So it’s Sunday again, and that means the crossword puzzle, the writing group, and a movie afterward. The crossword wasn’t anything special, although the movie was better than I expected. The new Spider-Man isn’t exactly what I’d call amazing — and it’s usually best in those rarer moments when it’s not treading all too familiar ground — but I found a lot to enjoy about it (particularly Emma Stone and Andrew Garfield). I’m not convinced we needed a Spider-Man reboot, much less a brand new origin story, much less that this brings enough new to the table. But you know, for an afternoon’s entertainment, it wasn’t half bad.
Oh, and the thing I wrote. Here it is:
When the plane landed, the doctor was afraid, and the Magus levitated the orbs.
“Why didn’t you try doing that to the plane?” the doctor asked with a weary laugh. “You could have saved us from all that awful turbulence.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” the Magus said, with the heavy sigh of a man all too accustomed to explaining himself. The twin crystal orbs swirled slowly an inch above the man’s outstretched hand, then fell with a soft plop into his lap as he turned his wrist to read his watch. “Anyway, we made pretty good time.”
“What do you mean it doesn’t work like that?” the doctor asked. “If I had the power to levitate objects, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with a pair of cheap plastic balls.”
“They’re crystal, actually,” said the Magus. “Quite valuable.” He held one up to overhead light, catching its gleam, then polished the orb with the end of his dark velvet robes. Satisfied, he pocketed them both. “And strictly speaking, it’s not levitation. I just…well, let’s just say I help the orbs forget a little bit about gravity for a short while.”
“I don’t understand,” said the doctor.
“Of course not,” said the Magus. “You’re a man of science. And besides, you’re pre-occupied by thoughts of your impending grisly death.” He stared down the aisle toward the front of the plane. “Do you think they’ve put away the drinks cart already?”
“What do you mean?” asked the doctor.
“I mean if it’s going to take this long to taxi to the gate, I wouldn’t mind another ginger ale.”
“No! About my death! Can you — can you see the future?”
“That’s a pretty fancy way of putting what I’m able to do,” said the Magus. He thumbed absently through the in-flight magazine. “I’m mostly just good at reading body language. And you have the bearing of a man about to die a not wholly unexpected violent death.”
“Did somebody send you?” the doctor asked. He was pinned between the Magus and the window, with no escape. Not for the first time, he regretted having passed on the seat next to the emergency exit. “Did Kendrick send you? I didn’t take his money, I promise. I told the FBI nothing!”
“Look,” said the Magus, “it’s not me you have to worry about. I’m just a guy in a velvet cloak with a long white beard and a couple of floating orbs in his pocket. Do I really look like I work for the Chicago mob?”
“Then what are you doing here?” asked the doctor.
“Saving your sorry life, I guess,” said the Magus. “Although until ten minutes ago I was just going on vacation.” He sighed. “Seriously, who do you have to kill around here to get another ginger ale?”
“Oh, sorry,” he told the doctor. “Poor choice of words.”
These weekend things go by way too quickly, don’t they?
