Fandom: literature? Maybe?
Summary: written for the prompt 'portals'; crackfic
Words: 1536
Kit was holding the feather up with a childish admiration in his eyes. “‘Tis magic, my friend.”
William Shakespeare snorted. “Thou knowest as well as I do that magic does not exist.” He regretted his words as he saw the look on his friend’s face. It was like telling someone who is really passionate about Christmas that it is a feast only enjoyed by the capitalist pigs of this world. Bill frowned. He didn’t understand where that thought had come from. Capitalism wasn’t a word he had encountered before, not in fiction and not on the streets of Britain’s capital. His eyes found the golden feather Kit was holding in his delicate hands, and he found himself drawn to its softness, its feathery-light touch. He shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Not all amongst us are sceptics,” Kit said, an air of superiority drawling from his voice.
Bill rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help himself asking: “What doest thou think is its power?”
Kit smiled. He could see from the glint in his friend’s eyes that the feather had captured his curiosity after all. “I know not.” He held the feather out to his friend, and the moment Bill touched it, Kit could feel himself being lifted off the floor. It was as if the world was disappearing from around them, as if the colours were fading and coming back into focus. He wanted to throw up.
Then as soon as it had started it was over. He felt his two feet firmly on the tiles.
“Kit, my dear fellow, look at that!”
As Kit looked around him, he saw a beautiful sign saying ‘Shakespeare and Company’. “Hast thou seen this in earlier times?”
Bill shook his head. “‘Tis new to me, jolly.” He was awfully pleased to see his name in golden letters.
“This is France,” Kit said. His friend looked at him with a frown on his face, but Kit merely pointed at the guy with glasses and a moustache crossing the street, ten baguettes in his arms. “This must be France.”
“Monsieur! Monsieur!”
Kit held his breath as Bill crossed the street without looking, almost getting hit by – what was that even? The wagons made such horrid sounds.
“Cannest you mir s’il vous plaît raconter où nous sommes?”
“You’re in Paris, you silly man.”
“Paris?” Bill was almost screaming. “Excuse me, sir, but you soundest not very French.”
“That is because he is not French,” Kit said, having caught up with his friend without endangering his life. “I do detect the hint of a Dublin accent, is it not?”
The man smiled. “You’re correct, my friend.” He extended a hand. “The name is James Joyce.”
Bill was ready to extend a hand, but Kit stopped him before he could speak his own name.
“We’re… um… Bert and…” He nodded vigorously to his friend, who still seemed clueless as to what had happened.
“Will –”
“Ernie, this is my friend Ernie. May I inquire as to what year it currently is?” He saw Bill opening his mouth to speak and closing it again, a faint realisation finally dawning upon the man’s thick skull.
James frowned. “It’s the year 1922.” He seemed keen to get away now, confused by the strange question the men posed him. “I’m sorry, I have to go now… I have to… er… feed the dog.” He gestured to the ten baguettes he was still awkwardly holding.
“You hate dogs,” Kit said, and he was unsure why. The feather glowed in his hand.
“Goodbye.”
“The feather is a portal to the future?” Bill asked, his eyes wide.
“Evidently.”
“Cool.”
“Please use words I understand.”
“Excellent good.”
“Better.” Kit frowned. “What do we do now?”
The other’s eyes glinted. “Let’s see where we go next.”
“Bill, I appreciate the feather’s magical powers; however, I am certain we should be careful…”
“Feather, bring us to 1949.”
Kit sighed. If he had learned anything from writing Dr. Faustus this year (no, he had to remind himself, it was not 1592 anymore), it was that all magic comes with a price.
They landed in a familiar place. London. But not London as they knew it. Kit had never seen this part of the city before in his life, even though he recognised the street name. It looked as if the city had been ripped apart and was put back together again. “Sir, what is the year?” he asked the first man who didn’t look completely hostile to him.
“1984,” the man muttered. “It’s always 1984.”
“Looks like your magical feather failed to work that well this time, does it not?” Bill said jovially.
