Daily Flash Fiction

Aeron watched the ticking clock, the minute hand twitching with an audible clank, down towards its end, to his end.

Well, his probable end anyway. Especially if this essay was not completed.

He didn’t understand the emphasis. He was here to be a wizard, not a damn writer.

A sound on the edge of his conscious awareness. He ignored it, guessing it to be his tired mind. The essay was due in fourteen minutes, and he was still copying the neat version into his manuscript book. The book was keyed to immolate itself if exposed to magical forces to avoid cheating – or at least to make cheating hard.

what you need is time

The whispering was louder now, more insistent. He shook his head and looked out of the window, at the grey overcast sky and the sea and the watchtower. He had never seen a less threatening or brooding day, nor was it a happy or shining day – it was simply mediocre, like he felt.

He went back to his work and copied out the next word, his hand moving carefully as it drew out the magical symbols he needed to diagram

what you need is time

Did he hear something? No. The words continued to flow, the curve around the edge of the Lanaeronian quadrant to tap into sap-powers had to be precise and incredibly detailed or he would be in real trouble.

WhatYouNeedIsTime.

His head snapped up and he found himself staring at the clock. Was it talking?

ICanGiveYouTime.

He shook his head. No. “If the book is exposed to magical forces it will combust.” He didn’t know who he thought he was talking to.

TheBookDoesNotNeedToBeExposedOnlyYou

He looked at the clock and frowned. “What do you mean?”

YouThinkIWillStopTimeButIWontIWillSpeedYouUp

Why would it help me? He thought back to his demonology lessons with that Thusian werewolf. There must be some sort of

Toll?YesThereWillBeATollATaxIfYouWillButItIsEasyHowMuchDoYouWantThhis?

He realized he had not spoken. But he was shielded. This was…

ITIsDoneSeeMyHandMoveSlowerYouCanWorkNow

“I didn’t say yes!”

ThatDoesn’tMatterISuggestYouWork.

He didn’t feel any different. He looked down at the manuscript book and started working…

…and the page was full, the ink dry. He blinked and looked up. The clock had not moved. Out of his window the watchtower clock also had not shifted. He turned the page

and it was full.

And he worked, and the essay was finished. He closed the book and walked out, handed the tome in, and walked back to his room. He sat down and looked at the clock, frowning.

“So what’s the toll?”

He blinked and the hour hand and jumped forward. He glanced out of the window and saw that it was night already. So trading the hours would work back and forth? That didn’t seem so bad. He would have to do this more-

a knock at the door. He stood up, suddenly afraid of the cheating commission. Had the book reported him? Had he left some kind of burn mark on the page, something he hadn’t detected but the magisters had?

The knock came again. He reached out for the door, and saw that his hands were covered in blood.