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The return of 500 Words
The ghosts were at the shop door again, Randall saw, about two dozen of them. Most were just vague forms, mere sketches of forms in the fog. But a few were more defined. He'd seen some of them before; the hippie girl, the early eighties power suit, a couple of street kids of recent vintage. All of them given form by the morning fog that was flowing silently through the Haight.
"G'on, move aside, go to the goddamn light already." Randall muttered as he pushed through the insubstantial phantoms. Ghosts were a nuisance at best. Attracted by the items in his shop, they gathered every night and pressed up against his wards until the sun finally broke through. Damned nuisances, he thought, like rats you can't do anything about. A whispered incantation defused the alarm wards and unsealed his door. As he strode to the back, the frustrated ghosts kept trying to push past the wards inscribed around the shop. The shop's lights usually pushed them back a little, and this morning was no exception. One of the ghosts, some sort of biker or leather fetishist, flipped him a spectral bird before melting into the predawn darkness.
"I have got to get the fuck out of here." Randall intoned, as solemn as any spell. It was his morning ritual before he surrendered to his all-too-real life. Selling magical herbs, counter-curses, and an astonishing pile of junk to the un-Talented wannabes who flocked to San Francisco. By noon he knew that he would see Japanese and Australian tourists looking for something for the folks back home, at least five self-described "mages" who had only slightly less intelligence than Talent, and maybe, just maybe, one or two customers with actual, honest-to-Bonewits, Talent and the brains to use it.
With practiced boredom the morning routine went on. Floor swept, antique cash register stocked, shelves straightened and faced. The last duty before opening was strengthening the spell that illuminated that large sign over the counter.
After that, Randall made the first cup of tea of the day and waited for nine, dividing his attention between the Chronicle and the ghosts still braving his wards and lights. Another boring day loomed.
"Seriously," he said to no one in particular, "I really need to get the fuck out of here. Soon."
"G'on, move aside, go to the goddamn light already." Randall muttered as he pushed through the insubstantial phantoms. Ghosts were a nuisance at best. Attracted by the items in his shop, they gathered every night and pressed up against his wards until the sun finally broke through. Damned nuisances, he thought, like rats you can't do anything about. A whispered incantation defused the alarm wards and unsealed his door. As he strode to the back, the frustrated ghosts kept trying to push past the wards inscribed around the shop. The shop's lights usually pushed them back a little, and this morning was no exception. One of the ghosts, some sort of biker or leather fetishist, flipped him a spectral bird before melting into the predawn darkness.
"I have got to get the fuck out of here." Randall intoned, as solemn as any spell. It was his morning ritual before he surrendered to his all-too-real life. Selling magical herbs, counter-curses, and an astonishing pile of junk to the un-Talented wannabes who flocked to San Francisco. By noon he knew that he would see Japanese and Australian tourists looking for something for the folks back home, at least five self-described "mages" who had only slightly less intelligence than Talent, and maybe, just maybe, one or two customers with actual, honest-to-Bonewits, Talent and the brains to use it.
With practiced boredom the morning routine went on. Floor swept, antique cash register stocked, shelves straightened and faced. The last duty before opening was strengthening the spell that illuminated that large sign over the counter.
ASKING FOR HELP WITH ILLEGAL SPELLS WILL GET YOU THROWN OUT AND WARDED. DON'T EVEN JOKE ABOUT IT. ATTEMPTS TO GET AROUND THIS WILL BE REPORTED TO THE SFPD THAUMATURGY DIVISION!
After that, Randall made the first cup of tea of the day and waited for nine, dividing his attention between the Chronicle and the ghosts still braving his wards and lights. Another boring day loomed.
"Seriously," he said to no one in particular, "I really need to get the fuck out of here. Soon."
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Dark hair, an expression that says he doesn't quite know how he ended up where he is. Jeans, cowboy boots and a dark t-shirt.
I'm probably way off base, but that's who popped into my mind.
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Gee, I wonder where I'd be with that now if I'd got it off the ground?
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The way I'm imagining him, he was 12-13 when magic re-emerged into the world. Just the right age to be a complete D&D/WoW/SF&F geek. When he found out he had the Talent, he had stars in his eyes. In reality, magic is pretty limited and weak, and this is where he's ended up. He loves the Craft, and is proud of his work in enchantments, but hates how mundane magic turned out to be. In his heart of hearts, he's still standing on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm shouting "You shall not pass!" In reality, he sells toys to tourists.
That's his entry to the story, a typical mid-life crisis with all the lost opportunities and missed chances... until a customer walks in the door with a unique need to fill.
Working title is "Not Always Rite"