For those unfamiliar, Magic: The Gathering is a game in which you do battle using decks of cards featuring creatures, spells and items from the realm of fantasy and myth. It is from this awesome game that I bring you: Magic Wednesday.
The challenge: From a stack of Magic cards, draw in groups of three until you have at least one creature card and one sorcery/enchantment card. Artifact cards and dual lands are optional, basic manna cards must be discarded and redrawn. When you have your cards, use them write a story.
This week’s cards (starting off easy with just two):
Under the skin, his temples are stained red. Nettled plumes of blood and itchy poison snaked up and down the spidery veins of his nostrils. He could feel the vessels pop in the tip of his nose. He thrashed against the air, held in place by nothing more than the steadiness of a sure hand. His screams exploded out of him like a volcano ripping and spewing pain and rage from deep inside.
“Tell me what I want to know and this will all be over.” From across the dark room, her voice rumbled under her dark purple hood. She withdrew her right index finger pointed at his skull, but kept her left hand extended in his direction, flat and still. She loosened her grip just enough to let flow the blood, air and, hopefully, words of value–for his sake.
“Never,” he hacked against her grip like he was choking on an acorn. “I’ll never tell you.”
A spark of frustration twitched in between her dark eyes. With a sigh, she extended her finger again, this time toward his abdomen, gently pressing the flesh, organs and bone stored there.
The shrieking would have be unbearable for any other human within earshot. She pressed into him until she feels his liver rupture like a poison-filled balloon.
“Tell me,” she whispered, her touch relenting for a moment.
He spat blood and jeered, teeth painted crimson, hair matted, eyes unfocused, bloodshot and blunted of their piercing glare.
“Forget it, bitch,” came his raspy slur, his mouth barely able to mold itself around the words. “You’re never gonna know. Never.”
Her arms coursed with jet fuel fury, so hot and stinging she was unwilling to try and control herself any longer. She stabbed at his throat with all five of her fingers, prompting five red half-moons to pop from his skin, followed by a sudden explosion of sub-dermal red and purple as her malignant magic burrowed into his throat.
His eyes bulged, his tongue convulsed in the gasping cavity of his mouth. He sputtered impotent profanities at her.
“Never…you’ll never find her.”
She squeezed until he was silent.
Chelsea puts the bottle to her lips, knocking back about three shots of the dark, reddish liquid as she watches her ex-husband: moaning, semi-conscious, bound to a chair, covered in bruises and booze.
She snickers to herself. So much for the wagon, asshole.
She leaves him there, pulling on her purple hoodie as she makes her way toward his office. It’s good, she thinks. Let him sit there. Let him think about the poor life choices he’s made. Let him rot in that chair. Meanwhile…there’s got to be an address book…a note…a message of some kind. Something that will tell me where she is. Something that will help me find my daughter. It’s here alright, it’s in this house, and I’m going to find it.