Kit shrugged. “I warned you that –”
“Magical feather thing, please bringest us to 1986.”
Kit buried this head in his hands, and still had his eyes covered when they arrived at their new destination. They were sitting in comfortable seats, and there was a large screen in front of them.
“Is this a theatre? Are we seeing a play? Oh, Kit, this is the real deal.”
“I don’t think –”
A deep manly voice started singing as the screen suddenly showed images. The two men were taken aback by the bright colours and the moving pictures.
“This is magic,” Bill said as he inhaled sharply, watching red roses and a white picket fence appear on the large screen. “This can’t be.”
“Shut up and watch the film, f**kers,” a man yelled at them.
“I want to go,” Kit whispered as he saw a severed ear appear on screen. He grabbed the feather with a newfound terror, the words ‘She wore blue velvet’ haunting his mind.
It was easy to guess where they landed next, a newspaper laid out on a coffee table pronouncing it was the year 1990.
“I don’t feel good about this, Bill. We should go back. What if we get stuck and can’t actually go back.”
“Don’t worry, Kit.” Bill slapped him on the back. “It will be fine.”
“Did you see what I just saw? That isn’t normal.”
“It’s the future.”
“Maybe I don’t want the future.”
A door slammed open. “Who is there? What are you doing in my house?” A man with a paper bag over his head appeared, holding a shotgun in his hands. “Who are you?”
“Bert and Ernie?” Kit tried.
“Oh, you’re fucking hilarious,” the man sneered. “What are you doing in my house? Have you found out what I look like? Have you found pictures? I swear, if you’ve found pictures… I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Who are you, then?” Bill frowned.
The man laughed. “I’m Thomas Pynchon, but you knew that, didn’t you, you little shit!”
“Nice to have met you, Mr. Pynchon,” Bill said, as he grabbed onto the feather and Kit’s arm, leaving a flabbergasted Thomas Pynchon staring into thin air, wondering if there was a word in the dictionary for the strange event that had just happened before his eyes. He put the shotgun down, sat down in his armchair and smiled. If there wasn’t, he got to make up another word, which was always exciting.
Meanwhile, Kit and Bill found themselves in London once again, a completely changed world since they last saw it.
“Oh, a book signing!” Bill yelled, and he dragged Kit with him into the shop. The bookshop was just as huge on the inside as it had looked on the outside, and they found a huge line of people. “I wonder what great author we will find here.”
“We should go home, Bill.” Kit was getting nervous. He knew that something was bound to go wrong at some point. “I don’t want to be in the future. What are all these people even doing?” He gestured to a woman in front of them, who was tapping on a sort of square-looking device.
“Oh, it’s candy crush,” the woman said. “Have you tried it yet?”
The two men were too bedazzled to answer.
The woman shrugged – “Whatever.” – and put two things back into her ears.
“I want to go, Bill.”
“Come on, this might be fun.”
“You don’t even know what this is!”
Another woman started laughing nervously. “It’s a book signing.”
“For which book? What year?”
“Um, 2011…” she said. “It’s for Fifty Shades of Grey. E.L. James.”
Bill and Kit looked at each other. They had entered a new millennium.
“Sounds sophisticated.”
“What is it about?” Kit asked, and he wished he hadn’t.
The two men found themselves fleeing away from the shop, only to find themselves surrounded by hundreds of people, and even louder mechanical carriages.
“1592! PLEASE BRING US TO 1592!”
They landed on the carpet of Kit’s living room with a soft ‘thump’.
Bill laughed. “Okay, I’ll give it to you – that magic is real, man.”
Kit looked simply horrified. “I’m not even sure I want magic anymore.” He didn’t want any of it. He wanted his Early Modern English dialect back.
“Hey, I see you took a souvenir!” Bill grabbed Fifty Shades from his friend’s lap, dangling it in front of Kit’s face.
Kit groaned. He knew magic would come with a price.
