Honestly, the thing that seems the most obvious to me is that when I start a prompt, one evening of writing seems to not be enough time. It is challenging me to let stories go partially written. Even when I go back the next day and add to the story, it feels like there is much more to tell.

This is the start of the story I had been tempted to write, based off a Flogging Molly song called “Devil’s dance floor”. I do not think that I am nearly far enough into this story to even see how it pertains to the song or its title.

I am cautiously hopeful that as life shakes out into a new schedule over the next week or so, I can give my writing more time. Maybe even complete a whole short story based off of these prompts. I suppose we will see. It seems to be giving me a lot more to learn than just “get back into the habit of writing”.

I really struggle with not seeing a creative project fully realized. And so far, September is letting me face that peeve with every prompt.

Also sharing super raw, just written, first draft is another lesson I am wrestling with.

Footsteps crunched over gravel. The dark, moonless night made travel slow. Unease trickled down Dave’s back as he picked his way down the old country road. He had stayed too late at the pub drinking and enjoying the live music with friends, but now, 40 minutes into his walk home the crisp night air had effectively sobered him up.

Ahead of him the torchlight flickered and then stuttered to a dim glow. Brilliant.

With annoyance Dave bashed his hand against the side of the torch shaft. After the third solid whack, the light shone with its familiar luminosity.

Nodding to himself, Dave let his thoughts return inward as his feet carried him further down the old gravel road. He relived parts of the evening, the raucous jokes told with friends, humming bars of the best songs played throughout the night. The stress of the week had melted away into some forgotten back recess of his mind.

As he wandered, a slight breeze swirled around him. Shifting pieces of his hair. Playfully fluttering his jacket, his trousers, brushing along his face. It was as if a fairy had joined him on this late night wander and was playfully distracting him. Along that breeze, a distant melody tickled Dave’s senses. At first, he did not believe that the song was truly there, but as he continued the music grew louder.

His attention fully grasped, Dave stepped off the gravel road and into the overgrown field to the left of him. Dormant grass crinkled underfoot and autumn leaves crackled. Dave barely noticed as he strode out, following the sound of music. The field gave way to an ancient forest, gnarled trees thick against the inky black sky.

Playing the torchlight over the trail that made its way through the forest in front of him, frustration mounted as the torch gave a finally shuttering blink, and went out. Exasperated, Dave through the torch to the right, back into the old field he had just crossed.

The music was definitely louder the closer Dave got to the woods. Throwing caution to the wind, Dave stepped onto the forest trail and followed the jaunty music that had enraptured him.

It was hard to tell how long he had been walking. Dave was vaguely aware that dawn should be drawing closer. The time piece affixed to his right wrist had stopped working, sometime around 2:30 am, Holding it to his ear, Dave shook his wrist. The lack of ticking should have bothered him, yet the jaunty tune ahead seemed to reach out a spectral finger and draw his face towards the journey ahead.

With two quick flicks of the wrist, Dave had the watch off and without much thought, the watch too was tossed to the right of the path he was on.

The path was well worn, maybe used by hunters or local farmers. The packed dirt gently guiding him through the otherwise thick trees. Left and right, nothing but darkness and the outline of tree shapes could be seen 3 feet off the path.

This one was interesting! The prompt I went with was “Write a story about a character in one of your WIPs (work in progress) and I choose to write a bit about Mauve.

My initial plan had been to write about Mauve’s backstory by taking a scene that is left out of my WIP where she is the teacher/sage for the protag and is dealing with the consequences of a magical attack that was the inciting incident within the WIPs context.

However, as I started writing, Mauve was no longer the coven elder and Callie’s mentor, but a younger woman dealing with the fall out of a similar incident that happened over 20 years before my current WIP! I definitely did not see that coming.

So I left the story flow over the last two days and honestly, I will probably continue working on this storyline. It may end up as like a prequel or even just a reader give away in the future. I don’t really know! But I am really pumped to see this background aspect to my WIP and how that plays into the reactions of the characters during this rather disturbing incident.

So without further ado: my day 3 and 4 story!

Hospitals always put Mauve on edge. Overhead, florescent lights thrummed, casting everything into a harsh white light. No matter how she adjusted. the hard plastic chair was unforgiving to Mauve’s arthritic joints. The coffee was tepid, the company abysmal. and the smell! How anyone could think straight through the antiseptic astringent smell was anyone’s guess.

Rapid footfalls approached, causing Mauve to look up from her knitting. Bustling towards her in a stream of efficient situational control, a diminutive woman with chin-length walnut hair and an air of authority caught her eye.

“Ah Millie!” relief washed over Mauve’s countenance. “how is he? The doctors won’t tell me a thing. And you know how I cant stand being in a place like this. We just didn’t see any other choice. Magical coma, would you believe?! This whole situation is so far outside of what our coven felt equipt to handle”

Amelia Van Woodsen smiled at her old friend and sat primly on the chair next to her.

Patting Mauve’s hand reassuringly, she leaned in conspiratorially. “really dear, you made the best choice possible. Bringing him here, it’s the third magical incident this week. Dr Bishop and Dr. Miller are about beside themselves. Thankfully they do know about these things up here, could you imagine the trouble we would have had explaining this situation to a hospital in New York City? It would be such a breach of protocol. Havening laws would be broken, not to mention that those big city doctors likely have never fathomed the kind of magical malady or injury that we get here. Do you have any idea what is causing these attacks? Are we the only Haven that has been impacted? What other covens have been placed on alert?”

