Last Straw at the Coffee Shop
Fiction by Erin L. Swann
The day it rained rainbow frogs, I knew I was going to die.
Now, red frogs falling from the sky, I could probably accept. Yellow frogs, sure. And who hasn’t seen the occasional shower of green amphibians? But rainbow? I felt like I had been sucked into one of those weird Skittles commercials. The kind that leave you weakly laughing and wondering if you should feel a little unsettled.
I was certain I was unsettled. Something as ridiculous as multicolored croakers flopping from the heavens meant only one thing.
An ill-tempered wizard was about.
And I should go back to bed.
But while my intuition was usually spot on, I had a bad habit of ignoring it. Like most mortals, I stuck to my routine against my better judgement. I pulled my hoodie up over my shaggy hair and skipped my morning shave. Well, my weekly shave. I thought the scruff on my chin made me look more dangerous. Or homeless. Either way, people generally left me alone.
Yet, trouble still found me often enough—especially where wizards were concerned—and I was determined to avoid it today. Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I ducked into the foggy, froggy morning. I tread carefully around the tiny hoppers littering the city sidewalk, but it was impossible to dodge them all. They capered between discarded paper cups and takeout containers overflowing from trash receptacles cemented to the ground. I jerked my feet from side to side, sparing one, only to step on another.
It took far longer than usual to reach my first morning stop: the tabloid stall at Third and West street. The warm aroma of sweet, salted nuts greeted me as I paid the good peddler for a dirty rag of a magazine and a wax bag of candied pecans.
Yes. I eat nuts for breakfast. So what?
I’ve made plenty of bad decisions on an empty stomach, so I fill it as soon as possible.
Popping a couple of crunchy nuggets in my mouth, I thanked the man. He just grunted and used a newspaper to sweep a line of frogs off his cramped counter. Magazine under my arm, I jogged across the street just as the light turned green.
My outstretched hand found the swinging glass door of The Mean Bean, my favorite coffee shop. Favorite because it was close to my apartment and it served killer pastries.
The pungent scent of roasted beans and cinnamon smacked me like a jilted lover, shouting, Where have you been? You’re over a half an hour late!
I know, I know. But even a monsoon of clown frogs couldn’t keep me from you, I murmured back in my mind, absorbing the blend of morning crankiness in the order line with the quiet jubilation at the pickup counter. I cued up behind a woman bedecked in accessories that screamed high maintenance, her sharp face wearing an expression that could melt stone.
The shop was packed today, more so than usual due to the lively weather.
“They’re an absolute menace,” the woman in front of me whined into her phone, which was sandwiched between her ear and shoulder while she dug in a purse the size of a small suitcase. “When will the city impose more restrictions on magic-users?”
We weren’t all bad, but I couldn’t say that to someone like her. Out of all of us, wizards had the worst tempers, and their magic was hard to tame; those two things in combination didn’t lead to promising situations. I felt sorry for them sometimes… until days like this.
The door swung open again and a little blue frog hopped onto my shoe, fleeing its fellows on the outside. I turned to shake it off and saw my doom get behind me in line.
A row of frogs lined both shoulders of her navy windbreaker, as if she had saved them from some horrible fate. Some even nestled in her halo of dark hair. The typical hero type, though a bit on the short, stocky side. But I could see that undeniable gleam in her hazel eyes. You know the one I'm talking about. Full of the zesty optimism and fool-hearty bravery that screams ‘adventure awaits’ and often gets people like me killed.
I should know. I’ve died six times before because of heroes just like that.
Winnie Whines-a-lot moved forward in line and I turned and edged up as well.
“Have we met?” a bright voice called from behind.
I assumed the hero wasn’t talking to me, so I jumped out of my skin when I felt her tap my shoulder. I hated when people did that. Sets my teeth on edge.
I glanced back. “Doubt it. I don’t get out much.” I turned around, hoping our exchange was over.
It wasn’t.
“No, I’m certain you’re familiar,” Ms. Bright Eyes pushed. “West Street Library? Regular at O’Reilly’s? Come on.”
I shrugged, hoping my silence would demonstrate I wasn’t interested in talking. Why were they drawn to me? I didn’t scream attractive, I didn’t engage in conversation, I tried to keep my head down. It just didn’t matter.
