Flash Contest #49, November 2022: Write a story where a character confronts their worst fear—our winners and their work

Hi, I’m Sam and this, the story I’m about to tell you, is the scariest thing that’s ever happened — well at least to me.

I’m a pretty ordinary kid. I have blond hair that reaches just past my ears, curling slightly at the ends. My face is dotted with freckles here and there; and I’m skinny, with knobby elbows and knees. And my personality? I’m shy and try not to call attention to myself. When I can, I grab a seat in the last row of every classroom, shrinking behind the kids in front of me.

I go to school at Bellevue Elementary, and everyday my to-do list is the same. Get up, go to school, return home, rush through homework, play video games, have dinner, climb into bed – rinse and repeat. But at least I have my best friend at school, Daniel, to share it with. Daniel and I have known each other for forever. Our mothers met in yoga class while they were still pregnant with us and we were born within days of each other. Like me, Daniel is often bored by school too. He always asks plaintively, “Do we have to go to school today? Can’t we just skip it?”

There’s one other thing that’s important to know about me: I have a weird phobia that pops up from time to time, preventing me from participating in seemingly innocuous activities like school assemblies, birthday parties, or museum outings. Not a boring phobia like a fear of spiders or heights, but rhabdophobia – which means I’m really scared of magic. My parents and friends always tell me, “Magic isn’t real!” Or my sister says, “You’re such a scaredy cat! Aren’t you eleven?”

Despite everyone’s assurances, each stronger than the next, I’ve always felt magic was real -– not the Christmas kind, but something ancient and inexplicable, a malevolent force pulsing beneath the fragile fabric that makes up our reality. When I was three, I went to a magic show and my sleeve caught fire after a wayward spark flew in my direction. The magician, his ridiculous top hat askew on his head, looked at me as if we were the only two people in the room and smiled. From that day forward, I was convinced magic was real and I wanted nothing to do with it.

But enough backstory, you’re probably thinking. Let’s get to the good stuff: Me, facing my greatest fear — Magic.

It all began on a chilly Saturday evening. Daniel and I were walking toward the park, tossing a baseball back and forth, aluminum bats slung over our shoulders. The trees, their spindly branches bare of the leaves and flowers that will rebloom in the spring, rustled overhead as we walked past. We could hear the skittering of crepuscular rats and insects as they emerged from their dens, drawn by the darkening twilight. The vibe was decidedly eerie.

That’s when I saw him: The magic man. Not a magician with trick cards and a box with a hidden compartment, but a real sorcerer — his crimson, velvet robe flapping in the air as he approached us and his steel-gray hair tied in anemic bun at the base of his neck.

He didn’t say anything, lips pressed in a thin line, but I could sense magic — and evil — on him. Quickly, he strode past us, and although the wind was strong enough to plaster our jackets against our stomachs, suddenly the air stilled around him and he disappeared. I turned to Daniel, but he seemed unperturbed. “What?” he said, a crease had sprung up between his eyebrows.

My eyes widened in surprise, but I only said, “Nothing, let’s head to Smith field and throw a few pitches.”

I went to bed that night with a single thought crowding my brain “He’ll be back and when he returns, it’ll mean nothing good.”

The next morning I told Daniel about what I had seen. To my surprise, he erupted into peals of laughter.

“That’s so weird,” he said between giggling fits, attracting the attention of almost everyone in the hallway. “What do you mean you can ‘sense magic?’ I’m sorry about laughing, but this is just too funny! What does magic even feel like?”

I knew to convince him, I needed to return to the park with him in tow. We slipped out after lunch and before math class when the playground monitors were busy with the first graders, who had released a box of earthworms by the swings. As I suspected, the strange figure was back, sitting with a few henchmen on the bench under a gargantuan oak. Like the magician, the henchmen wore cloaks of various sizes and designs. There was a gaunt man, his sumptuous cloak hanging off his frame, a vermillion collar turned up to hide half his face. Another man was absentmindedly fingering his threadbare robe—which had small stars scattered across a black expanse, punctuated here and there by a gaping hole—while his gaze swept nervously from his neighbor to the magician and back again.

I pulled Daniel behind a playground structure and pointed at the group of people, but Daniel looked at me dubiously. “Some people just like to wear cloaks, dude. You need to chill.” But then there was movement in the small group and Daniel fell silent.

