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Sparks

A little magic can make a world of difference

By Lisa VanGalenPublished about a year ago 10 min read
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Sparks
Photo by Erwan Hesry on Unsplash

Watching the end of the fireworks show, the imprint of the sparks lingered long after the sound dissipated. Special times. At least they used to be. In millennia past, such light shows marked occasions with joy and anticipation.

Gerald stood once more on the top of the hill, the excitement of the day bubbling up like soda under pressure. His first solo excursion to watch the commemoration of the end of the war. The years since the Uprising had been difficult for everyone, especially the children. So few remained that they were coddled and damn near smothered to keep them from harm.

The chemicals and gases spread over the valley on the other side of the mountain were still dangerous nine years later. The Masters had contained the lethal poisons, declaring the detonation sites off-limits to all. The seals held, the winds directed around the mountains and cliffs, magick on a colossal scale.

Gerald had been born during the Uprising. A miracle child, they called him. Well, the adults did. The other children called him 'freak'. He understood. Even as a small child, he understood. He understood how the gases worked, how the magick protected them, how the Masters thought and planned and schemed. He knew.

He also knew what lengths the Masters would go to keep their secrets. His parents didn't understand. How could they? Gerald's way of communicating involved many layers of telepathy and language not spoken by the elders. Fear appeared in his mother's eyes when he shared what he knew and how. Her voice would drop to a whisper. “Hush! Hush!” she would implore him. “Don't let the others hear you talk like that.” His father took the direct approach. Any mention of plots or dreams involving the Masters was met with a swift backhand and a stern look. His small body and overdeveloped mind battled to understand why knowledge was bad.

In time, he learned. He learned to speak only the language of the elders. He learned never to speak ill of the Masters. Mostly, he learned how to trust only himself.

From his perch high above the village, Gerald watched as the parade meandered through the streets, the ants returning to their homes. Not every path was clear. With a limited populace, some areas were deemed unessential and so they sat, a constant reminder of the years of bombardment and the ultimate destruction of so many. At ground level, the debris fields seemed pointless. A maze of unrepaired streets and toppled buildings navigated with care by the locals, avoided by intruders. In many ways, the concrete piles had created barricades and protection, sensations needed by the survivors in the aftermath.

Turning his violet eyes toward the setting sun, Gerald soaked up the withered rays as though he would never see it again. Perhaps he wouldn't. The cloud cover reflected the paranoia of the remnants of humanity, the blanket of grey adding to the depressive feeling that permeated the air, the water, even the soil. Within the clouds, sunlight penetrated the upper levels creating crystalline rainbows whose colours faded to monochromatic tones as they dropped to the ground below. The flatness of the light reaching the Earth made the structures seem two-dimensional. Without light, there is no shadow. Without shadow, there is no depth. Without depth, there is no form or shape, no dimension.

The lanterns of the marchers highlighted the path to the reservoir. Built to hold the rainwater, it was the only source of clean water in a hundred miles. The mountain rivers were blocked from entering their valley, the old pipelines destroyed and unpassable. Infrastructure had been taken out in an attempt to quell the Uprising. Short-sighted. Now the people of the planet were relearning basic skills. Not all were cut out for it. The yearly display of power served to remind the adults of what they had given up, while the children oohed and aahed, being indoctrinated into the brotherhood of believers. But not Gerald.

Gerald's young mind absorbed everything it heard. All of the chatter from the adults, the gossip and snide comments from his peers. Even the limited news. He took it all in. And from the heights, he sorted it. For nine years, his people had lived in the oppression of the clouds, the ever-present threat of the gas preventing further insurrection. The loss had been too great. No one alive wished to try again. The Masters had won the war. Slowly, and with nary another shot fired, the people gave up.

Except for Gerald.

His cloak shrouded him from view as he sat. If he was right, the fireworks display should have drawn everyone out of their homes, including the Masters. He closed his eyes, willing the after-image to fade and his sight to clear. He had magick to work and the time was now.

Nine years. His tiny body seemed too frail for all that it held. And too weak for what he was about to do. Doubt niggled at him for an instant, the remains of voices he had heard too often. If he was right, he was about to free his family, his people, his village, from the tyranny imposed by the Masters. And expose them. They were liars, all of them. They knew. They knew how to dispel the gas and clear the clouds. They knew the magick to reverse the damage. And they did nothing.

That was wrong. They did things. Things that would keep their 'subjects' under control. Things designed to protect them from persecution and retaliation. No one had listened to him. With no one to trust, he had chosen the path he now walked alone. A silent wish, a hope, maybe a prayer, slipped from his body as he dropped the cloak.

