Enchanted Aisle

Flash fiction about a small-town shopkeeper who discovers an ancient book, plus an update in the Author’s Note section.

Maplewood was a small, quiet town tucked between cornfields and rolling hills. A quaint little shop, Curiosities & Crafts, sat near the town’s center.

The store contained unique items, from hand-painted mugs to mysterious trinkets.

The owner, a middle-aged man named Harold Miller, had run the shop for nearly twenty years, living a simple life filled with routine.

One rainy afternoon, as Harold cleaned and rearranged a shelf of dusty books, he stumbled upon an ancient-looking tome bound in cracked leather. Two worn ceramic gnomes held it in place. Curious, he pulled it out, a cloud of dust swirling around him. Faded gold letters embossed the title, Secrets of the Arcane.

“Who on earth would put this here?” he said, flipping through the pages filled with strange symbols and sketches of mystical creatures. He chuckled, thinking it was just an old fantasy novel, but something about it felt different.

As he returned the item, he felt a jolt of energy—like standing at the edge of a storm, where the air crackles with electric anticipation. It began in his core as a sudden spark, igniting his senses, sending waves of warmth surging through his veins and spreading through his chest. His fingers tingled. Harold blinked, staring at the book and then around the shop. Everything seemed brighter, more vivid.

“Hey, Harold, you in here?”

Soaked from the rain, Liz Jenkins, the town librarian, called out as she opened the door with its little bell.

“Yeah, just found something interesting,” Harold said, forcing a smile.

Liz wandered over, her grey curls tucked under the hood of a worn raincoat.

“What did you find? Another gnome?”

“Something like that.”

Harold chuckled, trying to shake off the strange sensation.

“Just an old book.”

“Better not let it get too dusty,” she teased, eyeing the tome. “I’ve got a feeling there’s more magic in those pages than you think.”

Harold laughed lightly, but as Liz turned to peruse the hand-knit scarves, he felt the urge to explore the book’s contents further. He flipped to a page with a strange diagram and read aloud words in another language. The words rolled off his tongue like a melody he never knew he could sing.

Liz glanced back, her brow furrowed.

“Harold, what are you doing?”

“I—uh—don’t know,” he said. “Just reading, I guess.”

Suddenly, the lights in the shop flickered. Harold’s heart raced. Was it a power surge? But as he looked around, he noticed the shelves shimmering, a soft glow surrounding the items.

“Harold!” Liz said, her eyes wide. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know!” he said, panic rising in his chest, although deep down a spark of excitement danced in his belly.

While concentrating on a dusty old lantern overhead, he imagined its glow lighting up the room. It flickered to life, to his shock, casting a warm glow across the room.

“Did you just do that?” Liz said, her voice trembling with awe.

Harold’s mind raced.

“I think I did. But how?”

“Maybe the book,” she said, her eyes darting between the tome and Harold. “It must have some sort of spell in it.”

Emboldened, Harold experimented, his voice gaining confidence as he recited more phrases from the book. With each phrase, items around the shop responded—knick-knacks danced, a nearby broom swept, and the old radio crackled to life, playing a soft tune that seemed to echo his newfound powers.

Liz clapped her hands in delight.

“Harold, this is incredible! You’re like—a wizard!”

He couldn’t help but laugh, the sound mingling with the music. “A wizard in a small-town shop,” he said, looking around at the wonder unfolding before him.

But as quickly as the excitement built, uncertainty washed over him. What did this mean? What could he do with such power? Would it change him? Change the town?

Liz, sensing his hesitation, placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You have a gift, Harold. Just be careful how you use it.”

Harold always felt a pull to venture beyond, to explore. Could this book be his passport to other worlds? He glanced at the book.

“Well, I guess I have some decisions to make. Meanwhile, let’s keep this between us.”

“Of course, Harold. Just remember, every magic comes with a price.”

With a nod, Harold took a deep breath, feeling the moment’s weight. The possibilities stretched before him like an uncharted road.

As Liz left, Harold stared out the window at the rain-soaked streets of Maplewood, the world suddenly full of color and promise. He knew he had the power to change everything, but the question lingered in the air: would he, should he?

With that thought hanging like a spell, the shop filled with light, waiting for Harold to decide how to wield his newfound magic.

As days passed, Harold wrestled with the idea of his new powers—the ability to read the grimoire’s words and phrases, to cast spells.

In the shop’s quiet, he contemplated the book of spells, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him.

