Atticus hung from the cliff’s ledge, fingers grasping into the stone. Sorcery, not strength, kept him from plunging to certain doom. Balanced on one foot, barely, his cane casually danced with the wind, threatening with each passing moment to abandon him and fall to the chasm below.
“Could you lend me a hand, please?”
A young man sat, comfortably, just a few feet away, eating apricots and sorting through apps on his phone. “I went through quite a bit of trouble to put you there, so…” He did not look up.
“Not until you tell me your sinister plan.”
“…to bake gingerbat cookies and watch a movie.”
“That’s it?” The hero frowned, chewing on a particularly tasty bit of apricot. “What movie? Oh, do you want an apricot?”
“No thank you. Bit busy. Tim Burton’s Night–”
“Tim Burton or Henry Selick?”
The two argued over semantics and film credits, directorial control versus movie poster presentation, for several minutes. “Alright,” the hero muttered, standing up and dusting himself off. “I’ll help you. But first?”
It was a common request. “Yes, yes, alright.” After all, Atticus had been in the business for ages.
The hero’s phone made a sound like an old fashioned camera’s flash bulb going off. The photo appeared a moment later, the two grinning like fools, Atticus dangling and the hero laying on his back.