Standing in full view of the returning parade, Gerald knew he would not be seen. Not until the explosion illuminated his silhouette if any were looking to the sky. His best guess gave him half a second of existence beyond ignition. Enough to see salvation. From deep in his genetic coding he pulled the magick. They all had it. It had only been forgotten. Maybe more of them would see it now. Would understand. In the end, it would be worth it for them to know that there was civilization beyond the valley of gas. To know that the Masters had contained them like lab rats for their own games. Had kept them from enjoying the freedom the Uprising had truly brought to the planet.

The lies ended today. They ended now.

Uttering the words of the ancients, Gerald extended his small arms, fingers outstretched. From the cells themselves, the magick flowed, the energy filling him as it went. It was as though the heaviness melted away, a heaviness he was not aware of until it left. So powerful was the magick, he felt his feet lose contact with the earth. Fear of falling was replaced by the exhilaration of flight. The most wonderful sensation of weightlessness bubbled through him, escaping as laughter, the sound as foreign to him as birdsong in a place without trees.

Spreading his arms wide, Gerald washed in the glow from his magick, tumbling in the air just because, before shouts reached him. In his excitement, he had forgotten to monitor the path. His presence had been noted, and not by his parents. A member of the Presidium pointed his way, encouraging other members to rush the hill. They were not on their way to enjoy the view, that much he understood from their attitudes. Their thoughts revealed their true intentions. He was not to leave this hilltop alive. They knew that he knew. He had become careless in his use of the magick.

Youth had prevented him from analyzing how the Masters used the magick themselves. It had not occurred to him to protect his plan from them. Inexperienced in the ways of spycraft and subterfuge, Gerald simply had not thought that any of the Masters would pick up on what he was doing. Or about to do.

Time to speed things up. Turning his back on the encroaching threat, he set his final intentions. He was afraid to die, he realized, as hesitation crept in. But that was going to happen either way, if the Presidium members followed their orders. Perhaps they couldn't actually kill a miracle child. He wasn't about to bet his life on it.

Anchoring his feet on the ground, Gerald drew more energy in to feed his spell. The words brewed in his throat, ready to be released. One final thought for his parents, who loved him the best that they could. At least they would know what had happened to him. That he had not simply disappeared like the rest.

“Stop!” The order came from close behind, closer than he had realized. “Don't take another step.”

That was okay. He had no intention of moving. He didn't need to. In fact, he needed to crouch down, make himself as tiny as possible. There was a small chance of survival.

Lifting his right hand high he dropped to the ground, the first Presidium member crested the hill as Gerald slammed his palm to the Earth. The motion contained all the energy and emotion he had collected and simultaneously from his lips flowed the ancient words of magick.

A massive shudder circled the valley, the rocks carrying the words from peak to peak, through crevice and cavern until the earth itself glowed. Knocked off balance, the member fell into the valley, his screams echoing until they stopped, death a certainty from that height. Or from the gas. Either way, it was quick.

Holding still against the pull of the spell, Gerald watched with amazement as the last rays of the sun burst through the upper clouds to ignite the vapours stirred up by his magick. Anticipating the explosion, he cowered under his cloak, hardly daring to peek out at the magnificent firestorm he had wrought. As the roar continued to build, curiosity won out, and he crawled to the peak of the hill to peer into the valley. Bad timing.

With a whoosh, the contained gases and chemical residue ignited, the fireball lifting into the atmosphere mere inches from Gerald's tiny nose. The force craned his neck backward, flinging him onto his back and propelled him down the mountainside, blood streaming from his face, gravel scratching into his back as he slid. Laughter rang in his ears and he realized it was his own. He lived. As he lay and stared at the wonder that was the night sky, Gerald marvelled at the twinkling lights behind the horizon. Stars, he thought. So that was what they looked like from here.

A shadow loomed over him. So much for a celebration. As the baton swung down to meet his head, Gerald looked into the eyes of his oppressor. It didn't matter anymore. He had done what he had come to Earth to do. As the sparks faded, he left his body behind, his violet eyes closing for the last time.

'Mission accomplished, General,' he thought as he faded into the black. 'I'm coming home.'

AdventureFantasyShort Story
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About the Creator

Lisa VanGalen

I am a panster by nature, discovering my characters as they reveal themselves. To date, my novel writing has involved the paranormal or magick within a more familiar setting, blending it with mysteries, police procedurals, or thrillers.

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