by Keith Soares

Finally I am a full-fledged wizard, one of the greatest masters of the magical arts in our times.

It wasn’t without substantial effort, believe me.

It started when I found the book. I assure you that this was a completely innocent affair. I was perusing the local thrift shop and certainly not expecting to discover such a life-changing tome. Nevertheless, there it was; near the back, on a dusty shelf so easy to overlook. Perhaps an ancient wizard had died, and in their stupidity, his family or possibly the state had sold off his possessions, not knowing the importance. I’ll simply call it a moment of fate. I bought A Wizard’s Guide to Magicks for two dollars and ninety-seven cents, after tax.

Can you imagine the luck? The doorstep to immutable power for less than three bucks?

I started, as one would expect, from page one. Words of Power. These words must not be spoken aloud without clear intent. I guard them carefully now, as they are the foundation of my abilities. The first one I ever uttered was natruka. It means disruption in the ancient tongue of magicians. I don’t think I pronounced it right at first, because it took several dozen attempts before I had results. When it happened, the signs were small, I admit, but obvious. The light bulb above the kitchen table fizzled out when I spoke the word on perhaps the fiftieth try, and I knew I was on the pathway to an unbelievable future. 

Back then, things were different. My small apartment, 31C in the Coronado complex, the same place I still inhabit, was unpleasant. Infested with bugs. God, I hated them. For weeks, I scoured the book, looking for a way to rid myself of those damned bugs. I found an enchantment, said to control any sort of creature. I repeated it a hundred times a day at least. I didn’t eat, barely slept. A week passed, then several more. The stove sat unused, the fridge empty, even the trash cans devoid of waste. I was obsessed. And then it happened. The bugs disappeared. My spell eradicated them from the apartment. I was positively gleeful.

Still, I moved on. The weather. That was my next fascination. I found a spell for lightning, and repeated it, day after day, perfecting its inflection. On the thirty-seventh day, I succeeded. A storm brought heavy rains, and lightning struck one of the tallest buildings in the city. I saw it on the news. I knew then that I could become a wizard in truth.

I began a new test. Perhaps the thing that would secure my status and confirm my abilities: the death chant. 

I’d hated my elderly neighbor, Timothy, since the day he complained to management that I was too loud. That my repeated shouts and cries in some foreign tongue frightened him. It was then that I swore I would kill him.

Page 247 of the book held the necessary words of power. Bidu nehirus cotina sebari. “I command away your life.” I recited this daily, directed at Timothy, though for so long my inflection, my pronunciation, was inferior. It didn’t work. 

After a year, I knew it would be my final test, the thing that would either make me a wizard or become my albatross. I spoke the words constantly. Still Timothy lived. Three more years went by.

His family came to visit, just about a week ago. There were many of them, as if they felt obligated to come. He greeted them at his door, just across the hallway from mine, with a weak smile. I saw it from my peephole as I repeated the spell in a hushed voice. 

Then, six days later, it happened. Timothy died. The family came once more to his doorway, this time in somber silence, like they knew it was coming. They’re still in his apartment now, mourning his death.

I did it.

I imagine some have felt remorse at crossing this threshold, but all I can think about is my success. I have become a true wizard. It took six and a half years, alone, locked in my apartment, but it happened!

My next enchantment is immortality. I wonder how long that will take.

Copyright 2021 Keith Soares / Bufflegoat Books LLC

The post Flash Fiction: “The Wizard of Coronado Apartments” appeared first on KEITH SOARES.

by Keith Soares

Standing high on the fortress wall above my opponent, I deflected his bullet as easily as a thousand before, yet in that moment I knew something had forever changed. As the projectile ricocheted off my blade, it crackled apart, each individual piece emitting a faint, high-pitched drone. I knew the sound despite the unexpected source, and I knew it meant death.

Deliberately I drew a breath, estimating my life had no more than two breaths to go. I tried to think what to do, but a man cannot outrun fate. Life had shown me much.

Summoning the strength of my line, 600 years of Sho-ja, I went into a meditative trance, waiting.