Millie noticed the dazed look in Mauve’s eyes and ceased her rapid fire questions. Standing slowly, she tugged Mauve to her feet and guided her gently out a side door.

“Come on dear. Lets get you out under the moonlight, in the fresh breeze. There there”

Millie patted her friend’s back and dutifully steered her to an ancient looking hickory tree.

Mauve leaned against the old tree and allowed it to lend her strength. Closing her eyes, she took long, slow, deep breaths. The tree and the moonlit sky helping her ground herself and refind her footing. Connecting with the moon and the hickory allowed Mauve’s heart rate to slow, her breath became more steady and the tremble left her hands. The warm breeze washed away the smell of industrial cleaner and sterile equipment. Shaking her head as though to clear it, Mauve open her eyes and addressed her friend.

“Im sorry. I know that hospitals have their place in the world, but to me they feel so devoid of healing. They are a place to stabilize the truly bad off. I know that. Logically, I know that. Yet it feels so foreign and clinical.

As for your other questions, I simply do not know the answer to most of them. The last I heard the council of elders was meeting and old Rebecca Osborne was going to be the one to reach out through the emergency phone tree. I am grateful to not yet hold a position of elder within the council. This is a situation Haven’s have not seen in many decades and I hope that once we are past it, we shall not see it again. I fear though, that this is just the beginning.”

Meeting Millie’s eyes, Mauve could feel the weight of the situation settle around them both.

Write a story with no dialog

This story was a bit hard to capture the storm as I was writing through it. It may be one that I come back to after several weeks of writing. I found it to be a lot of fun, and ended up adding to it on day 2 instead of starting a new prompt. I feel like it went fairly well for my first story but I would have loved to see it more atmospheric than what I ended up with.

The rain tapped a staccato beat on the roof of the old farmhouse. Wind howled through the trees. Inky blackness crept around the tightly woven timbers, fingers traced the surface looking for a breach inside the fortified building.

Amber light shone through the glass of a high window, curtains fluttering with the movement inside. Energy crackled through the air scented with dried herbs and other botanicals. At a long hip-high wooden table, a stooped figure slowly stirred clockwise with a rune-carved spoon the aromatic mixture in the wooden bowl before her.

A sharp rap at the door broke her concentration. Lifting the oil lamp and leaning heavily on her gnarled cane, the crone shuffled to the heavy door. Lifting the latch with a snick, the door swung into the illuminated space on well-oiled hinges.

Light sliced into the dark recesses of the house’s front stoop and revealed a young couple huddled together. A low moan cut through the oppressive silence. The crone’s head tilted to one side, appraising. Gesturing with a crooked finger, the crone shuffled into the warm light, leaving the couple to cross the threshold alone.

The sturdy cabin was full of cheery light, and a wash of savory aroma wafted over the couple as they shuffled into the main living space. A low moan escaped the woman’s lips as she leaned harder into her companion. Pain wracked her body, momentarily freezing the duo’s progress into the vast main room.

A gnarled hand reached up and wiped the damp hair from the woman’s face, steely blue eyes met the frantic hazel of the other. A slow smile played across the wrinkled face as the hand dropped from the woman’s cheek and moved to help her remove her burden.

Shuffling across the wooden floorboards, the crone led the woman towards the modest hearth. A strong arm helped to guide the woman, pausing as her body was once again wracked with trembling pain. Steadily the woman’s husband helped to guide her onto a nest of blankets near the crackling fire.

The warmth brought color back to the woman’s cheeks as she struggled to untangle her arms from the outer garments that had kept her body shielded from the elements. Shifting to find more comfort, it was a surprise when an earthenware mug was thrust in front of her nose.

Smiling gratefully, the woman sipped the warm tangy mixture, feeling the warmth diffuse from her lips, down her throat, and out along her limbs and torso. Part-way through another sip, the woman’s body tensed and pain burbled from her abdomen. The mug clattered as the woman concentrated on removing the near-boiling liquid from her vicinity as her body continued to spasm.

Outside, the storm picked up in tempo. Rain droplets pelted down, slicing through the air before ricocheting off the ground. As the wind moved among the bare tree branches, it howled a low moan, echoing the tortured sound from within. Chickens clucked and irritably shook their feathers before giving up and sauntering into their coop. A cow lowed from the shed, a second, then a third join in rapid succession.

As the storm progressed the trees began to sway and shake. A long, low, plaintive howl punctuated the night, audible over the churning of the storm.

Crack

Splintering into jagged fingers, a forearm-sized branch buckled under the weight of water and wind. One piece hanging forlornly away from its kin. Swinging limply in the gale, it kissed the ground.

Inside, water tinkled into a large wooden bowl as deft fingers wrang out a linen cloth before easing the cloth along the sweaty brow above determined hazel eyes. The gaze was both fierce and otherworldly. Holding tightly to an inner strength she found during her journey, the woman slowly pulled the herb-dense air in through her nose and held, before letting it out in a slow raged hiss through her teeth. She was scarcely aware of the others in the room as they shifted, watching her breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth.

With a long, low, guttural moan the woman’s body swayed, hypnotically she moved. Eyelids drifted closed as she moved through the ancient rite, breathing low and slow, letting the primal moans escape her lips.

A high-pitched wail broke into the room. With a deep sigh, the woman half fell back into her husband’s arms. Several feet away the crone’s hands were busy working a bit of blanket in slow circles. The man guided his wife back onto the nest of blankets in front of the hearth as the crone shuffled across the floor and presented a wailing bundle to the couple. A wide smile cracked her wrinkled face.