Sturgeon Winthdrop leaned back on his wooden chair and listened to the droplets of rain splash on the tavern’s roof. He promptly ignored the raising of bets and jingling of coins at the card table where he sat. He knew he won, so why pretend? The three other people at the table were bluffing like stubborn children who told their mothers that they were going to run away. And he could read each one of them. The large, hairy man, Marcus, fiddled with his silver wedding ring and stared at the gold in the center of the table instead of his cards. A common tell. Tessa was the muscular woman that sat next to Sturgeon. She was a fantastic liar, but unfortunately her “guard” dog wasn’t. Whenever she was dealt a good hand, Barkus wagged his tail. During bad hands, like this one, he growled quietly enough that only Sturgeon could hear. And Nog, the shorter fourth player? Well, he’s Nog. Nobody was worse at poker than him.
“Screw it,” Nog shouted, shoving his coin purse into the pot. “I’m all in!”
Tessa eyed everyone else. She slid her coin stacks forward. “I’m in, too,” she said. “You scared, Marcus?”
“No,” Marcus replied. Then he flicked his wedding ring into the center. “My momma ain’t raise no quitter. Sturgeon?”
“Your mother was a wise woman,” Sturgeon said. He propped his bony elbows on the minuscule free space that wasn’t covered in coins. Out of the twenty hands dealt he only lost one, and that was because he was more focused on his mystery meat stew than the game. He gestured to his hoard. “Winner takes everything.”
One by one everyone revealed their cards. Marcus placed his cards on the table. He had a measly pair. Tessa threw her cards next to his and shouted. Four of a kind. Nog scratched his head. He put his cards down along with his head. A straight flush.
Tessa stopped. Her smile faded. “What?”
Nog shook his head. “I lost, yeah?”
“Nog, that beats her hand,” Marcus finally said.
“Oh! Then in your beautiful face, Tessa!”
“What a shame,” Sturgeon whispered and rubbed his hairy chin. “This isn’t good.”
“Can’t beat that, eh? I get it.” Nog reached his hand over to Sturgeon’s pile.
He slapped Nog’s baby-hands away with his own cards. A royal flush. “Now that’s how you bluff, you amateurs! He ha hu hi ho!”
“That’s not fair,” Marcus grumbled. “You’re a wizard.”
“It isn’t magic, just skill. Though, I have plenty of both. Oh, don’t be like that, Marc.” Sturgeon tossed the wedding ring back at him. “That probably wouldn’t be worth much anyway.”
Tessa waved her hand, dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. Skill? Pssh. I gotta go anyway. C’mon, Barkus.”
The table dispersed, and over the course of an hour or so Sturgeon counted all of his winnings. He raked the gold into his pillowcase, singing “clickity-clack, get in my sack.” After hefting the bulging sack over his shoulder and putting on his conical hat, he journeyed out of the tavern’s warm hearth into the cool darkness of night. Rain in the city never came in droplets like normal country rain, rather it coalesced into a singular sheet of water that covered everything in a liquid blanket. Lampposts dimly lit the cobblestone path to The Dragon’s Den, the inn the wizard lived in. Underneath one of them sat a crying child. Sturgeon sped his pace as he passed him.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a weak voice behind him.
“Ah, dammit,” Sturgeon muttered under his breath. He walked backwards to the small, muddy child. “I don’t have any money for you, kid.”
With big, teary eyes, the child said, “I’m lost. Can you help me?”
The wizard knelt down. “You have any parents? Well-paid parents?”
“Yes, sir. My papa is the blacksmith for the army.”
“Then of course I can help!” He stood up straight and extended his hand. “Let’s go.”
“Thank you, sir.” The child grabbed his hand.
“Now, where do you li—“ The child shanked him in the side.
In a matter of milliseconds, the pillowcase switched owners. The child stared down at Sturgeon, who placed his hands over the bloody part of his formerly blue robe.
The kid snickered. “You should learn when someone’s lying, mister. You’ll live longer.” Then he signed, sealed, and delivered a swift, sandal-clad kick to the wound before sprinting into an alleyway. Lightning bolts of pain spread from Sturgeon’s side to all over his body.
“That little shiiii-ah ow ow ow,” Sturgeon said to himself as he stood up. “And here I thought I could pay off my wizard college student loans with that. Ow!” The tip of the knife snapped in his skin. He slowly squeezed the metal out into his palm. It was a terrible shiv, meaning that the punk’s father probably wasn’t a freaking blacksmith. Sturgeon felt his blood turn into magma and the rain sizzle on his skin. Metaphorically, of course. He didn’t get that far during his short time at Pinball W. University. Transmutation is a graduate-level skill.