Summary: written for the prompt 'portals'; crackfic
Words: 1536
All Magic Comes With A Price
“I like the look of this not.” Bill looked at the object filled with disdain.Kit was holding the feather up with a childish admiration in his eyes. “‘Tis magic, my friend.”
William Shakespeare snorted. “Thou knowest as well as I do that magic does not exist.” He regretted his words as he saw the look on his friend’s face. It was like telling someone who is really passionate about Christmas that it is a feast only enjoyed by the capitalist pigs of this world. Bill frowned. He didn’t understand where that thought had come from. Capitalism wasn’t a word he had encountered before, not in fiction and not on the streets of Britain’s capital. His eyes found the golden feather Kit was holding in his delicate hands, and he found himself drawn to its softness, its feathery-light touch. He shook his head. “Impossible.”
“Not all amongst us are sceptics,” Kit said, an air of superiority drawling from his voice.
Bill rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help himself asking: “What doest thou think is its power?”
Kit smiled. He could see from the glint in his friend’s eyes that the feather had captured his curiosity after all. “I know not.” He held the feather out to his friend, and the moment Bill touched it, Kit could feel himself being lifted off the floor. It was as if the world was disappearing from around them, as if the colours were fading and coming back into focus. He wanted to throw up.
Then as soon as it had started it was over. He felt his two feet firmly on the tiles.
“Kit, my dear fellow, look at that!”
As Kit looked around him, he saw a beautiful sign saying ‘Shakespeare and Company’. “Hast thou seen this in earlier times?”
Bill shook his head. “‘Tis new to me, jolly.” He was awfully pleased to see his name in golden letters.
“This is France,” Kit said. His friend looked at him with a frown on his face, but Kit merely pointed at the guy with glasses and a moustache crossing the street, ten baguettes in his arms. “This must be France.”
“Monsieur! Monsieur!”
Kit held his breath as Bill crossed the street without looking, almost getting hit by – what was that even? The wagons made such horrid sounds.
“Cannest you mir s’il vous plaît raconter où nous sommes?”
“You’re in Paris, you silly man.”
“Paris?” Bill was almost screaming. “Excuse me, sir, but you soundest not very French.”
“That is because he is not French,” Kit said, having caught up with his friend without endangering his life. “I do detect the hint of a Dublin accent, is it not?”
The man smiled. “You’re correct, my friend.” He extended a hand. “The name is James Joyce.”
Bill was ready to extend a hand, but Kit stopped him before he could speak his own name.
“We’re… um… Bert and…” He nodded vigorously to his friend, who still seemed clueless as to what had happened.
“Will –”
“Ernie, this is my friend Ernie. May I inquire as to what year it currently is?” He saw Bill opening his mouth to speak and closing it again, a faint realisation finally dawning upon the man’s thick skull.
James frowned. “It’s the year 1922.” He seemed keen to get away now, confused by the strange question the men posed him. “I’m sorry, I have to go now… I have to… er… feed the dog.” He gestured to the ten baguettes he was still awkwardly holding.
“You hate dogs,” Kit said, and he was unsure why. The feather glowed in his hand.
“Goodbye.”
“The feather is a portal to the future?” Bill asked, his eyes wide.
“Evidently.”
“Cool.”
“Please use words I understand.”
“Excellent good.”
“Better.” Kit frowned. “What do we do now?”
The other’s eyes glinted. “Let’s see where we go next.”
“Bill, I appreciate the feather’s magical powers; however, I am certain we should be careful…”
“Feather, bring us to 1949.”
Kit sighed. If he had learned anything from writing Dr. Faustus this year (no, he had to remind himself, it was not 1592 anymore), it was that all magic comes with a price.
They landed in a familiar place. London. But not London as they knew it. Kit had never seen this part of the city before in his life, even though he recognised the street name. It looked as if the city had been ripped apart and was put back together again. “Sir, what is the year?” he asked the first man who didn’t look completely hostile to him.
“1984,” the man muttered. “It’s always 1984.”
“Looks like your magical feather failed to work that well this time, does it not?” Bill said jovially.
