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Birdwatching turned out a lot more interesting than he had expected, when Eric noticed a thrush with an aviator helmet and goggles. He watched it attack a model plane that was being flown on the nearby “miniature airfield”. Getting the attention of his parents took so long that the bird brought the plane down meanwhile.
Eric was sorely disappointed they did not even consider going to find the owner of the model plane and ask what they had seen, but dismissed what he said out of hand. As a result, he resolved to save up for a really good camera.

The angels had been standing guard forever, or so I thought before I knew what a sculptor was. As far as I was concerned, they were not algae-encrusted pieces of hewn stone, but magical protectors, making sure the dead rested well, and the living did not get hurt in dreams. I do not know where that idea came from.
By the time vandals smashed one of the pair, I knew better.
And yet,  looking at the shards, I had another idea out of the blue. It woke up. It left the broken pieces, like an eggshell, and flew home.

The dragonslayer peered around warily. He sat on rough stone, and his spear leaned near the entrance of the cavern, out of reach. He had come across dragons that did not take him seriously before, just to cut right through their contempt, but this one’s entirely different tone had triggered instincts too deeply rooted to ignore.
“Don’t be silly, boy. There will be no fighting here. Come have a cup of tea and a bit of a chat.”
He just couldn’t kill anything that sounded exactly like his grandmother, even when the cookies were nearly as hard as the furniture.

He prided himself to be the toughest, most ruthless man in the world, shrugging off torture, ignoring such petty things as morals, and looking forward to breaking Death’s neck. When he was brought to justice, with a record-breaking list of charges, and proud of it, finding a punishment that would faze him was problematic. Death was too easy.
The solution was easy, too, once someone thought of it. They chucked him through a one-way worldgate.
Once he realised the alway-cheerful cute animals made of marshmallow did not mind getting ripped to shreds, he knew he had lost.

On the New Year’s party, Marie received a lot of compliments, all including some form of, “you have lost weight!”, and she smiled through all of them.
When she retreated to the balcony for a bit of solitude she found it occupied already.  The date of someone else’s acquaintance, practically a stranger. He also seemed to be quiet, so that was all good. She leaned on the banister, keeping her distance, and he watched her watch the street.
Eventually he asked, “So, how is your health?”
After the initial shock, Marie all but collapsed with relief that someone cared.

When Nico arrived, Sylvie stared. From Nico’s grin and expectant look, she judged that surprise had been the desired reaction, and asked, “Why is your hair pink?”
“It’s dyed. I won a bet.”
“Won or lost?”
“Won. Someone bet me I wouldn’t dye my hair pink. Didn’t know me as well as he thought he did.”
Taking in the slightly frilly dress, and cat’s ears, Sylvie asked, “And the rest?” They were not going to a costume party.
“Just seemed to go with it well.”
If it was a joke at Nico’s expense, she sure had fun with it, anyway.

Magic, in principle, was easy. He concentrated on what it should do, and made the signs that his intuition told him epitomised the idea. In time he learned that some designs belonged to grand concepts – a circle was “protection”, a rectangle “order”, but a square “containment”. That knowledge was useless when a concept central to a spell refused to connect to a shape he could draw or carve.
The scribbles for “to the other side” had been clear even in a panic, taking him far further than expected.
The problem now was that he did not know what “home” was.

“With a good rifle, I could shoot him from here.” In Nico’s opinion, when you picked sides, you might as well do it properly. “Unfortunately I don’t think they make any here.”
On the way back from the lookout point to the camp, Daaren remarked, “I don’t like guns.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” He had shown pragmatic attitudes to fighting and killing, so moral objections would have been a surprise.
“They are too loud.”
Nico wondered if it was a good or a bad thing that an opportunity to introduce him to the concept of silencers was a long way off.

“All those pills… Don’t you want to try something herbal instead? All that chemistry can’t be good for you.”
“Mum, what do you think photosynthesis is? Magic? It’s really amazing chemistry.”
“But mixing up stuff in a lab, that’s unnatural!”
“Then so would be using a lighter to start a fire, rather than waiting for a lightning strike.”
“You don’t eat fire, though. Dear, herbal remedies are so much better, because they have less side effects–”
“Yes, mum, opium and cocaine are known for their lack of dangerous side effects, sure. And deadly nightshade is a tasty berry.”

Pixies look cute, all right.
They’re not so cute anymore when they decide to redecorate your garden, replacing tomatoes with nightshade, the plastic chairs with toadstools, and apples with dead fish – something about pretty glittering scales, my neighbour thinks. Or when they cut holes into your tyres to turn them into pixie nest boxes.
That’s more than annoying, but then they ate my cat.
I’d been trying to get rid of the gluttonous fleabag for years, but it kept coming back. The pixies hadn’t pissed into my briefcase, so it might turn out a good trade. Maybe even cheaper.