Sho-ja Nonen, Pinnacle of the Pyramid, father of my forefathers, was the first. He didn’t invent the nanosword, but he became its supreme master, wielding it in a way that no other could match. At the height of the War for the Nhin Lands, when Maru and the Hol-nari – marshals of the air – descended upon him, Nonen’s nanosword whirled faster than light, destroying all who faced him. It crackled apart with each blow, then reformed, ready to slay again, until Nonen found himself surrounded by thirteen Hol-nari warriors. In desperation, he splintered his nanosword to deliver death simultaneously, a technique later called doli-ki-wobokai – The Death of the Thirteen. No man had ever seen its equal, and, though it killed his foes, it left Nonen exposed. Maru saw his opening and dove from the sky, but Nonen willed his sword back together at the last moment. The weight of Maru’s own winged steed impaled him upon Nonen’s blade. Victorious, Sho-ja Nonen became the first ka-liph. 

Over the years of Sho-ja rule, our enemies tried to break the ka-lipha to no avail, for the nanosword – thousands of deadly particles controlled by the hilt of a sword, forming a blade, breaking apart, and forming again, endlessly – was given not only to the ruling few but to every soldier in the Sho-ja army. Certainly no commoner matched Nonen’s skill – he was the Pinnacle of the Pyramid – but a thousand nanoswordsmen of average ability could defeat any opposing force.

In time, peace grew, and Nonen ruled by word rather than deed. He begat twins: son Jiku and daughter Loren-wo, who became Grand Masters, the Second and Third Stones of the Pyramid.

Generations of Sho-ja came and went, filling the Pyramid with their revered names. Nanosword masters like Cantu, Hi-ko, and Newa-vuku. Each was ranked for their skill with the blade, yet none surpassed the trio at the top.

As the centuries passed, my family survived countless attempts to end our rule, both from within and from foreign invaders. In the Later Years, ships came, bearing new technologies like the rifle and pistol. But mere bullets were no match for a nanosword properly wielded. 

Forty-nine Sho-ja, my forefathers and mothers, made up the Pyramid by the day I was born, yet only those first three were sacred Grand Masters, as dictated by our lore.

Until I was tested. 

After disease took my father, my mother ruled the Nhin Lands – and raised me – alone. Certainly we had servants, more than I could ever count. But to learn the nanosword, learn to love the high-pitched drone of its deadly particles? To learn to rule? Those things my mother taught me. 

At my test, the elders fell silent. They consulted their scrolls and conferred in whispers. An argument broke out, and my mother interceded. When order was restored, I was given my place – Seventh Stone of the Pyramid – to gasps from the assembled elite. No Sho-ja had ranked higher than Twentieth in a hundred years, yet I was enraged. It should have brought me great joy and unending pride to see my name – Sho-ja Kelen – placed in such a lofty position, but I was too young to understand my folly, that the world does not change gently.

I knew I had excelled at the standard moves and dazzled in free battle. No living soul was my equal, but I desired to best those who were not living – the Grand Masters. I attempted the doli-ki-wobokai – The Death of the Thirteen – and, to the astonishment of all, I succeeded. In history, only Nonen and I had ever done such a thing. Though I didn’t wish to supplant the Pinnacle himself, in my hubris I expected Second Stone; the first Grand Master in almost 600 years. I was denied. 

Many years later, on her deathbed, my mother gave me wise council. “Kelen, you cannot alter history without a cost,” she said. “If you teach the world the Grand Masters can be beaten, you take away their divinity. And if you do that, the world will learn that you, too, can be beaten.”

Now, I was.

Above my head, I heard the nanoparticles of the bullet circle, preparing to loop down upon me, a thousand strong. I couldn’t possibly deflect so many with my blade. The Death of the Thirteen happened only twice in a millennium. I wouldn’t discover a Deflection of the Thousand before I drew my final breath.

Breaking from my trance, I studied the moment, the last things this life would give to me. I blinked at the setting sun telling me my days were ending, and smelled the brine of the nearby sea. I felt the chill of the evening air on my cheeks, and the familiar texture of leather on the hilt of my sword. I listened to the whir of the particles shepherding in my demise.

