New York City 1877
Max had always loved playing with golems. The moment Ira had told him about the small clay men, whose magic came from spells written on paper. The written word had always had power, at least in Max's life. He taught his mother english in their kitchen, his schoolwork crumpled and messy. His mother had always told him that she was spending the money on his books and schooling because no one would believe in him if he sounded like her. So he borrowed all the books from the school and from the neighbors and from his grandmother. Max read them all, not just because he enjoyed it, but because he needed the words. He spoke so strongly and used his words with confidence but he never tried to hide his accent. Because his accent was part of him, just as much as his white, British father's last name was a part of him.
Ira told him that the words he put on the paper, the words that gave the golem magic were up to him, as long as it was powerful enough to sustain life. So he wrote the most magical thing he could think of and he folded it tightly before tucking it into the crude clay man's chest.
YOU ARE READING
Inkling
FantasyThere is magic in this world. Magic which Max Wayde will use (on purpose or not) to mess up everything. Knowing he will face grave consequences for a mistake, Max sets off on a quest to right a wrong - only to find himself in the middle of a plot gr...
