Urban Fantasy · Writing


There was a great crash, tumble, and tangle of limbs and bicycle parts. Florence leaped up from her seat on her favorite bench under her favorite tree and dashed into the fray and toward the children lying on the pavement. Thankfully, they had worn their helmets, even if Gary already had a particularly hard head.

“Charity, Gary, hold still, please. Ah-ah, you heard me! Still!” Orders given, Florence knelt next to the children, making a quick assessment of their injuries.

“Shush now, Charity. I know it hurts, m’girl. Give me a second,” she cajoled in her most soothing voice.

Plucking an athelas leaf from her abundant hair, Florence pressed it against the nasty bit of road rash on the little pookah’s shin. There came a soft, golden glow as the dryad’s magic–earth’s warm, cinnamony lifeblood–poured into it and Charity’s wound. The bleeding stopped and the cuts scabbed over immediately.  Florence cleaned it up quickly with some gauze that she produced from somewhere in her voluminous carpetbag of a purse.

“There we go,” Florence cooed, “It’s a start, yeah?”

Charity sniffled and nodded. “Th-thank you,” she muttered, though she winced to say it.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, m’girl.” Florence gave her a cheery smile.

“Are you okay, Charity?” came Gary’s voice, concerned, and the little pookah-girl nodded.

“Okay, up and off ye go.”

Turning to Gary as Charity limped off on her mom’s arm, her dad walking her bike, and both throwing grateful looks over their shoulders at the dryad, Florence then looked over the young satyr who sat holding his arm.

“Well now, young mister, that absolutely didnae go as ye had planned, did it?” Florence questioned, plucking a grey nightingale feather from her hair next.

“No,” Gary mumbled, the pouty pity lip making an appearance.

“Och, now. This was aught but your fault, sir,” Florence retorted, though gently. “Next time, we’ll talk to the lass instead of showin’ off, yeah?”

“Yes, Florence,” Gary replied as she waved the feather over his arm and it disintegrated into a silvery shower. His arm instantly felt better and he flexed it a bit to show her he was okay.

“Now, off with ye, or Coach Nettle will have your hide for being late to baseball practice,” the healer admonished, at which the young satyr hopped back up onto his bike and sped off through the park.

Dusting off her patchwork skirt and adjusting her linen scarf, Florence then rose to her feet and resumed her seat on her favorite bench under her favorite tree–a fifteen times grand-uncle, if you must know. He always told the best stories.



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