This new and deadly swarm fell toward me, something I’d never seen before – a nanobullet. Far below, my opponent smiled. Yet I still held the sword passed down to me from my mother, and knew one thing: the world does not change gently. If this was the end of the Sho-ja, then I would make it worthy of my line. I echoed the smile of my opponent, placing one foot upon the ledge directly above him, and his grin faded. As death rained down, I knew it was time to see if Sho-ja Kelen truly deserved the title Grand Master.

I jumped.

Copyright 2021 Keith Soares / Bufflegoat Books LLC

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by Keith Soares

Because the world was unjust.

That’s why he created the machine.

“Will you help me build it?” he asked his son.

“I don’t understand any of it.”

“But you agree we need it?”

“Of course. Our leaders lie to us, they only want to make themselves seem greater. They try to divide us, not unite us, to maintain their power.”

“Yes,” the father said.

“And the people who should protect us too often only protect themselves. Especially when one of their kind does something terrible.”

“Yes, that too. The machine will fix all of that.”

“But, father, there are other problems. Our climate is changing. Won’t your machine make that worse?”

“No. The heat of the world itself powers it, and the machine will change things. Make them better.”

“What will it do?” the son asked. He followed his father to their garage where the machine sat unfinished, a boxy thing no bigger than the car that used to fill this space.

“Once the machine is turned on, fossil fuels won’t burn anymore. It will force the world to use renewable energy sources. Once it’s on, people won’t be able to say angry words. Their voice will be silenced. They won’t be able to harm one another. Their muscles won’t work to perform those acts. People’s minds will be made to forget ideas of cruelty and hatred. Any terrible thoughts will simply disappear. Things will be as they should be. As they always should have been.”

“How can one machine do all that?”

“It’s very smart. It has to be.”

“But it just looks like a metal box, wires.”

“It is right now. It doesn’t have its brain yet. That’s why I need your help.”

“I told you. I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know how it works, so I can’t help you. Not really.”

“You can,” the father said. “I’ll tell you exactly what to do. I’ll get inside the machine, and when I’m ready, you’ll turn it on.”

“With you inside?”

“Yes. I told you it needs a brain.”

“How long will it take? How long will you be inside?”

“Forever, son.”

“But I don’t want you to go!”

“Son, you yourself said we need this. The world needs this.”

“And I need a father!”

“I’ll still be here. Just in the machine. My brain will be its brain, saving the world from itself.” The father climbed into the machine and carefully connected himself to it. “I’m ready now. Turn it on.”

The son started to cry, but he knew his father was right. The world had to change. Had to be made better. He turned on the machine.

It took a few seconds, but only a few. Out on the street, the son heard a car sputter and die. He looked at his father, trapped in the machine, but the sadness vanished from his mind. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and walked away, leaving his father forever forgotten and alone.

Because the world was unjust.

Copyright 2021 Keith Soares / Bufflegoat Books LLC

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I looked out through the honeycombed glass of Harpa, a trick of the design almost making it seem like I’d fall into the harbor’s cold waters. Why do I always meet them here?

The clouds were thinning, no longer threatening snow as they had for two days. Maybe it would clear enough to see the lights tonight. But I had a job to do. Assuming my client hadn’t skipped town.

Footfalls echoed on the tile floor. Finally, I thought.

“Jonas?” an unsure male voice asked, thick with accent.

I turned. “That’s me.”

“My name’s Gott—”

I raised one hand. “Please, no names. Complicates things.”

“Sorry,” he said, hanging his head.

I hated when they acted this way. But I could see he needed my help. I waved my hand, gave a reassuring smile. “Tell me your problem. Which is it?”

“Ogre. Actually, quite a particular ogre.” His head hung even lower.

I sighed. “Go on.” For four minutes, he told the story like dropping an anchor overboard, all in a rush to get rid of the weight.

* * *

“Gott—,” or as I called him, Client #1352, was hopeless. How do you anger one of the most notorious creatures in the country without a decent explanation? Sure, 1352 was a transplant from Germany, but that was eight years ago. He should’ve known better. He recently took visiting relatives to the remote northeast, to Dimmuborgir lava fields. I already knew where this was headed. I sighed again.

