Random Flash Fiction #13

*warning: Everything you read here are works of fiction





No Such Thing as Magic





     The fist came fast and hard and hit Arman's face right on his left cheek.

     He felt the strain in his muscles and the contraction of his face when the force of the blow connected to his skin. He saw his world tumble. He saw the dark brown earth, smelling of rotten eggs and piss slammed to his face.

     But most of all, he saw the grin and smiles of Grom's kids as they watch Grom punched the lights out of him.

     And he cursed the old man and Grom in his head.


     Two Days Earlier.


     Arman and Grom along with Grom's kids, approached the bushes and hid behind it, covering the top of their heads with grasses as cover. They  carefully pushed aside the walls of leaves in front of them to reveal the sight of an old, threadbare hut, alone in the thick of the Han Forest.

     "You sure you saw the old man used Magic?" whispered Grom to Arman.

     Arman nodded and saw Grom turning his attention back to the hut.

     They waited, through morning and noon, enduring heat and mosquitoes out for blood. Grom began to tap his plump finger when he saw the door to the hut creaked open and out came old man Samun, the hermit of Han Forest.

     Arman gulped. He was worried. Not because of what he saw yesterday, but what Grom would do to him if the old man did nothing. So he prayed. For the old man to do the same thing he did yesterday.
"You sure?" asked Grom again.

     Arman nodded, again. They turned their attention back to the old man again and waited, watching the old man as he dragged himself to the rocking chair on the porch of his hut and sat on it, producing his pipe from the pocket of his robe.

     Fire from his fingers.

     That was what Arman saw yesterday.

     He watched intently at the old man as he placed his pipe to his lips and slides his fragile fingers down to the pipe's head.

     Yes, now they'll believe him, thought Arman.

     But then the old man looked around. He shifts his weight to one side and produced a box of matches from his pocket.

     Much to Arman's surprise.

     Arman closes his eyes. He could already feel the anger permeating from Grom and his kids. He could already sense the glares pointing at him. He knew he won't be getting away easily this time. His fingers dug into the earth beneath him and crunched it tight.


     Arman heard Grom spat on his face and felt the warm sticky thing stuck to his cheek. He coughed. His body ached all over. He tasted blood in his mouth and felt warmth oozing out from his nose.

     The loud crunch of boots stepping in the earth behind him told Arman that Grom and his kids had went away. Knowing it's over, for now, he rolled his body around and pushed it back to its feet, regardless of the pain.

     Arman wiped his nose and pinched the blood he saw between his fingers. It would take him days for his body to completely healed again, he thought. He sighed. His thoughts went back three days ago, when he stumbled upon the old man's hut and saw him lit the fire of his pipe with his fingers, without the matches.

     Magic.

     There was no such thing as magic.

     Or at least that's what everyone believed. 

     Arman snapped his fingers and watched them engulfed in fire.