Winnie Whines-a-lot was audibly huffing, tapping her nails impatiently against the metal chain of her purse as the man in front of her mumbled through a rather unique order.
“Do you have rainbow sprinkles?” the young man asked. His greasy hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and I half-expected him to sport some kind of silver jewelry inlaid with turquoise. He seemed like the type.
“For a… whipped frozen coffee?” the barista asked hesitantly.
The man nodded meekly, shoulders hunched as if he was trying to retreat into an invisible shell.
The barista shrugged. “Sure. Anything else you’d like to add, sir?”
His voice warbled as he tried to decide how many flavor syrups he wanted to combine in his sugary concoction. By the end, I’d be surprised if a dash of coffee would be added for color.
The barista asked if that was all. Hesitant, the young man glanced at the bakery display, and Winnie Whines-a-lot moaned.
“Oh, come on! Some of us have jobs to get to.”
The man flinched a little and leaned away from the display, ready to be bullied by the impatient woman. I couldn’t help it.
“Their muffins are heavenly,” I said. “And they warm them up for you. Caramel apple cinnamon is divine. It’ll change your life.”
I heard Ms. Bright Eyes chuckle from behind, and Winnie gawked indignantly. I just gave her a pleasant smile. “They’re good. You should get one too.”
The young man’s shoulders straightened a little, and he ordered my suggestion while Winnie muttered about rude customers. He didn’t turn around, but I gave him a nod of approval all the same. Good for you, man. I hope your muffin tastes twice as sweet.
I spaced out as Winnie rattled off her equally ridiculous order and stepped up to the barista next.
“Hot apple cider and a caramel apple cinnamon muffin, please.”
The barista smirked and rang me up.
“I thought you were joking,” Ms. Bright Eyes said, leaning around me to look at the small display.
“I never joke about baked goods,” I said. And I meant it.
Ms. Bright Eyes tried to engage me in conversation again, but I yanked my lanky bag of bones as far from her as I could. It wasn't far; the shop was crowded and I'm too wispy to shove my way past a stiff breeze, much less the zombies of a morning coffee rush.
Still, it was better than nothing. There was a wizard about and now a hero had entered stage left. I knew what came next.
No, thank you.
While I waited, I stared out the large front window where vibrant frogs were still pelting pedestrians and pavement alike. That wizard must be having one hell of a day. Ms. Bright Eyes kept glancing at me, but she thankfully kept her distance.
Winnie was loudly complaining on her phone about how long it was taking, trying to make eye contact with other patrons like she was attempting to start a revolution. She also kept trying to swipe other customer’s orders as they were called, saying she was too busy to wait.
Then, they called Sherman.
The oiled ponytail man shuffled forward to take his multicolored monstrosity and Winnie sniped it from the counter. “You can have mine when it’s called,” she said. “I am late. And it’s the least you could do.”
Sherman (an apt name, I might add) spoke up. “No. That’s mine.” He took the bag with his muffin from the counter, which Winnie hadn’t deigned to steal.
“Come on,” Winnie said. “It’s not a big deal. It’s a coffee.”
“If it’s not a big deal, then wait,” Ms. Bright Eyes said.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve got an insanely important business meeting to attend and I’m waiting.” I had no such thing. Ms. Bright Eyes smirked as if she knew I was lying. It wasn’t a very good lie, so it wasn’t that impressive.
“Ma’am,” the barista said from behind the counter. “Give the man his drink or I’m going to ask you to leave.”
“Fine!” Winnie snapped, tossing the drink at poor Sherman, who caught it straight down his chest.
Disgruntled murmurs broke out among the other customers and one staff member reached for the phone, probably in a half-hearted attempt to call a manager. From the dead look in his eyes, this wasn’t the first time coffee was used to accost someone.
Sherman just stood there, staring at his shirt, covered in what looked like unicorn puke. The hand holding his muffin bag shook. Then, his watery eyes turned dark… and glowed red.
Ah. Well, now I know the wizard was having a worse day.
“I’m sick of dealing with people like you!” Sherman roared, doing a total 180 in personality as his voice deepened with menace. “Everywhere I go, I never get any peace!”
Winnie whimpered, backing up as she realized just who she’d tried to ‘entitle’ her way through. She blubbered an apology, but Sherman had snapped. And when a wizard snaps, things happen. Usually not good things.
