Meridian City: Mira’s Magical Mishaps

I am working on a revision of this novel, should be completed by 9-1-26. The new version will be teen friendly, as I think younger readers would enjoy this story! I will keep both versions on inkitt.

I stood shoulder to shoulder with the other hopefuls in the Magicademy Sports Complex, sweat already trickling down my forehead. The game hadn’t even started, and I felt like I’d already fought an entire war just convincing myself to try out for the Fireball Squad.

But after the disaster at the costume party—and the absolute train wreck in speech class—my nerves screamed that I was about to look back at this moment with profound regret. I was using my magic in front of everyone. The potential for humiliation had never been higher or as public as it was right now.

As the eldest daughter of Meridian’s strongest witch-and-warlock dynasty, I was supposed to embody magical excellence. Instead, at nineteen, in my first year at Magicademy, I was just grateful they’d even let me through the gates. Not because I was a bad student. Because of my curse.

Chaos Magic.

I’d never forget my parents’ faces when the shaman pronounced it. They’d looked like they’d just been told their prized stallion had turned into a three-legged donkey.

Most days, my spells worked fine. But when they didn’t? The failures were spectacular. Memorable. Mortifying.

I tried to shake off the thought, forming a few fireballs and stretching, hopping on my toes to loosen up. So far, so good.

Up in a skybox, my family watched, probably just as nervous as I was. The referee’s whistle pierced the air, and we scrambled to line up.

All day, I’d practiced with my brother and sister. My fireballs had been perfect—round, reddish-orange, sizzling with energy. I’d even dodged most of the fireballs Micah and Melinda threw at me. By all logic, I should be confident but instead I found m was standing there munching on a self doubt sandwich

The rules of Fireball were simple: like dodgeball, but with enchanted fire. Not hot enough to kill, but definitely hot enough to sting. My strategy? Equally simple: don’t get hit.

I groaned when I spotted Duncan DeWitt across the line, smirking at me. Of course. Meridian’s best Fireball player—and also the biggest ass on campus. Blond, blue-eyed, tall, and lean, he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a men’s underwear ad. Which, naturally, made my brain immediately imagine him posing on a billboard in boxer briefs.

I flushed, shaking the thought away. Focus, Mira. You’re already cursed with chaos magic. You don’t need to add your terrible taste in men to the list.

“Ten seconds!” the referee shouted. The crowd thundered, stomping their feet as the countdown began. My vision narrowed. My muscles coiled.

The horn blared.

I hit the floor instantly, sliding under the first volley. Then I sprang up, twisted midair to dodge the next, and rolled aside as another fireball whizzed past so close I could feel the heat singe my cheek. One by one, my teammates went down, until it was just me—still miraculously untouched—and Duncan, waiting with that smug grin plastered across his face.

“I’m screwed,” I muttered, chanting the fireball spell. Two words, a circle drawn on my palm. Easy. Foolproof.

“Flaming Ball!” I shouted, determination ringing in my voice as I cast.

A rubber chicken shot from my hand and smacked the floor just to Duncan’s right.

The arena went silent.

No. No, no, no.

I tried again. Another chicken. Again. Another. Feathers floated through the air, which I found odd, because these were rubber chickens, and who ever heard of a feathered rubber chicken? I pushed the thought aside and focused all of my energy on the fireball spell. Alas, chicken was apparently the only item on my magical menu tonight.

As the fourth chicken flew towards his midsection, Duncan was openly gaping, jaw lowering closer to the floor, his eyes wide with a nearly comical look of disbelief. Finally my fury boiled over. Enough!

If my magic wanted chickens, it was getting chickens.

I unleashed the spell in a torrent, rubber poultry spraying from my hand like bullets from a machine gun. Splat. Splat. Splat. Chickens slapped against Duncan until he collapsed to the floor, tangled in feathers and rubber limbs.

The arena erupted in hysterical laughter.

The referee blew his whistle, consulted with the officials, then pointed at me. “Winner!”

“Bullshit!” Duncan roared, hurling a chicken at him. “This is Fireball, not the Chicken Chucking Championship!”

“The ruling is final,” the ref said with a shrug.

Duncan’s face went crimson. He pointed at me, fury blazing in his eyes, and mimed pulling a trigger. My stomach dropped. Great. Now the hottest guy in school wanted me dead.

“Chicken Chuckin’ Champion!” the crowd chanted in unison.

I gave a weak wave, cheeks burning, and sprinted for the exit. My teammates intercepted me, howling with laughter.

“Triple C!” one crowed. “That’s your new name!”

Fantastic. Exactly the kind of branding I wanted.

I shoved past them, jabbing the elevator button like it had stomped on my very last nerve. This was my curse in action. My magic seemed to exit for the sole purpose of humiliating me, twisting spells into some kind of cosmic joke.

Mira Marrenno, the Chicken Chuckin’ Champion.

I slipped into the skybox, where my family waited. The crowd was still chanting my new title as security scrambled to restore order.

“Flaming Fireball!” I yelled impulsively, flinging circles into my palm. Rubber chickens rained from the ceiling onto the stands. The chaos doubled—fights breaking out over souvenirs as police officers rushed in.

Micah clapped my hand in a high five. “Way to start a riot.”

“Oh, Mira.” My mother sighed, arms crossed, though her eyes betrayed amusement.

“How about a chicken dinner?” my dad grinned, pulling me into a hug. “You won, Mira. We’re celebrating!”

At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone pitched a reality show. Mira’s Magical Mishaps. The ratings would be phenomenal.

I laughed, but deep inside, the part of me I rarely showed anyone wasn’t laughing at all. That part was exhausted—of being the freak, the weirdo. The butt of the joke.

The Chicken Chuckin’ Champion.