F3 One Too Many

     Shots of pixie nectar tasted like honeyed rose water, and had absolutely no kick. No burn, no taste whatsoever of alcohol because, well, there wasn't any. It intoxicated worse than absinthe. Most people were off to lala land after two shots. Hardcore could go as high as four. I wasn't hardcore. I was six shots in.
     "Y'know what's wrong with this place?" I told a dwarf who wanted to sip his beer. He didn't look happy that I was still talking to him. Why was that? "It's the damn forests. They're everywhere. And there's two kinds, y'know?" I held up a shot in my left hand. "The good kind, and the bad kind." I lifted another shot in my right. I slugged them both.
     My vision swam, and I could swear I saw actual pixies fluttering around for a moment. They wanted to braid the dwarf's hair. I was fine with that. Maybe it would improve his mood.
     "But, see, it's not just good forest and bad forest. They gotta go and call 'em separate names. Y'know, the Forbidden Forest, Darken Wood, Forest of Despair, Nightmare Wood, Forest of Shadows, Murky Woods, and too many to fucking count. 'S not like the good is any better with the Golden Wood, The Sunshine flying out of my ass Forest, and the Fucking Elven Glade!
     I slammed a hand on the bar. "Another round. The shock went up my arm and through my entire body. My ears rang, tongue suddenly tasted cherries, and ears heard pipes and chittering laughter.
     The pixies rimmed the dwarf's beer, one of them actually dove in, swimming around and spraying beer out of her mouth. The dwarf brought the beer up for another drink. He was going to swallow one of the pixies!
     "Buddy, wait! There are pixies!" I grabbed for the beer, but somehow missed. Instead the mug upended, spilling the beer. Sorry, bud—"
     Dwarves have small fists, but they still hit hard.
     The world faded into black as I stared at the ceiling.
     Pixies flew everywhere.

F3 Gone Fishing

     In the Catskills there's a small lake at the head of a stream. The lake didn't have a name as far as I knew. It was perfect for fishing. It didn't have many fish, which made it all the better for drinking a nice, cold beer.
     Fishing in the Fairy Tale Realms wasn't as peaceful. The fish insisted on biting entirely too much. Why couldn't they understand I wanted a nice nap along with my cold beer. If I actually had a cold beer. Igloo coolers didn't exist in the Realms, so I took my beer coolish after sinking bottles into the water around my little rowboat.

F3 Nimble Fingers

     "So, you want into the racket, eh. Live life out here on the streets, huh?" I put a fresh toothpick between my teeth.
     The kid in front of me nodded vigorously. "Yeah. I'm tough. I can do this. I get right in people's faces. I got no problem staring a guy down with a gun or a knife."

F3 Part of The Plan

     Dying was always part of the plan. Not the smartest part, mind, but necessary. It was one of those things that I would leave out of the plan if I could. Unfortunately I just couldn't make the math work out without dying. I didn't get to go out easy, either. No clever drugs to simulate death. No magic spells that eased my passage. No gently falling asleep and then waking up in the everafter. No, this was going to hurt.

F3 Touch of Magic

     Card tricks. Illusions. Sleight of hand. Daring escapes. Misdirection. Trapdoors. Custom-engineered rigs. All tools of the trade for a magician. So as I made the ball disappear up a sleeve, coins appear out of ears, swap places with an assistant through a door, and even more elaborate, spectacular tricks, I did nothing that a well-practiced magician on Vegas couldn't do. This was not real magic, though many claimed to have that ability.
     Magic was real, though. I never used much, and almost always on a trick most thought they could explain, or at least one that was so ordinary as to not be worth real magic. But the most ordinary circumstances required real magic.

F3 Riding the Lightning

     "You never forget your first time," Jack shouted above the wind.
     Rain soaked and plastered clothing against skin. Trees bowed in obeisance to the storm's fury. The two of us stood waiting at the edge of clouds.
     "There. Aim for that bank." He pointed to another set of grey-black clouds limned with pulses of lightning.
     I poised, ready, feeling the cloud beneath my feet become electric. I reached a hand back, like a runner prepared to receive a baton. Fingers tingled as I flexed them, the energy gathering. I stretched out my other hand aimed directly at the bank Jack had pointed at, creating a channel with my arms. I glanced out the corner of my eye to see Jack doing the same, but he looked more practiced.
     "Ready?" He grinned.
     I swallowed. "Ready."

F3 Famous Face

     "I like it not!" The prince shouted.
     There was a surprise. The plain, brown cloak I held out to him might as well have been plague and lice-riddled rags for the way he looked at it.
     "Listen," the patience in my voice was thin after four times of explaining this, "you want to rescue Princess . . ." my mind fuzzed on the name. There were too many royals in the Realms. "Cleo."
     "The Fair Princess Chloe." The perturbed handsome prince tossed his head back in the way that made his golden hair fly up, but curl back down exactly where it had started.
     "Right. My mistake. The thing is, we don't know where she is."
     "She was taken by a vile—"

F3 In the Shade

     The shade of the pear tree felt wonderful to Arcus. The time for the blossoms perfuming the autumn breeze had long passed, but fruit plump from the ample rain and sun bowed the smaller branches down. Arcus had liberated some of those pears, two cores lay on his right while half a dozen fruit nestled in an open burlap bag on his left. I might just stay here tonight. I can unroll my blanket, and enjoy the pears for breakfast, too.
     "Are you Arcus of Thallory?" Stewards protect me. Not again.
     Arcus pushed up

The Horror of Revision

     I love writing. I love the creative process, and how satisfying it is to look back and say "I wrote that." I feel productive after having done it. It's something measurable and achievable. I can set a goal to write X number of words per day, session, week, whatever. It all adds up in the long run, too.
     Revision is not so fun. It takes a different part of the brain, and is a different skill altogether. I have to somehow merge

F3 Discord

     Chaos. Dissent. Anarchy. Discord. The goddess Eris would sow discord purely for her own pleasure. However, discord is a far more potent weapon to be wasted purely on entertainment. The wise conqueror did not use strength of arms to force his foes into submission. Hitler, Napoleon, Stalin, Khan, and Alexander were inelegant bludgeons. For all their efforts, they have become nothing more than names in a book of history.