Kit shrugged. “I warned you that –”
“Magical feather thing, please bringest us to 1986.”
Kit buried this head in his hands, and still had his eyes covered when they arrived at their new destination. They were sitting in comfortable seats, and there was a large screen in front of them.
“Is this a theatre? Are we seeing a play? Oh, Kit, this is the real deal.”
“I don’t think –”
A deep manly voice started singing as the screen suddenly showed images. The two men were taken aback by the bright colours and the moving pictures.
“This is magic,” Bill said as he inhaled sharply, watching red roses and a white picket fence appear on the large screen. “This can’t be.”
“Shut up and watch the film, f**kers,” a man yelled at them.
“I want to go,” Kit whispered as he saw a severed ear appear on screen. He grabbed the feather with a newfound terror, the words ‘She wore blue velvet’ haunting his mind.
It was easy to guess where they landed next, a newspaper laid out on a coffee table pronouncing it was the year 1990.
“I don’t feel good about this, Bill. We should go back. What if we get stuck and can’t actually go back.”
“Don’t worry, Kit.” Bill slapped him on the back. “It will be fine.”
“Did you see what I just saw? That isn’t normal.”
“It’s the future.”
“Maybe I don’t want the future.”
A door slammed open. “Who is there? What are you doing in my house?” A man with a paper bag over his head appeared, holding a shotgun in his hands. “Who are you?”
“Bert and Ernie?” Kit tried.
“Oh, you’re fucking hilarious,” the man sneered. “What are you doing in my house? Have you found out what I look like? Have you found pictures? I swear, if you’ve found pictures… I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Who are you, then?” Bill frowned.
The man laughed. “I’m Thomas Pynchon, but you knew that, didn’t you, you little shit!”
“Nice to have met you, Mr. Pynchon,” Bill said, as he grabbed onto the feather and Kit’s arm, leaving a flabbergasted Thomas Pynchon staring into thin air, wondering if there was a word in the dictionary for the strange event that had just happened before his eyes. He put the shotgun down, sat down in his armchair and smiled. If there wasn’t, he got to make up another word, which was always exciting.
Meanwhile, Kit and Bill found themselves in London once again, a completely changed world since they last saw it.
“Oh, a book signing!” Bill yelled, and he dragged Kit with him into the shop. The bookshop was just as huge on the inside as it had looked on the outside, and they found a huge line of people. “I wonder what great author we will find here.”
“We should go home, Bill.” Kit was getting nervous. He knew that something was bound to go wrong at some point. “I don’t want to be in the future. What are all these people even doing?” He gestured to a woman in front of them, who was tapping on a sort of square-looking device.
“Oh, it’s candy crush,” the woman said. “Have you tried it yet?”
The two men were too bedazzled to answer.
The woman shrugged – “Whatever.” – and put two things back into her ears.
“I want to go, Bill.”
“Come on, this might be fun.”
“You don’t even know what this is!”
Another woman started laughing nervously. “It’s a book signing.”
“For which book? What year?”
“Um, 2011…” she said. “It’s for Fifty Shades of Grey. E.L. James.”
Bill and Kit looked at each other. They had entered a new millennium.
“Sounds sophisticated.”
“What is it about?” Kit asked, and he wished he hadn’t.
The two men found themselves fleeing away from the shop, only to find themselves surrounded by hundreds of people, and even louder mechanical carriages.
“1592! PLEASE BRING US TO 1592!”
They landed on the carpet of Kit’s living room with a soft ‘thump’.
Bill laughed. “Okay, I’ll give it to you – that magic is real, man.”
Kit looked simply horrified. “I’m not even sure I want magic anymore.” He didn’t want any of it. He wanted his Early Modern English dialect back.
“Hey, I see you took a souvenir!” Bill grabbed Fifty Shades from his friend’s lap, dangling it in front of Kit’s face.
Kit groaned. He knew magic would come with a price.
![[+]](https://nomaj.nl/images/emerald/collapse_collapsed.png)