Midwest Magic Chronicles Boxed SetBooks 1-4
Flint Maxwell Martha Carr Michael Anderle
Midwest Magic Chronicles Boxed Set (this book) is a work of fiction.
All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
This book Copyright © 2019 Flint Maxwell, Martha Carr, Michael Anderle
Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing
LMBPN Publishing supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact support@lmbpn.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
LMBPN Publishing
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Version 1.00, March 2019
The Oriceran Universe (and what happens within / characters / situations / worlds) are Copyright (c) 2017-19 by Martha Carr and LMBPN Publishing.
Contents
The Midwest Witch
The Midwest Wanderer
The Midwest Whisperer
The Midwest War
The Midwest Witch
Chapter One
Today was her nineteenth birthday, but Maria Apple didn’t feel that old. No, whenever her grandfather sang to her in his weird, made-up language, she felt a lot younger than nineteen.
Gramps came out to the back porch where Maria stood with her eyes covered.
“Keep ‘em closed, doll!” he wheezed.
Maria allowed herself to peek through her laced fingers. Her grandpa, an ancient and delightfully kooky man, leaned into the kitchen door and grabbed a gift-wrapped box. He also wore a bright red party hat, and tied around his belt loop, one red and one blue, were balloons.
“No peeking!” he shouted.
Maria rolled her eyes. “You couldn’t see if I was, Gramps.”
“Oh, I see more than you think I see, Maria!”
He stood in front of her, the odd scents she would always associate with her grandfather drifting off of him — old spices, the woods, fresh-cut grass; smells not meant to be clinging to a person whose favorite pastime was sitting in his comfy recliner and watching silly soap operas.
“All right,” Gramps said, “I think you’re really going to like this one.”
Maria thought she probably wouldn’t. Grandpa’s gifts were always odd. She guessed this was normal for an odd person. For her sweet sixteenth, she got a stuffed goose with glassy-black eyes. No keys to a new ride. Nope. A stuffed goose. She had hoped for Gramps to gift her his Pontiac Firebird that sat covered in the garage. Gramps was too old to really drive it anymore, without risk. Still, that didn’t happen. Instead she got the stuffed goose—which was nice in its own way. She kept it in her room, usually covered by an old t-shirt. Sometimes it seemed like it was watching her. Now, she expected weird gifts; had even grown to appreciate them.
“Okay, open ‘em!” Gramps said, smiling. Maria thought he was just so adorable when he smiled. Her heart swelled with love at the sight of him standing in front of her, holding a box wrapped in newspaper, the party hat on top of his head, and the balloons swaying in the early morning Ohio breeze.
“Gramps, you shouldn’t have,” Maria said. She studied the package. It was about the size of a Pop Tart box lying on its side. Yesterday’s local section’s headline lined the outside.
NEW ICE CREAM PARLOR DOES DELICIOUS BUSINESS
“Quiet, you! You may be nineteen, but you’ll always be my little girl, Maria.” He smiled again, showing those pink gums and perfect dentures. “Yes, you’ll always be my little girl or my name ain’t Ferod!”
“Uh…it’s not, Gramps. Your name is Ignatius.”
“Right! Right! Or my name ain’t Ignatius Apple.”
Maria smiled. Old age, she thought, that’s all it is. Old age and confusion.
“Open it!”
Maria sighed, bracing herself. Please don’t be a stuffed goose…or anything dead…or anything stuffed, for that matter.
A smell hit her. It was the smell of strange worlds and dust. It caused her nose to wrinkle. For some reason, she thought of planets with two suns and three moons, planets full of all types of creatures and critters, and of buildings invisible to the naked eye but as real as the very porch she stood on. She unwrapped the newspaper, letting it fall to the wooden planks.
Her eyes got big. “Whoa!” she said.
“WUEEEEE is right!” Gramps said.
Maria ignored this. Gramps seemed to enjoy mixing up ways to show he was excited.
“This is…this is actually really great,” Maria said.
In her hand, she held a small music box. It was made of a rich wood that smelled of summertime. It was trimmed in gold and on top of the box, etched into the wood, were looming mountains, overlooking a battlefield full of soldiers holding weapons and shooting flames out from their hands. It was quite elaborate.
“I knew you’d like it,” Gramps said. “Go on, open the lid.”
Maria did, and the weird smell hit her in full force. She turned her head and coughed.
“Ah, the smell of home,” Gramps said. Then he cocked his head and went, “Hmm. Stupid thing!”
“What—” Maria started to say, but her grandpa had swung a wrinkled hand against the side of the box, almost knocking it out of Maria’s grip.
Music started to play. Not the normal type of music box music, either. It was high-pitched and undulating, almost tribal, but to Maria…it was beautiful. Her eyes teared up, and she quickly swiped a hand over them, hoping her grandpa didn’t see. She didn’t cry in front of people. She didn’t believe in that.
“Damn dust,” she said.
Gramps hadn’t noticed. He stood there in front of her, rocking on his heels, humming along with the music, eyes half-lidded.
“Hey!” Maria shouted. “I’ve heard this before, haven’t I?”
She had. Almost anytime Grandpa Ignatius took a shower, he would not sing The Beatles or Elvis, or even the most
