Magic Wand Chair Novels & Stories

There was a chair he’d been working on when they met — an old Windsor, missing two spindles, the seat cracked along the grain. He showed her its before-state in a photograph on his phone: a sad, listing thing, left at a curb somewhere in the county. By November it was done.

I want to avoid Mysterio's watchful eye so I make my way to the corner of my room where a chaise sat, but of course, his light blue hues drew me in to where he was now sitting on a chair of his own against the door. It's such an obnoxiously large chair that I’m not sure where he actually got it from. It certainly wasn't in here when we arrived, but there he is, draped over it like a lazy prince as he toys with a stick in his mouth.

The guests beneath the stage were all seated, and they locked their gazes on them as soon as they appeared. Trevor took the lead and sat down on the big, red, wooden chair in the middle of the stage. One shouldn't dismiss the fact that this was no ordinary chair, as it was made of fine rosewood. Usually, it was never brought out and was stored away, but it was moved out for the sake of making sure that the event that day was grand and respectable. Moreover, in order to protect the chair, they sent two security guards to move each particular chair. Marissa also sat down on a smaller, expensive chair that was made of ebony.

Cain's hand closed over my wrist before I touched it. "Wait," he said. I looked at him. "The other chair holds a part of the eight-hundred-year woman," he said. "Kept alive across centuries to be a living continuity. If this chair is built the same way, sitting in it is not a small gesture. We do not know what it does or who it is meant for. I am not willing to let you find out by simply trying it." I looked at the chair. At Cain's hand on my wrist. At the mural, with its sixth uncertain figure.

If they think that they are going to get anywhere this way then they are very much mistaken. With a flick of my wrist, I use my earth magic and cause all of the chairs to resituate themselves so that we are surrounding a round table with me joining them as well. They all gasp as I walk towards my empty chair. As I take a seat, I look around at each of them.

"If you would kindly get our newcomers comfortable so I can go over the little presentation I have prepared for them. I would be ever so much obliged. Thanks so much." I watched as one Sentinel held onto the shoulders of each newcomer while the other Sentinel was sure to place one buckle on their lap. However, the buckle did not look like your average buckle. Once the lap belt was in place, the Sentinel standing behind them grabbed two straps that were placed there and the other Sentinel grabbed one which was hanging between their feet. All the buckles were fastened swiftly so there was no complaining or an attempt to get out of their chairs. The next part was my favorite. I moved my foot an

It spun rapidly, making me jump back and blink. What the hell! Slowly, the chair whirled to a stop, and my eyes widened. The desk chair was as clean as if it had been washed. I approached slowly and touched it again, and nothing happened. Did my magic do that? Or was it another strange surprise that this vault comes with?

The stale air—a mix of musty smells of abandoned books and aged wood—ran out as though it had been seeking freedom, ambushing my nose. Without haste, before Uncle Niall could think of it, let alone do it, I forged ahead and sank into my father’s chair. It wasn’t like a regular black swivel chair found in the office, but a tufted chair, its frame refinished in a black lacquer paint and reupholstered in high-end tufted black leather. The backrest stretched long and an intricate design was carved atop it, making the chair seem like it wore a crown. It didn’t feel like a normal business chair; it felt like a throne.

The furious Mac kicked a chair as he spoke. The yellow flower pear wood chair shattered into pieces almost immediately. Mac was clearly a skillful man. Harvey watched everything calmly before taking a sip of his tea. “Did your mother never teach you not to touch other people’s things as you please?” “My chair cost fifteen million dollars.” “How are you planning to pay me back?”

She slams the wardrobe door shut with the back of her leg and pushes me to an adjoining room. Here, the walls are pristine white, a stark contrast to the burst of colours in her other room. It is much smaller too, probably a quarter the size of her bedroom. Medical equipment lines one side of the cabinet wall, while the other is filled with bottles of various healing liquids. And in the very centre of the room is a high-back chair. Wanda eases me into it. I lean forward, elbows on my knees and face in my hands. A tear drops, then another.