Just a short story I made on the spot. C4C.

I used to walk the streets of my home town when I was no more than eight years old. I recall the old distillery looming at the very end of the longest road. It sat there, all by itself on the lot. I asked my father what a distillery was, before he left my mother and I. He said it was a factory of sorts, used to create drinks. When I asked of the nature of these drinks, he bent down on one knee, and looked me in the eyes.

"The drinks brewed there are the only kind with a magic power. One sip, and you'll feel like you're on top of the world. Two sips, and you'll find yourself reminiscing of a happy time. After a few more, everyone of your friends and family members will gather and talk of old times and share in that special connection that exists between all of you."

I was so excited, that everyday while walking along the cobblestone paths to school, I would stop and gaze in awe at the magnificent building. I told myself that one day I would be privileged enough to take a drink from its depths. Oh, what a foolish child I was, believing in wizards, potions, and dragons and every magical thing that popped into my head.

Then one day, my father was sitting at the parlour table, reading the paper. I walked in and saw that he had with him a drink from the factory. Approaching quietly, I asked my father if I could have a sip of his "Jack", whatever that meant. I think I heard him call it that once, but it seemed silly a drink would have a human name. Nevertheless, he handed the glass carefully to me. As soon as it touched my young, inexperienced lips, I rejected it almost immediately. It stung and burnt in the same instant, and it was at that second, out of pure disgust, I dropped my father's glass on the floor, where it shattered into sharp, sticky pieces. I remember him screaming at me, cursing my name, which was odd, because usually this sort of behaviour never occurred. I ran up to my room, which was at the very top floor of our house, at the end of the hallway. Running to my room, I would always stop to look at the family portrait hung slightly crooked on the wall there. There we were: my father smiling, with his arm around my mother, and there I was, sitting in the middle, a big happy grin on my face. Going into my room, I could hear my father still ranting downstairs, probably to himself, unless my mother was home.

At least once a week this same incident occurred, never bothering me in the slightest. I was under the impression my father was practicing reciting magic words and the like, so I didn't mind. After all, I was going to be a great sorcerer like him when I reached his age. Soon, he was practicing his magical incantations every day; I even picked up on a few: "****" and "God damned" were the ones he used most frequently, so I assumed that these were important curses or sayings.

As the years passed, I became increasingly more interested in magic and its properties. I would find books on famous wizards and magicians, my favourites being Houdini and Merlin. Often times, I would become distracted from my studies, as maths and sciences didn't interest me in the least; why let numbers and equations solve your problems when they could be gotten rid of with a few secret words? When the children at school asked me what my father did for a living, I would tell them he was a wizard. At first, they didn't believe me. I invited them to my house to play a few times, just to prove that my father was who I claimed he was. But the other children's parents wouldn't usually let them come over. I never knew why, but it didn't bother me that much. After all, who needs friends when your father is a powerful sorcerer?