Fortunately (or unfortunately, it really depends how you see it), this wasn’t the first time he had been stabbed. The first time was in a buffet where he got into a scuffle with a bigger woman regarding the ownership of the last three crab legs. He took a vial of red liquid out of his pouch. He removed the cork with his teeth and chugged the contents. It tasted like burnt cherry pie and dandruff, but it mended the hole in his side. His flesh slowly weaved together and the pain subsided. Sturgeon looked at the shard in his hand. While he did not know how to cast flying spells or call down godly meteors from above, he did know how to locate things via magic. He ran to a book shop’s yellow and blue striped awning, shutting his eyes and concentrating really, really hard on the knife tip. In the bottom of the murky lake that was his mind, he saw a faint glow in the vague shape of a knife bobbing up and down about twelve— now thirteen blocks east. As he opened his eyes, he saw an old man standing in the book shop’s doorway. The owner had a worried look on his face.
“What?” Sturgeon asked.
“I’m just making sure you’re not having a stroke,” the old man said.
“Thanks? Did you see where a kid with a large bag of money ran off to?”
“You mean the kid that stabbed you?”
“You saw that? Why didn’t you help me?”
“Yeah, I figured you’d be fine. And you were, before you started having a stroke.”
“Shove off, old man.” He snapped his fingers, hoping to set his hair ablaze. However through a mental mispronunciation, he instead filled the owner’s pockets with frogs. Magical language is tricky that way.
Sturgeon followed the knife of light that remained in his head, his soaked boots sloshing in the rain sleeked roads. The city always had a dirt-brown tone to it. The kind of brown that almost made you want to throw up just to add more color to the city. The water didn’t help its lack of appeal. He reached Salamander Street, a straightaway whose middle just barely touched outside the city square (which was actually a circle). He avoided traveling on that street. Sturgeon hated going on tangents. At the end of the way, the kid sat eating a steaming turkey leg under a scaffolding. But where was the money?
“Hey!” Sturgeon shouted. Like a battery, he charged at the child. The kid dropped his turkey leg onto a wooden plate, jolted up, started to run away, then turned heel and retrieved the leg. Sturgeon picked up the boy by the shirt collar, causing the boy to drop the leg anyway. Before anything could happen involving a stabbing instrument, he rummaged through the kid’s pockets and found the shiv. He tossed it between two dumpsters.
“Where’s my money, gutter rat?”
The ornery child spat in his face. “Up your robe, you twingle.”
Sturgeon recoiled. He’s never been called a twingle before. “You have ten seconds to tell me or you’re in a world of pain.”
“Let me go or I’ll…”
“You’ll what? Stab me?”
The kid bit his hand. Sturgeon felt eight, unbrushed mouth-bones sink into his frail palm. Instinctively, he launched his hand into the small child’s eye. The little one fell down on his back, taking a few scraps of skin in between his teeth. Sturgeon place his hand on the kid’s shoulder.
“Sorry about the punch. But I want my money back. No, no don’t start crying. Oh, stop it.” It was too late. Tears once again flowed from the boy’s eyes like a broken faucet.
“Nog… has… your… stupid money,” he said in between sobs.
“What!?”
“Wot’s goin’ on ‘ere?”
A guardswoman approached the two. She glanced down at a poor youth’s swelling eyelid and the grown man with a bloodied hand.
“You’re comin’ with me, sir.”
Sturgeon stumbled to a full stand. The kid scrambled away from Salamander Street, half-crying and half-cackling. The wizard said, “Ah, dammit. M’am, I was merely trying to get my money.”
“From a ‘ittle boy?”
“Yes! You see, he mugged me and took a large sack of money.”
“Roight. Sir, this would be easier if you’d just come with me.”
“I’m not going back in the cage!” He snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. “Uh…”
Five hundred feet above the scene, a crow merrily flew through the black velvet of night. She was thinking crow thoughts: food, flying, mortgages. Generally, she was having a good crow night. The last thing she thought to see was a small jewelry box spawn from the void and plummet right in front of her flight path.
“Are you done, sir?”
“Shhh!” He was still snapping. “Sorry, this usually doesn’t happen.”