Sure enough, as Winnie opened her mouth, clouds of angry butterflies poured out. Yes, you heard me right. Angry butterflies. It’s a thing.
The Mean Bean broke into a panicked frenzy. The only two that didn’t look surprised were me and Bright Eyes.
Damn my instincts. Damn Winnie.
Damn my insatiable hunger for muffins.
Customers shrieked and backed away as Sherman the Wizard rose a bony finger at Winnie and reduced her to a vermillion carp with a bolt of red lightning. She flopped on the floor, fish lips gaping as she tried to breathe in her new form. Sherman didn’t notice, already turning his anger on the other patrons.
The butterflies swarmed around customers and staff, and I dove for Winnie. Bright Eyes got to her first, snatching at the slippery tail.
“There’s a sink right behind the counter,” I shouted, pointing. I’m a regular. I know my way around.
Bright Eyes nodded and dashed through the panicking crowd. Thankfully, no more fish, though people were turning all sorts of different colors, spewing more fluttering insects from their mouths. I noticed Sherman’s bakery treat forgotten on the ground and grabbed the rumpled paper bag still containing a perfectly good muffin.
“Really?” Bright Eyes was back, scoffing at me.
I glanced behind her at the sink. “Hope fresh water won’t kill her.”
“The shit in this city water will kill her first,” Bright Eyes snorted, turning towards the door. I noticed her medallion then, small and barely visible: a flake of gold dangling against the hollow in her throat, suspended on a thread of spun silk.
A Siren.
“Isn’t this kind of your wheelhouse?” I asked, nodding to her medallion.
She glanced over at the crazed wizard painting the coffee shop with kaleidoscopic colors and filling it with mystical creatures that used to be people. “I’m a little tapped out at the moment. I can’t calm a wizard in the middle of a tantrum without proper tools. Can you?”
I didn’t need tools but before I could say anything, Sherman turned his eyes on us.
But he clearly sensed the medallions we wore, marking us as kin. Instead, he darted out the door in a flurry of crackling smoke and shouted to the sky, “If I can’t have coffee, no one will!”
With that, he shot over to the nearest Starbucks. Fantastic.
Ms. Bright Eyes rushed for the exit and waved at me as if we were already partners. Why do they always do that? “You know what this means,” she said.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and leaned against the order counter, refusing to follow. “Nope. Sure don't.”
She turned and eyed me up and down, picking apart what little there was to pick. “What kind of man are you?”
“The kind that likes his skin to remain its current hue and shape.”
“But, what about—”
“You seem plenty capable. Untap yourself and get on in there.” I waved towards the Starbucks, which just turned a brilliant shade of fuchsia. A stampede of satyrs crashed through the doors with various articles of ripped clothing flapping like streamers from their bodies.
Ms. Bright Eyes looked between the Starbucks and me before narrowing her almond-shaped eyes. “I know what you are. You’re a Muse.”
“And how do you figure that?” I asked. My order’s silver medallion, while far more substantial than a Siren’s, was safely hidden underneath my hoodie. I don’t like advertising. When people know you have a few lives to spare, they often view you as expendable.
“You’ve got that look.” She glanced back at the street.
A small, winged cat chased a jackalope past my ankles and out the door of The Mean Bean. Quick as a flash, Bright Eyes snatched the cat by the scruff of its neck. “Trust me, if you kill someone while you’re not in your right mind, you’ll regret it later,” she scolded it, tossing it back into the coffee shop and shutting the door.
Ms. Bright Eyes fixed me with a stern stare. “We aren’t all out to kill you.”
I stiffened. “I take offense to that generalization.”
Before I could continue to pretend that wasn’t exactly what I expected to happen, a deep squawk came from the kitchen. We turned together as a gryphon broke open the swinging service doors and the hero and I fled into the unfortunate storm.
I have absolutely no idea how she convinced me to head back to her apartment. I still had no intention of helping her do-gooding. The wizard’s temper would run its course and, when over, some wizards set things back the way they were. And there were cleanup crews who did their best to fix things for those who didn’t. Best course of action was to stay out of their way.
“But what about the people who die because of his actions?” Marie argued. She insisted on introductions. I was fine calling her Ms. Bright Eyes… I probably still would in my head.
