The World is Magic: A Novella: The World is Magic, #1

By Dean Shearer

Franklin Murr is a wizard, a leaf in the Wind. He goes where the Wind takes him.

 

But never before has it taken him to a hotel that creeks and sways . . . and changes. And never before has it led him to a woman so . . . odd. 

 

Will Franklin make it out of the hotel alive? And if so, sane? 

 

The world is magic, but it's never been such a bad thing. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Shearer
• Release date: Feb 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393612261

Dean Shearer

Dean Shearer is the author of many fictitious works such as The Cat, The World is Magic, and the short stories series Selah, the Universe. He wishes there was more to say about himself (he likes studying religions and walking barefoot and reading and writing in multiple genres and reading and writing a lot) but there's just too much to say.

Book preview

1

The wizard was only a leaf in the Wind, he knew that.

His name was Franklin Murr and he walked through the flat countryside with a heavy pack on his back. He was going somewhere, anywhere, and trying his best to keep his faith in the Wind.

He walked on a little hesitantly. The Wind had led him many places, and each time he had learned many priceless things. But never before had he been led out into the middle of the country, far from any place he knew.

He had left home a week ago. He had driven across the country following the Wind, and had left his car parked at a gas station in . . . where? He had driven too long, too far, and had gotten there too fast, and he couldn't even remember what state he was in.

Then he was led west or south or north or east, on foot, and now he was here. He had been walking two days, and he was exhausted and his back and bones hurt, but he marched on quickly, for the Wind was telling him he was nearing his destination.

I’m a leaf in the Wind, he reminded himself, for his legs were shaky and his mind scrambled. I’m a leaf in the Wind and I’m going places. Oh, Old Boy, don’t give up now.

The truth is, he could not give up now, whether he wanted to or not. Turning back would be just as bad as moving forward; so he trudged onward.

He walked and walked and walked. Then he came to a patch of dandelions that went on forever then disappeared into darkness. The moon shone bright, and the tall grass and dandelions moved in the wind, rattling like wishbones on a string. Franklin thought it a perfect place to rest, so he hefted the pack off his back and sat on a large rock.

From his pack he took a cup, a thermos, and a pouch of tea leaves. He dropped a pinch of tea into the cup then poured the water in.

Franklin wanted to relax, but his foot was tapping and his mind was saying, Get up, go on! You’re almost there, this is urgent, go.

But Franklin did not want to go, not yet, and he drank his tea and tried his best to relax.

He finished his tea in three gulps. He hadn't felt very thirsty, but apparently he had been.

His mind said, Get up.

Just one more moment, he replied.

No, it said, and his stomach filled with butterflies, and his mind with wonder, and, reluctantly, he packed his things and went.

And now he stood before his destination. He had run the last mile. He had seen it from a distance and known it was the place.

It was in the middle of nowhere, and not a single tree (except a dead one in the yard) grew about. The building was one, two stories tall, and the windows were cracked and shattered, and the grass all around was dry and brown. Franklin walked up the cracked path, and he looked at the building and was puzzled: vaguely, it seemed to be leaning. To the right? The left? Perhaps both. Could it be that it was shifting in the wind?

The wind was cold so he hurried up the path.

Before him was a double door, huge, and open just a crack. As he climbed the three front steps he felt a warmth wafting out through the crack. It seemed to hug him, to welcome him, and, although that cracked door and those shattered windows scared him, he was eager to get inside.

But he paused before the door.

He noticed a smell, a dull, soft smell, like incense and wet carpets and old walls. It came into his nose warm, and surprisingly pleasant, and he decided it was time to go in.

Franklin pushed the door, and the wind threw it open.

At first he saw nothing but darkness and perhaps gusting dust. Then he noticed a light, far back. He squinted his eyes, leaned his head forward.

And there was a desk with things piled on it: books, papers, perhaps a coffee mug, and a golden bell, shining in the orange lamplight.

It was a hotel, he knew that now. Perfect. He could get a good night’s rest.

He took a step forward, and the tip of his shoe tapped a hard, smooth floor, and he heard the echo