El Mago (Writephoto)

Inspired by and written for #Writephoto – thank you, KL

Form: Flash Fiction

It had been decades, or even a century or more since the light had shone from the windows of the Castillo de Portento. There had been no music, no dancing, and no fun since Felipe had left, swearing he would never return.

Still, there was no music nor was there dancing but the local villagers could see the orange reflections of light on the overgrown courtyard coming from what used to be Felipe’s quarters. Had the dark sardonic magician they still call El Mago returned?

Nothing was heard over the following days but the villagers noted the courtyard of the Castillo had been returned to its former glory and the columns of the verandas were no longer so old looking and seemed to shine fresh with white. The vines could be seen weaving their way over the trellis providing shelter like they did in the old days.

On the Saturday posters appeared in the village announcing “Noche del Tango.” The older villagers started to murmur “It has to be El Mago.” Even Esteban, the village’s oldest resident, muttered with a sparkle in his eyes “Noche del Tango – el vino, la música, el baile – solo puede ser Felipe!”

Inside the Castillo, it was beginning to buzz with life. The ballroom was being prepared for a party. Every crystal shard of the chandeliers sparkled and reflected the sunlight during the day and at night with the amber tones of the candles. The long wall had tables adorned with the finest linen cloths which in turn were adorned with hand-stitched pink satin roses. Food and wine would be plenty. Above the doorway to the courtyard, the band area was gleaming ready to tantalize the ear inside and out with tango after tango. Still, there was no sign of Felipe except for the orange light shining from the window each night.

The morning before the dance Esteban entered the Castillo, unnoticed, and discreetly entered Felipe’s quarters. No, he hadn’t been seen, but Esteban knew El Mago, his old master would be there.


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