By J. L. Thurston

Author’s Note
This is an excerpt from a novel I’ve been working on for the last several years. It lost a competition, wherein an editor criticized it as being “A much darker version of Harry Potter.” I may not have won a competition because of that, but I am still quite proud to have written something that compares to one of the best-selling series of all time. Without further introduction, I’d like to show you a small piece of the novel Dark Flowers.

MR. WISE APPEARS IN THE DOORWAY AND FOR A TERRIBLE MOMENT I CONSIDER LIGHTING HIM ON FIRE. Just as the first two times I’d seen him, he is dressed in a black suit, the kind that would be worn to a funeral. He pastes on a toothless grin, revealing his rounded cheekbones that would baby his face if it weren’t for the devilishly high pointed eyebrows. This creepy visage is aimed at me.

My backpack heavier than it has ever been, I turn to Goldie. She’s already wrapping her long arms around me. There’s flour brushed on her cheek and I catch a glimpse of a bay leaf stuck in her black curls. A place just beneath my sternum pangs when I realize I’ll miss how she smells.

“Come visit me,” she whispers in my ear.

I give her an extra squeeze and release her. I don’t make any promises. Going away with Mr. Wise is a complete mystery to me. I know he’s going to take me to Sterling, but I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to come and go as I please. I wasn’t even given much of a choice in the matter, so I know the future could mean my precious, hard-won freedom could be ripped from me.

I face Mr. Wise with the hardest scowl I can manage. He’s not effected, and extends a hand to me. My skin crawls when I take it. His hand is soft, his nails perfectly manicured. I turn to say goodbye and suddenly I’m facing a busy Chicago street, cool air breezing by me.

It was my first time being teleported, and I braced for it too late. But nothing happens. I don’t feel a thing save for the drop in temperature.

Mr. Wise releases my hand. We are standing on a broken sidewalk, facing a large building. It’s midnight and the city lights don’t permeate the darkness enough for me to see the building correctly. I squint, but it seems I’m trying to peer through shadows. From what I can see, we’re standing in front of an abandoned mansion. It stretches up and outward and I get a feeling like it’s leering down at me.

A faint light is glowing from one of the large windows on the ground floor. Someone’s home.

“Is this,” I can’t help but cast a look to the massive shack. “Sterling?”

Mr. Wise strolls forward, and we pass beneath a black metal arbor. Instantly, I am able to see much clearer. The heavy darkness has been lifted and the city lights reveal much more destitution than I originally had judged. More lights are glowing through the many cracked windows. I can see movement inside. I smell dust and dirt and look down. The yard is barren, made of dirt and dead grass. Skeletons of shrubs line the fence. Nothing lives here.

We walk up some cement steps to an arched doorway. Wires hang from above where once was a light fixture. The paint peels off the wide door. When Mr. Wise pushes it open. It is as though he has broken through a seal. Wind gushes outward and I’m assaulted by sound.

“Africa” by Toto blares as though the epic song is being revived yet again. Mr. Wise is pursing his lips, sucking an invisible lemon. He strolls through the entryway and an expansive sitting room opens up before us.

I immediately understand that Sterling was once a hotel. The sitting room had typical hotel lobby patterned carpet, though it was rather dirty and frayed. The large windows must have looked out onto a gorgeous view of the city, but now I can only see the dead bushes and the condensed traffic of the street. A sweeping staircase rises up until it disappears into the cracked ceiling, a battle-worn wooden reception desk remains standing near the stairs. Cubbies built into the wall for mail or room keys housed nothing but spiders. The walls are crumbling, wood studs exposed behind holes in the walls.

If the state of things weren’t distraction enough, I am utterly baffled by the other witches awake and active in the lobby. My attention is drawn to a portly guy with a grisly beard and long wavy hair. He wears only boxers and a single shoe. He’s staring up at the ceiling where his other shoe is floating around in lazy circles.

Sitting on the floor in front of the reception desk is a middle-aged woman with a bag of oranges in her lap. She’s stabbing an orange over and over with clove stems. With every stab the air ripples with magic. After about ten stabs she hurls the orange against the wall as hard as she can. Nothing happens. She glares at the mess and grabs another orange to start again.

A witch standing by the cubby holes drinks from a stein and marks the wall with a dash every time she swallows, another witch holds an object in her hands that keeps changing into different things in rapid succession. Straw, disc, card, bell, candy, mouse, lamp. I’m amazed, but the witch is frowning with disappointment.

“This place is a zoo,” I say, turning to Mr. Wise, but he’s walking away from me. Heading down the hall that leads passed the stairs. There’s graffiti along the wall. Abandon all hope.