The Petty Warlock

“Bring me my grimoire,” the old warlock said.

“Right away, master,” replied the demon. “What spell shall we cast?”

“A powerful curse. Something truly wicked.”

He flipped open the old tome and ran his finger down its pages. He needed something that involved flames, destruction, maybe even pestilence.

“Who is the intended target, my master?” the demon asked.

“It’s that little brat who rides his bike in my driveway.”

The demon looked puzzled. “Is that illegal in your realm, sir?”

“Illegal?  What do you care? You’re a demon. We’re evil! And, no, it’s not, but I’ve told him time and again to cease,” the warlock said.

“I see.” The demon’s slender finger pointed to a spell. “How about this one, master?”

“Minor digestive disruption? That’s all?  A tummy ache? I want flames! I want a kaboom!” the warlock said as he gestured wildly and made whooshing noises.

The demon tilted his head and peered out the window. “Is that him there, sir?”

A little boy had parked his bike on the sidewalk and unpacked a box of chalk from his backpack.

“That’s the little devil,” the warlock said. He put his feet in his slippers and stormed outside shouting profanities. The boy stood still and watched the temper tantrum for a moment before returning to his chalking.

“Rotten child. I will see his demise,” the warlock said.

The warlock looked at his wrist, which had started beeping. It was 6:30. “Wheel of Fortune is starting, demon. After that, we will find the proper curse to destroy the boy,” he said.

“Very well, master,” the demon said.

It pretended to read the grimoire and then folded the book closed once he heard the old man shouting letters at the TV.

🔬📖 Microfiction entry for 12.10.2020