"Not my problem,” I said. And it certainly wasn't. I didn’t cause the wizard’s tantrum. If anything, I inadvertently tried to prevent it before I knew what he was.
“That’s awfully cold,” Marie said, using a laminated menu she confiscated from The Mean Bean to act as a falling frog shield. They pinged off the plastic surface above her head as she barreled past a multicolored menagerie. The wizard hadn’t stopped with the Starbucks. I spotted four more shops along our route down Third Street that looked like an artist had used far too many psychedelics to create a masterpiece. Some weren’t even strictly coffee shops, either. One was a tea shop I visited most afternoons: they had the most amazing cream cheese scones.
“Okay, so don’t you care that he could ruin these coffee businesses?” she asked. “They might get shut down if enough damage is done. You feed off emotions, don’t you? That’s why Muses frequent places like that.”
“There’s other places. And, honestly, I don’t much care for coffee.”
Marie harrumphed. Then, she hit me right in the tenders with her next comment. “What about baked goods? Those life-changing muffins? If we don’t stop him, you might not get another one of those again.”
She wasn’t wrong.
I squeezed my hand, still clutching the folded top of Sherman’s muffin bag, and followed Marie into an eclectic building. Some sort of artist commune by the looks of it.
“Huh, looks like our wizard already paid this place a visit,” I said, my eyes tracing the dancing lines of color along the interior brick wall. A community mural?
“Aren’t you hilarious,” Marie said, passing the elevator and taking the stairs. She was one of those people. I groaned and clambered after her.
Graffiti slashed the walls of the stairwell, either by intentional design or blatant vandalism. I wasn’t particularly interested in art itself, though the passion of artists ran very high. I found their cocktail of emotions either ran sour for my tastes or too spicy with mania. But I might just be looking in the wrong places.
“You got some amazing plan you’re going to pitch to me once you recharge?” I asked, my voice bouncing sharply between walls in the stairwell.
Marie didn’t turn around. “Does that mean you’re going to help?”
The smugness in her tone almost made me refuse on principle. But then, I thought of the muffins. “Depends on what you’re thinking,” I said stiffly.
Yeah, Lester. Keep pretending you’re not going to help her. I knew I was going to help her.
Third floor, apartment B later, I stood in Marie’s foyer, staring at a cerulean vase filled with cardamom blossoms. When she wasn’t looking, I reached out to touch a white petal, curious.
They were real. As I scanned the apartment, I found more delicate floral arrangements. Who has the time to keep fresh flowers these days?
Despite this, her place smelled like a strange mixture of curry and jasmine. I hated it. If I had visible hackles, I'd raise them. No sane person should enjoy curry. None.
“Make yourself comfortable. I need to find some things,” Marie’s voice called from deeper in. “Couch is pretty cozy and if you turn on the news, I’m sure we can keep an eye on the wizard.”
I didn’t sit, pacing around the living room instead. A display case stood nearby, the sparkling contents drawing my attention. Crystal figurines. The kind you see at gift shops that little girls fawn over and people with too many cats collect.
“Are these tuning objects?” I asked. Maybe they could give us an edge. That crystal fox looked pretty scrappy.
“No. I just like them,” Marie said, dropping a few instrument cases on the carpet near her coffee table.
Figures. I couldn't sniff out the whiff of a cat in the apartment, so she must be young at heart. I am so dead.
“Not exactly sure what you think a Siren and a Muse can do. You gonna seduce him while I feed on his anger?” I asked. “Got a lyre in one of those cases?” I heard lyres were seductive.
“I don’t seduce people.” Marie didn’t look up, plucking the string of a viola and wincing. “That isn’t how it works, and you should know that. Muses work with all types.”
We sure do. Something I regretted more often than not.
“Okay, are we going to combine our efforts to inspire more creative fits of rage out of him?” I tried again.
“Will you relax?” she said, nodding to the couch while she strummed a cord on a ukulele.
“I can enhance your abilities. So I would like to know what you’re capable of.” I eyed the pile of musical ‘tools.’ “I assume your version of song is instrumental?”
“Yeah, I’m a pretty dismal singer,” Marie said.
“A Siren with a terrible voice?” I smirked. “Combined with a Muse who barely wants anything to do with this. Yeah. Nothing could go wrong.”
