When the pearlescent blue liquid fizzed, Able’s nose caught the faint fragrance of fresh bread before the froth ignited in an explosion. The young gnome flew back through the air into a pile of discarded paper. He coughed, ears ringing. Around him, sparkles of blue and pink burst and hissed.
Light bloomed in his peripheral vision and Able turned his throbbing head to see a taller, older gnome thrust the workshop door open, panic on her round face.
As fast as Able’s heart sank, the panic morphed into a mixture of anger and worry. In quick strides, his mother crossed the ruins of the glass beakers and most of the table and knelt next to him. Her lips moved and he made out, “Are you hurt?” as she prodded his arms and torso in brisk examination. Shaking his head, Able winced. The ringing in his ears increased with a rising pain and warm fluid trickled down the right side of his jaw.
Continuing to glare at him, his mother cradled the side of his face in one warm, callused hand. Her grey eyes closed and her lips moved in words he could not hear nor identify. She raised her other hand and snapped her fingers next to his ear.
The click returned sound with full force; Able jerked his head away at the sudden roar of atmosphere. The bleeding ceased, the pain lessening but not ceasing entirely.
“Able Kingsage,” his mother did not shout. Able’s stomach curdled at her quiet tone and he dropped his gaze. She turned his chin up to stare into his eyes. No glare remained, her expression now disappointed. “What have I told you about going into Gramfer’s workshop?”
Elk Writer 