The Inkwell presents: Passive Perception

By The Inkwell

This month, we chose a different path for our stories—a path parallel to the main plot, but often unseen, unappreciated, unloved. Who could be such a footnote in a story? Why, the side characters, of course. The sidekicks, the tag alongs, and the bit part players. They all are part of the story but apart from it, and we decided to focus on that.

For how different is the view of those not in the thick of it? They see all the hubbub, knowing some, but not always all, of what drives the protagonists to do what they do. And sometimes, just sometimes, they see what no one else does, painting the tale in a whole different light.

So the question we must ask ourselves is: What do you see when unseen?

Going Postal - Mischief and mayhem follow a poor postie caught between two feuding mages.
Tree Splint in Half - Two differing sides and voices fight for supremacy, and Heika must make a choice.
The Hearts We Hold - A patchwork can't exist without its binding thread.
Fire and Jim Stone - Sometimes the catch of the day becomes the journey of a lifetime.
Legacy - Court intrigue leads to a departure into the unknown.
Burdens Carried - Gate duty is livened up by a few birds.
Instigator - An arms dealer finds himself in a small colony on the precipice of change.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Inkwell
• Release date: Aug 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215849972

The Inkwell

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Book preview

Going Postal

Written by Ian Kitley

It didn’t tick.

That was a bad sign.

You could trust things that ticked—ticking made sense. Anarchists, clock-makers, even bloody mad scientists made things that ticked. Okay, the last made things that fizzed too, but fizzing also made sense. Fizzing and sloshing. Ticking, fizzing, and sloshing. Those all made sense.

Chiming, though, was something different. Oh, it wasn’t like Gregory hadn’t heard of packages chiming. He’d heard about lots of such packages. Usually second-hand. Those able to tell it first-hand were often missing a limb or five. Because no package ever chimed twice.

Except this one, apparently. He’d almost refused to accept it when he arrived at the tower on the hill, the one with vines attempting to strangle every stone and a dragon failing to curb the advancing growth with its inadequate fires. But here was the thing about being a member of Magic Until Mundane Postal Service: no matter how weird the parcel, how pants-shitting terrifying the delivery, we got it done. Even when the clients were, deity-of-your-choosing forgive us, wizards.

You’re new, said the tattered robes and pointy hat presumably concealing a hum—creat—male by the sound of his voice. What happened to Pietro?

Gregory passed over his clipboard and pen, the official documents ready for filling out. No idea, sir. You know how it is, though. Go there, do that, don’t ask questions. It wasn’t entirely true, of course. He’d heard something about a pig. Whether the pig and Pietro had once shared the same atomic elements hadn’t been clear.

Oh, yes, I know it all too well. Reminds me of my internship, those years spent with bubbling cauldrons and the infuriating assistance of that witch— No, no, never mind, that’s all in the past, the wizard muttered, staring off into space. Gregory took a step back. Thoughtful wizards were always worse than scatterbrained ones. He had experience.

Funny that should come up, continued the old man, a gleam in his eyes, this needs to get to Mistress Remedy in the next hour. No later, you hear? It’s essential she receives it in a timely manner.

Paperwork returned, the postman examined the delivery address. It’d be pushing his pathfinding abilities, be nigh impossible, but upholding the company’s exemplary record demanded he achieve the impossible.

You can always count on MUM, sir. It’s in the name.

Both men dutifully chuckled.

Oh, I know I can, dear boy. Your masters are well aware that failing me is not an option. And, leaving his words simply hanging there amongst the package’s chimes, the wizard vanished in a puff of smoke, proving a universal law once and for all.

Wizards were dramatic little shits.

❖❖❖

He had five minutes.

Gregory didn’t entirely know how he knew he had five minutes, but something about the chimes made the fact abundantly clear. Were they speeding up? Did it matter? He had a deadline to keep.

Not that he was likely to miss it. His destination crouched in the field ahead, herb gardens bordering one edge and a dark, dangerous forest the other. Gregory noted a path leading into the wood, well travelled by tiny feet. He decided not to think too much about it.

Three minutes later he was knocking on a door that could be either gingerbread or honey oak, definitely not in any way frantic.

Go away! yelled a feminine voice, simultaneously musical and craggy.

Delivery for one Mistress Remedy. If you could please come to the door, ma’am. It requires a signature.

It’s from Tollomere, isn’t it? The old coot is always such a stickler for punctuality. Never could get it through that thick skull of his that slow seduction might work better than blunt force trauma. Here I am, expecting for once he might surprise me, but oh, no, that wouldn’t do. He always has to have his little—

I’m sorry, ma’am, I really need you to sign for this. You see, it’s time-sensitive and—

The door slammed open, and a demon of black lace, face bedecked in some sort of mud-pack—it had to be a mud-pack or Gregory would have nightmares for days—glared at him with cauldron in hand.

Time-sensitive? Good deities, man, don’t just stand there; toss it in! We need to defuse it before—

The universe chose that moment to embrace its flair for comic timing.

Mildly unexpectedly, the chimes didn’t stop. Instead, they swelled, harmonising into a rhythmic melody that spread across the land, infusing the very air with their tones. For a second, Gregory wondered if he’d ever heard anything so beautiful.

And then, the land responded.

It was as if every flower and tree, every grass and herb, came alive, a wordless song tugging at the hearts and ears and mind. They