“Maybe we’ll be the right kind of wrong. Create some disaster that will cause the wizard to trip over an open pothole and break his neck.”
“And a homicidal optimist,” I muttered as I sank onto her couch, the image of a pothole catastrophe stuck in my head while I stared at the tv. I started picturing every way possible to cause someone with the ability to fly to stumble and fall.
Unfortunately, I couldn't picture one that didn't belong in a Saturday morning cartoon.
Man, I miss those.
“Why do you still have that?” Marie asked. She was studying the paper bag in my hand. “Is that yours?”
“No, they didn’t call my order yet.” I sighed, thinking about my muffin in the coffee shop’s microwave along with my now cold apple cider.
Part of me wanted to eat Sherman’s muffin; it was the least he could do. But it felt wrong to consume another man’s baked goods, especially when he was having a bad day.
Marie had discarded the viola and the ukulele, pulling out smaller instruments from velvet pouches.
“Is that a recorder?” I asked with disbelief. I hadn’t seen one of those resin pipes since grade school.
She shoved it back into its bag. “It’s highly underrated. But I don’t think it’ll do for this situation.”
Explosions of color and bewildered beasts paraded across the tv screen. “You’re gonna need a tuba to fix that.” To start.
“Size isn’t everything.” She popped out a harmonica and played a few bars before nodding to herself. “Yes. This will work. I’m glad I got to watch him a bit before this all went down. Gives me a bit of an edge.”
I glowered at the harmonica. “Really?”
“Yes, really. Now, are you going to show me what you can do?” she asked.
“Who do you plan to test it on? Your neighbors?”
“We’ll try it on Quackers.” She waved me towards her bathroom.
When she popped the door open, I found a mallard duck swimming in maddening circles in the bathtub. I had no words.
Marie smiled fondly at the bird. “He suffers from PTSD.”
Of course he did.
“He’s perfect to try a calming song on,” she said. “I rescued him a while back and we both benefit from me practicing on him.”
Quackers didn’t seem to notice either of us, making small half-quacks like he was out of breath. Marie's lips slipped across the harmonica, playing a few cords. Was that Billy Joel?
She nodded to me with widening eyes, as if I needed a signal to enhance her magic. But most of the magically inclined didn’t have a clue how Muses did what they did.
They just used us and took the process for granted. I was a handy tool.
The emotions of animals were different, harder for me to grip. I could feel a wavering vibration emitting from Quackers, but it wasn’t melding at all with Marie’s song. The duck didn’t look any different.
Then, the harmonica’s tone changed.
It was subtle, but Quackers instantly stopped spinning in circles and looked over at the Siren. He still panted with half-quacks and I tried gripping onto those weak vibrations again. Still nothing. I shifted my focus to Marie, inhaling her quiet desperation to ‘save the city,’ which she was trying to hide behind her calm façade.
Using her passion, I pushed more power behind Marie’s song and my mind traveled along the waves of harmonic notes, bumping into Quacker’s soft vibrations. This time, when the notes hit the duck’s emotions, I could feel them more substantially. Blending my magic with her song, I eased Quacker’s anxiety, allowing Marie to not only soothe the little bird bobbing in her bath, but to take his worries away.
Quackers grew quiet, fluffed up his feathers and hopped on the rim of the tub. Marie stopped playing. “You’re quite a Muse,” she murmured. “Not bad.”
Not good enough to keep myself out of trouble, though. But I kept that thought to myself as I watched Marie smile and shut the door to her bathroom again. If nothing else came out of this, there was one less duck worried about the sky falling. Or was that a story about a chicken?
We both glanced at the tv again, where helicopter footage traced the colorful footsteps of an irate Sherman, who had painted half of West Street with his outrage.
“At least this wizard’s imagination is kid-friendly,” I said as we both strode for the door. “Saw one a few years back that still gives me nightmares.”
“Gory?” Marie asked, locking her apartment.
“Nah. Blood doesn’t bother me. All the cleaning instruments came to life and started attacking their owners. I still lock my closet at night.” Judging by her silence, she probably thought I was joking. But I wasn’t.
“I remember one in the last town I stayed in that turned all the animals inside-out,” Marie said, as if this were a contest for ‘most traumatic wizard experience.’ “That wizard didn’t fix it either. She just disappeared. Cleanup crews managed to save some of them, but there’s only so much they can do. That’s how I got Quackers.”
