* Author : John Wiswell  * Narrator : Sarah Griffin * Host : Matt Dovey * Audio Producer : Eric Valdes * Discuss on Forums Previously Published in Tor CW for self harm and chronic illness Rated PG-13 D.I.Y. By John Wiswell   People ask how Noah could possibly turn down the Ozymandias Academy. All they know about him is the headlines, and they think he’s ungrateful. What you don’t get is that attending Ozymandias was Noah’s dream. Noah wanted it worse than anyone. Do you know where he was when he was on his fifth birthday? Sitting in the stained passenger seat of his mom’s clunker, bouncing with excitement because she was driving him to mail his application. He clutched the envelope in both hands so there was no chance of dropping it. He asked his mom, “Did you know Vamon doesn’t need a wand?” His mom teased him, “Vamon who?” He sounded out the syllables. “Va-mon Kinc-tu-ar-in. He saved the whole world. He teaches at Oz-y-man-di-as.” “That’s a big name. Did he listen to his mom?” Noah sat up as though she had blasphemed. “Mom. He was an orphan.” “And he became a magician but didn’t need a wand?” Noah started wheezing, like he had crickets in his lungs. He said, “He could make daggers from nowhere, and one time he used bone magic so that all the skeletons in a graveyard fought for him. When he was too tired, he magicked his own bones to keep fighting against the Seraphs. All of it without a wand. Do you know what he used instead?” “Honey, take a puff of your inhaler.” For a moment Noah removed a few fingertips from the envelope, wiggling them like they were shooting lightning through the windshield. “He did magic with his hands.” The next light turned yellow and his mom rolled them to a stop. Under that yellow traffic light, Noah’s wheeze became a brittle cough. It wasn’t phlegm. His shoulders rocked against the seat and he hugged his application letter to his chest. Fighting through the coughing, he said, “Vamon’s going to solve the drought. I’m going to help.” “Honey? Breathe. Where’s your inhaler?” “I’m going to do magic with my . . .” His proclamation gave way to a peal of strangled coughs. His mom held the inhaler up for him, but he couldn’t take the breath. The light turned red as she unbuckled herself to get at him. When she got him by the shoulders, he slumped into her side. That was the first time Noah blacked out. When the paramedics got him, he was still holding his application.     If the Ozymandias Academy accepts you, the image of Vamon Kinctuarin visits you. He projects himself as a transparent green specter. It’s tradition or something. The two of you are supposed to have an intimate conversation about the future of your education. When he was ten, Noah had the transparent green action figure of Vamon on his person at all times. He asked it things. “Are you proud of me?” “Am I as brave as you were?” “Are you f*****g kidding?” his mom asked the receptionist at the clinic. The receptionist barely moved, like this old white lady was so tired she didn’t have energy left for nodding. She said, “They don’t cover these tests no more. You should try St. Mary’s.” “St. Mary’s sent me here,” his mother yelled, too angry to convince anybody, and too angry to stop being angry. “They’re not accepting anyone on account of the drought.