A little careless off-road driving and one (admittedly large) rock got dislodged, tumbling down a snow-covered hill. Next thing you know, there was a very angry ogre giving chase for miles down the icy road, the 4×4 sliding through turns in its haste.

Yes, 1352 had the unfortunate luck of offending Leppalúði, husband of the famously nasty ogress Grýla, and not the most kindly of characters himself.

I call myself a remediator. I fix people’s problems. Not with other people. With elves, trolls, ogres, hidden folk, and the like. When I was eight, I made national news by saving an elf rock from being destroyed at a construction site. Since then, I’ve had a reputation. So it should come as no surprise that Grýla and I went back. Though not in a good way.

People paid me well. No one wanted bad luck, and even fewer people wanted to be eaten by a twenty-foot monster. I thought of my fattened bank account as I crept closer to the dark cave in Dimmuborgir two nights after meeting 1352.

I was quiet, but they were supernatural. The Yule Cat’s low growl came from behind and I knew I’d been discovered. Then she saw me.

“Well, look who it is. Come in, sweetie.” Grýla batted her hideous eyelashes, the ones in back of her head, my direction. I shuddered. With the big cat breathing down my neck, no sense in fighting or trying to run.

I really need to charge more next time, I thought, stepping forward.

The post Flash Fiction: “The Remediation of 1352” appeared first on KEITH SOARES.

Undaunted, Polly reached for the largest knife, all gleaming metal, almost a foot long. She stepped back and echoed Keller’s grin, but with a single laugh and a slight sheen of sweat on her upper lip that gave away her nervousness. “Okay. What now?”

Keller’s grin faded. “What the hell is that?”

​”What?” Polly said, looking down at the knife. It looked big and sharp and intimidating. It felt alien in her hand. She felt she could kill by accident with the damned thing. “I picked a knife.” She shrugged.

Hand moving so fast she barely saw it, Keller snatched the knife from her weak grip. His eyes didn’t leave hers as he tossed it back into the drawer with a loud jangle of metal on metal. “We ain’t going to a sword fight, Dolly.”

“My name is Polly –“

“I don’t care. You’re being a stupid little Dolly right now. This isn’t a prize fight, fists up, toe to toe.” Keller mocked her by doing a little dance, shadowboxing. “This is a sucker​ ​punch, Dolly.” Without warning, his left hand hooked in toward her body, stopping inches from her abdomen. Then his grin was back, and Keller reached into the drawer. He pulled out another knife, small, more handle than blade, but wickedly pointed and sturdy-looking. It was nearly hidden by his big, hairy hand. ​”We don’t advertise our intentions. There are no rules. We hide the truth until we are ready.”

Polly nodded as Keller handed her the small knife.

​He turned away, heading out the door. Not knowing where else to hide the knife, Polly turned it upside down so the blade hugged the inside of her wrist while the short handle remained ready in her hand. Then Keller was in her face again. “And when we are ready, we move fast. You hesitate and you’ll be the one who ends up dead. Dolly.”

Polly sighed then nodded again, and she followed Keller out the door like a dog behind its master.

# # #

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With a vicious quickness, the ​stranger lashed out, severing the man’s life-giving blood vessels and tearing open his neck. The man fell, blood splattering and pooling around him. The pavement became wet where it approached the wall and the door. The man coughed, gurgled, coughed again. His death was violent and lasted several minutes. The ​stranger in the hat waited, stepping back to avoid the blood. His eyes remained trained on the door despite the chances of being seen. It was daylight, late afternoon. People all over the city were leaving work, running errands, going for their dinners. Still, the ​stranger in the hat waited, unconcerned.

Finally, the man died, all life and seemingly all blood leaving his body, and at last he was still, silent. A state he may have been in before, but would never evolve from again in all the ages of the universe.

“Dom Luis de Lagos is my name, and no man shall ever hear it alive.” The stranger took off his hat and gently placed it over the dead man’s face. With a silent nod, he stepped over the body and entered the door.

# # #

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