I whistled as I trotted down the stairs, Marie at my heels. “And I thought when you said PTSD, you meant he almost got hit while crossing the street or something.”
“PTSD is a serious thing, Lester. I don’t throw that phrase around like some people.”
I could respect that. Many in my line of work suffered from it. Dying repeatedly can do that to a person.
I disassociated. Probably why my feelings were often so out of whack. That’s what a therapist told me once, anyway. She didn’t help much.
I found other methods of therapy.
It didn’t take long to retrace our steps, and it certainly wasn’t hard to follow Sherman’s. I wondered what it was like to be inside that man’s head: unicorns farting rainbows and puking out sunshiny days. If there were trolls lurking under the bridges of his imagination, I bet they wore flower crowns and spoke in song.
It was still raining frogs, their bright bodies speckling the dark road, gutters gobbling them up.
The plain, neutral greys of the city cut right up against washes of bright cadmium and ultramarine spilling out of any shop deigning to sell coffee. It was a weird way to express your anger, that’s for sure. But maybe I just have a darker mind.
Thunder rumbled down Cadbury Lane, and our feet pounded down the side street, heedless to the frogs now. I just hoped none of them used to be people.
“Up there!” Marie pointed to the top of a ten-story apartment building.
Sherman had taken his rampage to greater heights. Literally.
He stood on the roof with his arms spread, puffs of thick clouds roiling around him as streaks of red lightning pierced through nearby windows and struck fleeing citizens on the ground. They transformed into all manner of fairytales: a flurry of pixies, a cat with a snappy pair of boots, and a mermaid who had to drag herself out of the street by her hands.
Luckily, most people were sensible enough to stay in when it rained frogs, so not too many cars were about.
“Should we go through the lobby?” I pointed at the apartment’s entrance.
Marie shook her head as she ran, aiming towards the fire escape stairs affixed to the side of the building. The ladder at the bottom was down, probably dropped by fleeing residents.
“What the hell do you have against elevators?” I asked, staring at the looming construct of iron and pain.
“The building might require key entry. We’ve wasted enough time.”
I grumbled, but I could already tell she’d made up her mind. “How close do you need to be to work your magic?” I asked instead.
“I’ll need to be on the roof with him,” she called while climbing the ladder.
Of course she did. Because staying on the ground was far too safe.
Our rush to the roof quickly turned into an arduous slog. Marie had little more stamina than I and we were both out of breath by the fourth floor. My body grew heavier, my legs throbbing in protest by floor six. Floor eight came a million years later.
I might just kill Sherman and Marie if we reached the top only to watch the wizard fly away.
Luckily, Sherman seemed to be content striking from his perch above like Zeus. When we finally got to the roof, I let Marie wobble ahead while I dragged in a few ragged breaths. It was an average barren rooftop, absent of a safety railing or even some yellow paint. A few plastic chairs sat near the edge by the stairs along with some discarded beer cans. I was tempted to take a seat.
The Siren strode right past the chairs, pulling out her harmonica and starting the same tune she used on Quackers, drawing the wizard’s attention.
“Is The Piano Man the only song you know on the harmonica?!” I asked.
Marie paused. “It lends itself to the instrument.”
She started playing again, circling along the edge of the rooftop as I followed behind. Her web of notes waved wildly this time, like tentacles trying to gain purchase. I could see her magic plainly and Sherman could too. He didn’t look happy about it.
“You too?” he shouted. “Aren’t you sick of it? Sick of being stepped on, used?”
Marie didn’t answer. She couldn’t, continuing to play. Her medallion flashed with white hot light as Sherman attempted to change her into something else. I tried enhancing her notes while creeping closer to her, wishing she’d move away from the edge. But Sherman’s vibrations were far too strong, and he rebuffed her notes with little effort. This wizard was far too angry to be persuaded with song.
It was up to me. “We all feel that way, sometimes,” I said, trying not to flinch when Sherman’s crimson gaze cut across the roof to me. “But it doesn’t mean everyone’s to blame.”
I used a gentle touch to prod at Sherman’s anger. It was intense. This guy got bullied a lot. That drink in the coffee shop had been the final straw in a haystack of transgressions. Everyone had their breaking point.