The magician removed the manhole cover leading to the sewer and a blinding light poured from the opening — leaving dots in my vision, the kind you see when you look at a flashlight beam directly. Despite the robe, the magician jumped in with a surprising nimbleness. After the last member of the group disappeared beneath the ground, the manhole cover floated up and settled over the hole.

When I had seen the magician disappear yesterday, he must have actually just jumped into the sewer!

“Come on,” I said to Daniel. “Help me get this cover off.” The cover slid open with a metallic scrape and we jumped down into the darkness, the putrid water splashing onto our pants and feet. The tinkling of water echoed off the walls of the tunnel.

I turned a corner and entered a small chamber, fumbling around until I flicked on a light switch. Immediately, my eyes were drawn to a whiteboard, like the ones we have at school, with the words “Plan to Take Over the City” scrawled in ornate script.

Underneath those words were a drawing of a potion, a few hurried lines indicating it was a recipe for a “Forgetfulness Potion,” and some instructions outlining how the elixir would explode, releasing a fine dust that would make everyone think they were servants of the magician and his friends. A vial, filled with green, sloshing liquid, was stashed on a cabinet shelf, visible behind a pane of glass.

Wordlessly, aided by our life-long connection, Daniel and I formulated our own plan: We would steal the potion from the magician and escape. Granted, it wasn’t the most sophisticated heist, but give us a break — we’re eleven. We had just pocketed the potion, taking care to stopper the vial with a wadded up tissue, when we heard footsteps approaching, followed by muttering: “It won’t be long...soon everyone will be my puppet!”

We jumped out from behind one of the room’s cabinets and confronted him. The magician looked at us, dumbfounded for a moment and then laughed. “What are you guys trying to do? Amuse me? My henchmen will be here soon for the culmination of our plan!”

His phone pinged, probably one of his henchmen wondering where the magician was. We seized the opportunity his momentary distraction gifted us to run out of the sewer. But while the magician followed surprisingly quickly, soon his progress was slowed by the arrival of his partners, who shuffled in confusion as soon as they came in contact with him.

“What are you doing?” he sputtered, face turning red in frustration. “You’re letting them get away,” he said, pointing in our direction.

“Who are you?” one of them asked, looking around with wild eyes and flyaway hair.

He must have spilled some of the potion on his clothes when he was brewing it, we realized with a start. And while he had taken the antidote in order to handle the concoction, his friends hadn’t.

Breathing a sigh of relief and careful not to let our hands touch our face, we hid the potion somewhere safe. I can’t tell you where in case the magician is reading this. And it was only when I was running home with Daniel, that I realized I had overcome my fear of magic.

The sky descends into an eerie darkness,
A moment of silence before the rage is unleashed and takes away its starkness.
CRACK!
Ribbons of lightning unfurl, streaking at the bruised heavens.
Again and again, every few seconds.
As I sit on my rocker under the dim light of a flickering lamp,
I hear a soft, ever-so-quiet tap.
And again.
And again.
Once more.
Cautious and weary, I creep towards the door.
My heart starts to race,
For visitors are a rare case.
Soon the tapping turns into an insistent rapping.
Then a thought strikes me.
No, no it can’t be.
Not now; it’s far too early for them to be free.
A bullet lodges its way into my throat anyway.
My hand quivers as I reach for the door.
Anxiety grasps my soul, all the way down to my core.
And I swing it open.
Every shield I’d put up to protect me from this moment crumbled, all broken.
There they were, furious and filled with resentment, except for the gaze of a young child.
No. No, no, no!
Fear became alive, clawing at my throat, hungry and desperate.
My mouth ran dry and I began to tremble, but there was nothing I could do but bear it.
“Daddy?”
I knelt on the ground, remorse forming pools of tears in my eyes.
“Hey, darling,” I whisper, holding back my cry.
The tiny girl threw herself onto me, her chubby hands clinging to my neck.
A tiny hiccup escapes me, my heart a total wreck.
Behind her, the glares of 27 other spirits shoot daggers at me.
It seems that my time has come, to receive the payback for all the lives I’ve taken.
With my daughter still in my arms, I begin to awaken.
To the reality of what stands before me,
To the truth I have been avoiding,
To all the memories I have tried to forget.
“Oh my daughter, I’m so sorry.”
With that, I give in to the vines of regret.