Casual Heroing

Original Length: 1042 words.

Post Revision Length: 1385 words.

Many people would lose their marbles in my situation, and who am I to blame them? But here’s the critical difference between them and me. They dismiss luck as superstition and would never act in a way or another because they thought ‘this might actually be not a good idea for me because of my lack of luck.’

Instead, I am a staunch supporter of superstitious practices and luck. Why? Rationally, if luck doesn’t exist, it’s not really a problem now, is it? But what if luck does exist? Well, better be prepared!

For once, I had almost thought I could have had something nice, that my mistress luck was about to remove its pointy heels from my battered chest. But it was just a fool’s dream. Cool, wholesome, bookish subway girl and me? Yeah, sure. What’s next? Miss Universe asking if I can be her booty call?

Come on.

And it’s not that my confidence is low because I’m not good-looking. As I always explained to my mother, the only reason I got laid is that I somehow look good and can pull some shameless moves. How? Well, most human beings would be afraid of being so cheesy and idiotic. But when you really do it, women do get swept off their feet. Or they laugh at you. Let’s say it’s pretty much fifty-fifty. Maybe forty-sixty, but I’m digressing.

The most important thing, buddy, is to factor in the slap risk. It’s a ten percent chance of getting a slap when you pull a move in the wrong context or, most likely, on the wrong woman. As there are crazy men, there is an equal number of crazy women out there. Better be prepared for anything because you never know what could come your way.

And I always had a higher slap risk than your average Joe precisely because of luck. So, even when I see a beautiful woman who could be interested in me, I try to be careful.

Now, in fact, I simply apply my dating mindset to the current situation I’m in. Yeah, yeah, I am in front of a perfectly arranged treasure hoard that could give Pixar animators a run for their money. So how does dating apply to this?

Well, this is the equivalent of Miss Universe giving me a booty-call, isn’t it? And you think I would fall for it? Think again, pal, because if I started touching something, a colossal dragon would pop up and roast me right there. Maybe the dragon would first do so metaphorically, and only after a good bout of insults, literally.

I notice that I am incredibly close to a very thick tome that looks magical. Now, one could say that it doesn’t really look magical, but that the word magical is actually on the cover.

“Magical Theory – The Omnium Compendium. Sound a bit pretentious, if I have to be honest.”

And for a moment, I forget the most essential rule because this book is not just like Miss Universe, but it’s like a Miss Universe paired with a massive caboose on her. While I successfully ignored the rest of the riches around me, something

pulls me toward that book, and an insane idea starts brewing in my mind. It’s the idea that I could touch that tome without consequences.

It’s just too enticing. And so, taken by the magnetism of the book – maybe because deep down everyone dreams to wake up with magical powers – I turn the book to its first page.

At this point, do I really have to say what happened next? Like, is it even necessary? Come on, we all know it.

As Lady Luck usually wills it, a dimensional rift – or simply a tear in the space-time continuum of reality, you could say – opens below my feet and the book. And it does what a massive crack in the fabric of the universe does: it swallows us both.

Well, I might as well die torn apart into billions and billions of atoms while my real essence turns to nothing more than universal mush. I just wish I could have met Selena Gomez before dying and—

I land on my ass, with the book on my knees.

“Huh, that’s something,” I nod toward the book, giving the artifact my approval for not having turned me into molecular dust.

I look around. It seems I’m outside some sort of a medieval city with walls and a gate with a long queue. The walls look very neat and clean. Actually, those rocks look too clean for the current setting. Who lives there, some cleaning freaks?

I stare at the people in the queue while scratching my chin and squinting my eyes. There’s something that feels distinctly wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it.

What is all this sun in my eyes, anyway?! What the hell?! Shouldn’t these dimensional jumps bring me somewhere dangerous in the middle of the night? I was expecting to be dumped in the land of the dead or something, with zombies, skeletons, and mad necromancers all around! I mean, I can understand the creepy treasure hoard, but this?

There’s even a little bird that lands near me and starts chirping.

Come on, Lady Luck, we both know where this is going. Who’s this bird, huh? Is it going to transform into a giant monster and tear me apart?

The little bird, what looks like a puffy blue sparrow, lands on top of the tome and chirps cheerfully again, almost happy to see me. That is, obviously, until the tome disintegrates the poor creature with some obscure spell.

Blasted into oblivion.

“Well, that’s more like it,” I pat the book, agreeing with it on the tone we should give to my life’s tale.

No chirping birds in my apocalyptic adventure, thank-you-very-much.

With the book under my armpit, I start making my way toward the gate. Not much I can do without a—

HOLY SHIT.

HOLY SHIT.

OH NO.

OH NO. PLEASE. NONONONO.

THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING.

I take a better look at the people queueing in front of me, and I see what gave the feeling that something was out of place.

They are not humans.

Oh, okay, they are not humans.

They are the most vile and spiteful creatures a goddamn British writer came up with!

They are Elves!

“Oh. My. God,” I make a U-turn and start walking away from those wretched things when, as a suspicious human in a city full of Elves, I get the shout.

I don’t know if you have ever been stopped by the police while doing something untoward, like urinating in a public place, speeding a red light, or telling a woman that she’s the spitting image of your mom.

“HEY! YOU!”

Those two words are pronounced with the same distinct cadence in two different worlds, it seems. And I hear sprinting heavy steps right after.

Here we go. What’s worse than Elves, you might ask? Well, besides French people, only Elven Police, I guess.

“Hello, gentlemen, how may I help you?” I greet them with a radiant smile, so big that the two tall and armored Elves almost recoil.

“Ahem,” one of them quickly tries to recompose himself. “We are not used to humans coming here—”

They speak English, I realize after a second. The book cover, too, was in English, wasn’t it? I mean, if I read it, it must have been.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. If you could point me to the nearest human city, I will be going immediately.”

The two look at me like I’m an idiot.

The nearest human city is probably on another continent or something like that, isn’t it?

“The nearest human city is on another continent, Human.”

Isn’t that lovely?

“And we are at war with them,” the other guard adds while resting a hand on the elaborate hilt of his sword.

Well, I hope that Elven prisons look good. As long as they don’t force me to eat a vegetarian diet or anything of the sort, I’m good with doing some time before I figure out the rest. But knowing my relationship with Lady Luck, I'm in for a hell of a lot of broccoli, aren’t I?