I tried again to blend my magic with Marie’s Siren song, to bend just a corner of Sherman’s ire. He twitched and hesitated, eyes still locked on me as if I held an answer he was searching for.
Maybe this didn’t have to end badly.
Then, Marie stopped playing. She had decided this was the perfect time to make a speech. “Sherman, I know you didn’t mean it, but this has to stop. The city is suffering.” This is why I don’t partner with hero types.
I stopped listening after the third time she said ‘selfish actions,’ watching as Sherman grew rigid. While she was careful not to accuse Sherman himself of being selfish, it was clear what Marie’s opinion was.
I tried to signal her to stop talking and start playing again, but she ignored me, round face shining with insufferable righteousness. I switched back to Sherman’s emotions, but without Marie’s help, it was obvious I was trying to meddle with his feelings. He noticed what I was doing.
Marie’s heart was in the right place, which is why I lunged in front of her when Sherman grabbed the sides of his head with his hands.
“Stop trying to manipulate me!” he screamed.
A violent gust of wind ripped me off my feet as I shielded Marie, and I tripped over the building’s ledge, body in a weightless plunge to the concrete. Life flashed before my eyes, as it had many times before.
Well, I was right about one thing today.
I was going to die.
They say near-death experiences give you a new perspective on life. You appreciate the little things, live each day to its fullest. Maybe that’s true. I’d only ever had death experiences.
And they weren’t inspiring.
Every mistake, every regret, flashed in my mind; things I’d forgotten about, disputes I had let go of long ago. The loves I lost, the chances I passed up. All the things I could have done and didn’t. Death only ever showed me missed opportunities: seven lifetimes of them. And no matter how hard or how little I tried each time, the result was the same.
Far too many failures, my wins too few.
I woke up with my face smashed on the pavement. You think hangovers are bad? Childbirth? Try coming back to life sometime and then complain to me.
I felt my bones suck back together. Yes, suck. I know what it feels like far better than you do. The harder part wasn’t physical. The most challenging part was mustering up the will to live again. To fight against the weight of a life I found repeatedly inadequate.
A whiff of cinnamon and sugar hit my senses and my insides warmed. A spark of light stirred in my chest.
Marie’s harmonic chords wheezed from above and Sherman continued to howl.
Another life down… I didn’t have many remaining. As my fist balled up in frustration, paper crinkled and my renewed eyes stared in horror at the busted bakery bag, muffin mashed and partially spilling its guts onto the sidewalk.
I could deal with magical tantrums, insufferably optimistic heroes, raining frogs, and even death. What I could not deal with was a perfectly innocent confection wasted for no good reason.
“Sherman!” I roared, cradling the remains of the muffin in the ripped bag.
I reached out with my fury, pulling the wizard’s attention away from Marie. I could feel it the moment he noticed me again, even before I saw his head pop over the building’s rooftop like a looming thundercloud.
“Get down here now!” I insisted with more than just my words, compelling him to listen through his own emotions, enhancing Marie’s soothing Siren song to make him more susceptible.
Sherman complied, floating down, surrounded by his personal storm. The music stopped; Marie leaned over the edge and then disappeared again, hopefully heading for the fire escape.
My ears popped from the grouchy crackling of red electricity as Sherman stared me down. My medallion grew hot as he tried to change me into something I wasn’t. This time, I reached out with my magic to sense his intentions. He wanted me to be less threatening, something that couldn’t tell him what to do. He didn’t like that. But really, few people did.
I shoved the remains of the muffin out to him. “You left something in the coffee shop when you snapped. I don’t hand out recommendations lightly. You abandoned it and now you’ve crushed it.”
Sherman stared at the bag, lightning subsiding as he glanced between my sticky hand and my face. A glimmer of recognition flashed in his eyes.
I kept going. “The least you can do is try it. It’s life-changing.”
The wizard frowned at the mashed mound that used to be a muffin, clearly not keen on the idea, but I used every ounce of magic I had to compel him to hear me out before trying to kill me again.
“It’ll taste just the same, no matter what it looks like,” I assured him.
It wasn’t about the muffin. It was about what the muffin stood for.
