Plans Change

Wan light remains outside of the tall, steepled windows. The sounds of seven pages of paper turning, shffing against one another at once, form a chorus far louder than any page individual. Faces stare into ink-smudged letters with cold eyes and unmoving lips. One stands apart from all those gathered on the large, silver-trimmed red sofa. In his nervousness, Eustace wrings his hands. It is the only expression shown on his body.
The last letter is traced by the fourteen eyes, and the manuscripts shuffle shut. Like a well-oiled machine, the trail of youths pass them to the left, where Rowena stands and walks to the fireplace. Wordlessly, she deposits the worthless tinder where it belongs, consumed and turning into ash. The ash will have more value.
The edges of Eustace’s mouth twitch, and he feels moisture welling up in his eyes. Gliding on her heels to face him, Rowena and twelve other sets of eyes lock onto him, their disappointment so palpable that it clings to him like sweat. “This,” his sister announces, “Has been the worst thing that I have ever read.”
“Disturbing,” “Gay,” “Remarkably weak prose.” “These names,” “They are so stupid.” “Do us all a favor,” “And never write again.” “Break your pen in half.” “This was such,” “A complete waste of time.”
Their brutal review is like a hammered stake through Eustace’s chest, and the dams break. Tears trickle meekly down his stone-still face. David stands and walks stiffly to stand in front of his brother. He reaches back, and his palm strikes across Eustace’s face, leaving a stinging red mark that breaks for a moment their perfect synchronicity. “A Magus does not cry. Go to your room. Join us in the summoning chamber when you are ready to behave according to your station.”
“I am,” “Most excited brothers and sisters.” “Brothers and sisters, I was thinking,” “Do you think we will receive an archaeologist?” “Or will it be a dinosaur,” “As we hope?” “I trust in our unified purpose.” “Yes, our unified purpose.”
Eustace’s seven siblings march out of the room into the basement, but he runs up to his bedroom. Only when he is finally alone, away from the eyes of his family and the staff the Vice-Chancellor provided for their residence, does Eustace allow himself to cry shudderingly into his pillow. He digs the last copy of his manuscript from his bedside table.
Long Live Glorbonia’. The title of his novel manuscript stares out at him, stinging as much as the red blemish marring his perfectly porcelain white face. A science fiction venture, about a president in the far future, slandered and misunderstood and trapped by his doomed struggle to reclaim his lost nation. A tale steeped in pathos and suffering. His siblings could never understand.
Staring at his words, the more Eustace lingers on them the more he thinks they might be right. Feeling utterly defeated, he lights his beside oil lamp and reluctantly rolls the wad of paper into a tube. Maybe the world would be better off without his masterpiece. Maybe he would be.
Then, something wicked bubbles up inside of him. Eustace pulls the pages back, and smooths them flat on his table. Grabbing his pen, he flips to the back page, where he begins penning fiery words about President Zibblezobble and his famed fossil collection. Including one particular piece.

Unawares, the Godfrey children below lay out their circle in dragon blood. The komodo, of course. Reptilian blood, they felt, would be better to attune their ritual to the desired summoning. At the center of the circle, several fossilized rib bones from the tyrannosaurus rex. Their plan, to summon the tyrant lizard and tame its simple mind with the combined power of their eyes.
What kid wouldn’t want a pet t-rex?
Trickling down from above, a powerful intent poisons the veins of ritual. When the time comes and they gather around, Eustace jogs into the room and takes his place just in time to give the poison direction and focus. His face is dried of tears, but the handprint remains.
All siblings join hands and chant together. “In the name of the Grail, come to your Master. In the name of the Grail, come to your Master. In the name of the Grail, come to your Master.”
Joined together, their otherwise mediocre magic circuits chain power together, catching the background power of the Grail and bringing it into the fossilized bones.
What appears before them is not a tyrannosaurus rex. The description, each of their keen minds realize, matches closely to descriptions they had just read. Tall, grey hair, regal cheekbones with reptilian scales reaching up the sides of his neck. A forked tongue flicks out of his thin lips. Crimson red garments adorn his shoulders, decorated with medals and accolades. A golden crown is atop his head. The wide-eyed madness that is etched across his face is the same as how he was at the climax of the story, in his showdown with the authorities, the culmination of his negative arc. His fall.
Sixteen sets of eyes lock onto one person that steps forward. Eustace looks into one pair of eyes, his own gleaming brilliant white. “We welcome you to the family, Honored President,” he greets, feeling his kin boring holes in the back of his head with their looks. “Let us reclaim Glorbonia.”
President Bobblewobble Zibblezobble sucks in air and inflates his froglike throat, the bulge extending down his chest and popping the top two buttons of his presidential undershirt. The children all tense to leap out of the way of his corrosive acid spit, which they all distinctly remember for how grossly it was described, but instead he releases a long, loud, majestic ribbit. Drawing the presidential gunsword from his scabbard, the president raises his hand. Recognizing the gesture, Eustace kneels. The blade rests upon each shoulder in turn, knighting him Sir Eustace of Glorbonia. He has never felt more honored.

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Pub: 09 Dec 2024 03:15 UTC

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