“What if I’m not ready for this?” he muttered, glancing at the dusty shelves filled with trinkets. The thought of causing chaos loomed large in his mind.

One morning, after a particularly unsettling dream, he opened the grimoire with trembling hands. The aura of his dream still enveloped him. It had been a dark dream about using his powers to seek revenge against those who had belittled and overlooked him, to make them fear him.

That afternoon, Liz visited, sensing his turmoil.

“You seem troubled, Harold. What’s going on?”

“I found this magic, but I fear what it could unleash,” he said. “What if I hurt someone?”

“Magic can be a double-edged sword,” she said thoughtfully. “But it can also heal. You have the power to choose.”

“Choose how?” he asked, feeling lost.

“Focus on the good, Harold. Use it to uplift, to bring joy, not fear,” she urged gently.

Taking a deep breath, he nodded slowly.

“You’re right. I'll focus on the good, but I must be careful.”

After a restless night, Harold awoke with the sun filtering through the windows of his apartment above the shop. Determined to embrace his magic, he brewed a pot of coffee and flipped through the grimoire.

“This is my chance to do something meaningful,” he said to himself, excitement bubbling within him.

That morning, he filled pots with potting soil, sprinkled various seeds in each, and placed them around the shop. Then he gathered a few townspeople, including Liz Jenkins, at the shop.

“I have something special to share,” he announced, heart pounding. As he showed a simple spell that made flowers bloom in winter, the pots he had placed all around the shop filled with the smell and vibrant colors of summer flowers. Gasps of wonder filled the room.

“Wow! You can really do that?” Pete Weber, the florist, asked, his eyes wide with amazement.

“Yes! And I want to share more.”

Harold hosted enchanting gatherings over the next few weeks, where laughter and joy flourished alongside his magic. Children danced as he conjured glowing orbs of light, and the townsfolk marveled at the surrounding beauty.

“You’ve turned this place into a sanctuary,” Liz said one evening, her voice warm and welcoming.

Harold smiled, feeling a sense of belonging he had never known. He realized his powers weren’t just about magic—they were about connection, community, and spreading joy, lighting up Maplewood in ways he had never imagined.

Author’s Note

When I started writing this fantasy a year ago, I envisioned weaving a tale steeped in horror or speculative fiction.

Fast-forward to today, and I have a confession: I’m struggling to dive into the darker corners of my imagination. While my poetry flows freely, often feeling like it originates from a realm beyond my reach, conjuring scenes of horror and darkness feels like an arduous task.

Perhaps it’s the weight of my emotions that has me yearning for lighter themes. I’ve been wrestling with something I can’t quite name—could it be anticipatory grief? Some days, the harsh realities of the world are suffocating.

In part, I mean the current turmoil by the U.S. regime. Still, on a more personal level, I’m navigating the heartbreaking decline of my mother-in-law, a vibrant woman whose spirit is dimming under the shadow of illness.

As we watch her transform from a lively presence into a fragile figure ravaged by cancer’s cruel grasp—whittled down to painful grimaces, succumbing to the indignities that come with being bedridden—it feels like a slow-motion loss.

My husband and I mourn her transformation and the remarkable person she once was. We opted for in-home hospice care. With that, we hope to relieve her pain and ensure she is as comfortable as possible in familiar surroundings.

Yet amidst this heaviness, nature offers me a sanctuary. As I wander along the edges of the woods, I find solace in the rhythmic dance of fern fronds, the intriguing shapes of various mushrooms, and the delicate blooms of tiny plants, like the five-spot and ghost plant, that are just revealing themselves. I also tread carefully to avoid disturbing the little frogs and toads. In this setting, I feel a connection that momentarily eases my burden.

Why did I tell you this? I wanted to take a moment to share something personal with you. I’ve been a bit quiet lately when it comes to engaging with Substack subscriptions and comments, and I sincerely apologize for that. I truly appreciate your patience as I navigate through this challenging time. Your understanding means the world to me, and I’m looking forward to catching up with all of you soon!

Upcoming…

• May’s writing prompt:

  One Hundred-Word Wonders, 21 May 2025

  For those who want a head start, this month’s prompt is SEIZE THE MOMENT. Write in exactly 100 words, a story, poem, or creative non-fiction in any genre, using the prompt. Pieces should be exactly 100 words, no more or less. The 100-word count does not include the title. Hold your piece until the 21st!

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