A subtle jab at a rude person in line, a small gesture of comradery between strangers, a material balm for wounds that can’t be healed with words or pills. Sure, it was a momentary thing, but wasn’t life made of moments? What did we have but fleeting feelings that shifted with the breeze called life we couldn’t control?
Sherman the Wizard stepped forward and I could feel his magic raking across my skin, electrical branches prickling where they touched, but I didn’t flinch. I pulled in his magic, releasing Marie’s. I wouldn’t be afraid of him. He was just as angry at the world as I was; he just dealt with it differently.
In true wizard form, Sherman didn’t take the muffin remains from my hand: they levitated off my palm and floated over to him. I refrained from asking if he was going to have a leprechaun feed it to him. This wasn’t the time to joke.
Sherman peeled back what remained of the paper bag and lifted the crumbly mess to his face. As he chewed thoughtfully, I noticed a large turquoise stone set in a silver band on his finger. Man, my instincts were good.
The storm cloud encircling Sherman lightened and faded the longer he chewed, dissipating as the red tinge in his eyes vanished. The danger had passed. Now, what kind of wizard was Sherman after the fact?
I could hear Marie panting on the stairs as she lumbered down, but I kept my focus on Sherman. He hadn’t stopped eating, but his shoulders relaxed, and the sky above was clear. I barely noticed the frogs still hopping around our feet.
“You weren’t wrong. It’s really good,” Sherman said softly.
“Imagine what it’s like warmed up and whole,” I said. Sherman grunted. “You get hangry?” I asked.
“Guess so,” Sherman said with his mouth full. “Don’t know what happened. I remember stepping up to get my drink—”
“Maybe just leave it at that for now,” I cut in. “Until you get more food in your belly.”
I kept watching Marie out of the corner of my eye. She’d made it halfway down the stairs, glaring daggers at us. If she was the justice-loving type, which my instincts told me she was, she’d insist that Sherman turn himself in and things could get ugly again.
Wizards didn’t turn themselves in. I had enough experience with that in my now seven lifetimes. After public fits of rage, they usually just changed their appearance and hunkered back into seclusion. Best way to deal with a wizard wasn’t to incarcerate them. It didn’t work, anyway.
It was far better to figure out what calmed them. Most didn’t want to lose their shit every time they got angry. Magic was difficult to control, and wizards possessed an abundance of it. I had a feeling about Sherman. He didn’t seem like a bad guy.
“We might want to move out of the street.” I searched for an escape route. “I can help put things back together, if you want.” He’d need assistance after expending so much of his magic.
Sherman stopped chewing and glanced around him as if seeing his handiwork for the first time. I could taste the guilt.
“Sure.”
The Mean Bean was packed. Rain of a normal variety pattered the windows. Sherman sat across from me at a table near the front of the shop, sipping his unicorn-inspired drink. The city had been fixed weeks ago, but people still glanced nervously at the sky each time it darkened. I didn’t mention it to Sherman, but I could tell he noticed it all the same, shoulders hunched over our small table.
He had shifted his appearance slightly, nose more hawkish, hair a few shades lighter, but I wasn’t the only one who knew who he was.
Marie stepped into the coffee shop, shaking out her umbrella and stepping into the order line. She scanned the morning crowd, hazel eyes settling on me. She gave her normal small frown of disapproval to Sherman and a slight nod to me before turning to stare at the back of the customer in front of her. We didn’t really talk; I kept my distance from hero-types. Bad for my health.
I convinced Marie not to go to the authorities. There hadn’t actually been any casualties. A few victims of Sherman’s transformation magic asked to be reverted to the mythical creature he turned them into. I didn’t ask why, and neither did Sherman.
I ran into Winnie Whines-a-lot once too, but not at The Mean Bean. She chose other places to get her coffee. But waiting in a long line at the grocery store, I didn’t hear a single unsatisfied comment escape her pursed lips.
Sherman watched Marie, a darker cast to his eyes.
“Ever tried therapy?” I asked, peeling back the thin pink liner cupping the bottom half of my muffin.
“Yeah, didn’t work.”
“Maybe try a different one.” Man, was I a hypocrite.
Sherman held up his warm chocolate chip muffin, inspecting it. “I think this is pretty therapeutic itself.”
Which is how I ended up eating muffins with a wizard each morning before 9am. Of all the small things I do to keep this city safe, this one was the most enjoyable.