at him. Instead, I peer over the top of his head and at the last remaining a

This is a work in progress, so there are some gaps. Thanks to Writers Digest for helping to get my creative juices flowing! THE LIGHT OF AMORTH Goodnight Hall was already fragile. Now, it was a steaming heap of broken banisters, crushed concrete, and the charred remains of the delicate double doors. Georgina Fosterday stood shouting at the children looking down at her for answers. “There’s nothing to see here, children. Go back to your classes.” She waved her wand in front of her and the rubble glistened lightly, lifted and formed a temporary wall. “Who’s the one responsible,” asked Obdigan. “That was pretty powerful.” “Pretty powerful?” she responded. “What’s missing?” Obdigan scanned over the wreckage. “Umm…” “Where are we, Obdigan?” “Goodnight Hall.” “And what do we keep in Goodnight Hall?” He paused and moved closer to the rubble. “Watch your step, Obdigan!” Obdigan froze, his foot poised over a twisted knot of seraphic metal and human flesh. “Dear gods,