“Alroight, that’s enough.” She stomped over to the wizard. Then, a brown container sent from the heavens shattered upon her helmeted head. Dozens of copper rings and pearl necklaces bounced along the flagstones. She collapsed.
With wide eyes and mouth agape, Sturgeon pressed his ear to her chest. Air was still passing through her lungs. He dragged her under the scaffolding where he found the dust covered turkey drumstick. He picked up the leg, gave it sniff, and shut his eyes. What are the odds, the wizard thought. Just as Sturgeon was able to track the shiv, the shimmering scraps of turkey shown through the gray curtain of the psyche. It moved away until it stopped at the vague area of the docks, and it ran away. That is where Nog lived. With a sigh, Sturgeon shuffled to the harbor.
The rain stopped its relentless assault on the city, as Sturgeon crept through the stacks of crates and barrels. Salty sea air greeted his nose along with the pleasant aroma of dead fish. Behind the stacked cargo stood Nog, hugging the white pillowcase atop a barrel near the water. No kids in sight. In fact, the only sounds he could hear was the crashing of waves and the creaking of ships. No one else was there. He calculated the proper angle needed to hit Nog. With a smile, he chucked the half eaten turkey leg. It hit the barrel next to him.
“Dammit!”
“Come out, Wizard,” Nog said to nobody. “The urchin told me you were visiting!”
“No thanks! Just give me my money back! Why are you even doing this, Nog?”
“Why be good at poker when I can just mug the people who are? C’mon! We can have a better discussion face to face.”
“I’m good!”
“Tell you what! We play one more game! Winner takes all!”
Sturgeon stepped into view and walked toward Nog. “Okay. What’s the game? Blackjack?”
“Dodgebolt!” He pulled out a crossbow from behind the barrel.
A bolt struck through the wizard’s hat. Another one flew through the air, whizzing by his ear. Sturgeon dove behind a row of boxes. Nog skidded around the corner. He squeezed the trigger. The bolt stuck into the wood next to the wizard. Sturgeon swallowed. He shut his eyes and rapidly snapped.
Behind his eyelids, he heard a scream. He opened them and saw where Nog once stood now danced a large ball of fire. His gold still sat on the barrel. The wizard did a pathetic sprint past the mobile fireplace to the pillowcase. Sturgeon embraced the cold sack much like someone reuniting with a missing loved one, squeezing excess water out of the sides. Suddenly, a hot mass rammed into his back. Sturgeon’s world spun then got very salty and blurry. And progressively darker. Nog’s cooked body floated next to him, but it rose up. Or rather Sturgeon was sinking. He looked at the gold in his arms. In the two and a half decades of his life, he never thought that money would be the death of him. He just imagined his demise would be because of a random bear attack or a misplaced stick of lit dynamite.
“Blrah, blammib,” he said as bubbles spewed out of his mouth. He loosened each finger and let the bag of loot sink down the depths. He swam up (rather well, in fact, for a man with no muscle mass) through the ocean’s surface, scrambling up a nearby ladder. He peered down the water, measuring the approximate location of his gold. He reached out a hand, and breathed a lungful of salty air.
“I will see you again, my love.”
Fatigue stuck his body, and he dragged his feet back toward his home. On his way down the rain-slicked roads, two guardsmen and the one guardswoman from before surrounded him.
“This the guy,” one of the guardsmen asked.
“Oh yeah. That’s him alroight,” the guardswoman said, rubbing her head with one hand and holding a broken jewelry box with the other.
“Woah woah!” Sturgeon raised his hands next to his head. “I didn’t do nothing!”
“We have received at least two reports saying that you punched a child and assaulted an officer. Is that nothing, sir?”
“Listen, I can explain,” Sturgeon said with a dry mouth.
“Yeah, yeah. ‘Cuff him.”
Old, iron shackles clapped around his wrists. With a swift hoist, the guardsman lifted Sturgeon, and he was carried toward the local dungeon. And he never saw the gold ever again.
About the Author
I grew up in a little town called Pennsauken which is a stone’s throw away from Camden. I intend on becoming a fiction writer, however, life would most likely turn me into a guidance counselor or something else that isn’t part of the plan. To describe me in three words, I would consider myself as hilarious, skilled, and gorgeous, but others–“realists” is what they like to call themselves–would describe me as delusional, arrogant, and a 5/10 at best. This is my second time my work has been published, but the first time I submitted a fiction piece.
