Essence of Rage

It appears I can eliminate my own emotions by merely thinking up a story. Great stuff. This takes place in the same world as that fantasy story, still much in its infancy, and just sorta parallels it in good short story fashion.


The forest in which Robert and Lenora were having a training session may have looked peaceful from the outside, but was certainly not so in the grove where the practice was occurring. Robert didn’t even remember what the lesson had been about, only that it wasn’t clear when he and his mother had started. After a short argument, most birds had fled the immediate area for someplace quieter. Hearing the sound of their own voices, they halted for a moment.
“No, Mother,” Robert said dryly, “it was perfectly obvious from the get-go.”
A glare like he had never seen pierced him. “You have been trying my patience. I’ve endured your little hints and implications for long enough in this conversation. Your disrespect could not be clearer and I will not continue to tolerate it. Do not use that tone of voice with me again. Are we clear?”
“Yes, Mother,” Robert mumbled, staring at the ground. Inside, a seething rage boiled his blood. This woman infuriated him. Didn’t she realize that if she’d asked him, politely, if he had been suggesting something, he would have answered truthfully and this whole thing could have been averted? Too late now.
Excusing himself almost silently, Robert shuffled to a nearby pond, still looking down. The rage was eating him up inside. If he didn’t do something with it, he thought he’d explode. Opening his eyes wide, he tapped into his magic, pulling enough in to almost fill him. He didn’t think he’d need it all; he just wanted the comfort of having it there.
His thoughts gathered all into the rage itself: why it happened, what parts of him thought it was reasonable, and where it had infected. Picking it out, piece by piece, he gathered it in the palm of his hand, pieces twined by bits of magic. Looking at the pond, he thought he could have a little fun with this and try to skip the rage over to the other side. Changing its form into a perfect stone for the job, he chuckled.
The anger he felt was gone, forced into this little rock. Almost lazily he tossed it onto the water.
It sank before skipping even once.
Immediately the water started to bubble and fizz, hissing away madly as it boiled over. Everything with the breath of life in the pond moved itself to the surface immediately. Doing what any reasonable person would do—magic or no magic—Robert ran to a safe distance before seeing a geyser spray into the sky, utterly emptying the pond. After he stopped hearing the pelting of water striking leaves and branches, he walked back to the pond itself. Sitting there, where the bottom of the pond would be if it still existed, was his rock of rage.
Robert was surprised it wasn’t hotter to the touch. As he closed his hand around it, it seeped back into his system, barely noticeable. When it flowed in he swore he heard it say “quenched for now.” His mother eyed him curiously as he walked back over to her.
“What were you doing?” she asked.
“I guess you could call it meditating.”
The sunlight caught his eye through the trees and he sneezed. He didn’t expect a cup’s worth of water to come spraying out his nose.
“And what was that?” his mother asked.
“I…I don’t know,” he said, spitting out some more water.
“Sure,” she said. “Let’s get going; your father and sister are probably waiting for us to get back before they eat dinner.”