A Short Story a Day

by David Michael

Price concentrated, feeling the magic pass through him, through the charcoal pencil in his hand, into the sigil he drew on the wooden seat of the chair. First the flowing lines of air. Then the hard angles of the constrictions that would produce the desired sound. Finally, he adorned the air lines with minute, curly whiskers for the smell.

The inspiration for the sigil had come to him almost fully formed. He had seen it in his mind when he sat down to eat lunch. Excitement made him wolf down the cafeteria food and come straight here.

He realized he had been sticking out his tongue as he drew. He pulled it back in and gave the sigil a critical appraisal. In his twelve years, he had seen better. And he had drawn worse. He could feel the magic, though, and was confident that it would work as planned.

He heard the bell ring and realized he must’ve been working on the sigil for nearly thirty minutes. Longer than he expected. But he had finished it in time.

He admired his handiwork again. Mother and Father didn’t approve of him or his brothers experimenting with sigils. But this didn’t feel like an experiment. He knew exactly what this sigil would do. It was–and he didn’t mind saying so himself–pure genius.

Not for the first time, though, he wished that Father had taught him the esoteric sigil-jot which would make the entire sigil invisible. Especially since this was intended to be a surprise, a bit of payback, and the heavy black lines were clearly visible on the seat of the chair.

“Is this where you were hiding, Prissy?”

The voice startled Price. He jumped, then stood up straight, putting the hand with the charcoal pencil behind his back.

Dane stood in the door of the classroom, his brown eyes showing a dark pleasure, a promise of pain to come, through his unruly red bangs. Several other students stood behind him, and behind them the hall bustled with other students rushing to their after lunch classes.

“What were you doing to my seat?” Dane asked, moving into the classroom.

Price shrugged and moved away. Away from the seat. Away from Dane. Now Price wished he could become invisible.

“What is this, Prissy? One of your stupid line drawings?”

Maneuvering to get other arriving students between him and Dane, Price still didn’t respond. He gave the door a quick look, wondering if he could possibly make it before Dane intercepted him. Or touched the seat.

Out of the corner of his eye, Price saw Dane reach down to wipe the sigil away. “Don’t touch–”

The blast of air hit Dane full in the face, blowing back his red hair. The sound of flatulence, an impossibly long fart, accompanied the air. And so did the smell of dog shit.

“–it,” Price finished.

Dane’s eyes watered under the assault of the sigil. His face turned blue, then green, and his mouth opened and closed, like a fish.

“Oh, gawd, that’s rank!” a girl shouted. Other shouts of disgust followed, male and female, and everyone who could move away from Dane did so. “Open a window,” someone shouted. “Please! Open a window…”

Price found that he hadn’t moved. Within the circle of the students lined along the walls, stood him and Dane. He could tell from Dane’s face that the boy was trying hard not to throw up.

“You were supposed to sit on it,” Price said.

At the sound of Price’s voice, Dane tried to stand up straight, tried to keep his mouth closed, tried not to throw up.

And failed.

Dane’s lunch was too recognizable as it splattered over the seats and desks nearest him. Dane had eaten in the cafeteria too. Price felt his own lunch threatening to make a comeback.

If someone in his view hadn’t thrown up just then, he might’ve made it.

“What happened to you?” Mother asked when she came to pick him up.

Most of the other students who had gotten sick had already been picked up by their parents, but a few remained. They still looked a bit green and the smell of vomit that lingered on them and their clothes. Dane, thankfully, had been among the first to leave.

“I …,” he started. He almost told her about the sigil. Pride struggled with good sense. With nausea to bolster it, though, good sense prevailed. “I got sick,” he said.

Mother looked at the other students also sitting in the nurse’s small waiting room. “All of you?”

“It … it was Dane,” Price said. “It must’ve been something he ate.”

Copyright © 2006 by David Michael. All rights reserved.