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Week 4 posts / Night Cast (final)
« on: August 30, 2020, 03:12:24 AM »
Thank you to my critique partners! Their feedback helped me find Isla's purpose and emotions as well as adding a bit more direction to the story. 
Night Cast
By Yara C.
It was past midnight, but before the sun would rise, the older woman stirred the ladle spoon in the boiling pot. With weary eyes, she looked out the single window, fogged to anyone who walked by. But nobody went up the mountain to the single cabin by the fields. Not on a night like this or any night for that matter where the dark purple hues drowned the night clouds, getting ready to cast a storm.
Isla still had a table full of flowers waiting to be plucked or ground down. Her fingertips dusted in yellow, she peeled back another petal from a bundle of chamomile flowers. Her eyes struggled to stay open as she topped the basket to the brim. She glanced out the window, worried the storm would arrive any minute. She didn't think she could go another round, the pollen slithering up her nose and crawling around her skin, but she had to. Carma was counting on her, and the sun was almost up.
She stood up with both baskets in each aching hand. They've been in the cabin since the sunset hours ago. Walking over to Carma by the stovetop, she asked, "Should this be enough?" Isla tried not to look as tired as she felt or annoyed by the itching all over. Still, she began to wipe the powdery yellow from her face with a nearby washcloth.
Carma did not answer right away. Her eyes moved from the pot to the window, as if an untimed race was coming to an end.
Isla thought they moved as quickly as they could. She knew people below the mountain cast wishes hoping the old witch at the top would make them come true, but they didn't realize Carma was drained. Before it would take an hour or two, a spell would be conjured, and Carma would send it slithering down the mountains to those casting wishes, pleading to be answered. Carma's hands did not move as fast as they once did or her eyes could not see the herbs outside where she sent Isla to collect.
A spark of fire ran through Isla. She forgot about her ache hands or the approaching storm. Isla tossed the rag. "I mean, abuela, what would happen if we took a bit longer?" She asked. "A spell should still work even when the sun is up."
The spoon stopped moving. With tired eyes and a strip of lines like driftwood creasing her forehead, Carma looked defeated. "Tonight, it is different. They speak of trouble... and change."
She repeated the same tune earlier to Isla, who still didn't quite understand. "I cannot just hear a few, but hundreds of casts urging to be answered." Carma paused, looking over her inventory laid out on the wooden table. She closed her eyes and listened. Her head was tilting one way to another as if she was navigating invisible lanes.
Isla wanted to understand. She tried, wanted to help people, but when was it enough? She closed her eyes. The loud gulps from the boiling water flooded her thoughts instead. Her anger created a wall, a void of no voices. She squeezed her eyes tighter, feeling her amber cheeks lifting. She thought of the lively roots that seemed to pulse still as they prepped them for the young witches at the mountains' rise. She remembered Carma teaching her it took time to listen, feel, and reach for the cast.
Carma's movements nudged Isla to open her watery eyes. She found her abuela's studying her before saying, "Soon." Carma filled her hands with another handful of plucked leaves, dumping them into the pot. "But in the meantime, another round of the same roots?" She pointed to the few pale-gray roots lying on a single dish.
Before leaving, Isla confessed, "I cannot hear them, the casts." She bowed her head in shame. "I want to help." "I've told you once before, dear Isla, you are helping." Carma pulled Isla into her embrace. Isla's body crumbled to the comfort of abuela's tender arms. All the emotions seemed to return. She felt the aches, the anger, and shame.
Carma soothed Isla's curls back. "It's not as simple of wanting to hear the casts. You must be granted, and only if they know you are ready to complete the casts." Carma took a step back with a hand on each of Isla's shoulders, she gave them a light shake, "How about those roots?"
Isla agreed and walked towards the large door. She wondered if one day she would faithfully travel up the mountain as abuela did almost every night to answer the calls before her. Her mother didn't even hear the casts, could the same happen to Isla? Their family line of witches was fading out, just like the moon tonight being taken over by the sun. Carma was the last practicing witch, and Isla feared it was the end of their family line. The single cabin on top of the mountain would no longer answer the casts below.
Stepping outside, Isla realized the boiling pot seemed to know exactly how she felt even though she couldn't tell what the brew was saying. Isla tightened the sweater around as the bitter winds of the mountain mocked her for wasting their time, and it stung. She squeezed the basket in one hand, marching over to the field of flowers. Her other hand was hidden in the pocket trying to stay warm before they would dig into the ground for the roots over and over again. It's not like Isla could take a shovel and rip them from the ground. Carma warned her of disfavoring the very elements that could answer the casts.
She found her march changing to a quick walk, silently apologizing to the ground. If only someone heard her. Isla laughed to herself and laughed until she crumbled on top of the flower beds, dropping the basket and covering her face. She couldn't do anything right.
Rolling over, forgetting the brew for a moment, she laid facing the stars fighting to show through the darkened clouds. Maybe the voices will never come. Maybe, Isla would be Carma's help for as long as they could, and that was okay. Taking a deep breath, she turned over and made quick work of digging out roots, filling the basket once more. She walked more carefully but in haste back to the cabin, noting the sun's rays peeking from behind the clouds. It was too late.
Isla rushed to Carma stepping out from the cabin, "Ready!"
Carma already had a jug filled cradled in her arms. She motioned Isla to put the basket down and placed the jar in Isla hands, "You are ready." She pointed Isla to the edge of the mountain.
Night Cast
By Yara C.
It was past midnight, but before the sun would rise, the older woman stirred the ladle spoon in the boiling pot. With weary eyes, she looked out the single window, fogged to anyone who walked by. But nobody went up the mountain to the single cabin by the fields. Not on a night like this or any night for that matter where the dark purple hues drowned the night clouds, getting ready to cast a storm.
Isla still had a table full of flowers waiting to be plucked or ground down. Her fingertips dusted in yellow, she peeled back another petal from a bundle of chamomile flowers. Her eyes struggled to stay open as she topped the basket to the brim. She glanced out the window, worried the storm would arrive any minute. She didn't think she could go another round, the pollen slithering up her nose and crawling around her skin, but she had to. Carma was counting on her, and the sun was almost up.
She stood up with both baskets in each aching hand. They've been in the cabin since the sunset hours ago. Walking over to Carma by the stovetop, she asked, "Should this be enough?" Isla tried not to look as tired as she felt or annoyed by the itching all over. Still, she began to wipe the powdery yellow from her face with a nearby washcloth.
Carma did not answer right away. Her eyes moved from the pot to the window, as if an untimed race was coming to an end.
Isla thought they moved as quickly as they could. She knew people below the mountain cast wishes hoping the old witch at the top would make them come true, but they didn't realize Carma was drained. Before it would take an hour or two, a spell would be conjured, and Carma would send it slithering down the mountains to those casting wishes, pleading to be answered. Carma's hands did not move as fast as they once did or her eyes could not see the herbs outside where she sent Isla to collect.
A spark of fire ran through Isla. She forgot about her ache hands or the approaching storm. Isla tossed the rag. "I mean, abuela, what would happen if we took a bit longer?" She asked. "A spell should still work even when the sun is up."
The spoon stopped moving. With tired eyes and a strip of lines like driftwood creasing her forehead, Carma looked defeated. "Tonight, it is different. They speak of trouble... and change."
She repeated the same tune earlier to Isla, who still didn't quite understand. "I cannot just hear a few, but hundreds of casts urging to be answered." Carma paused, looking over her inventory laid out on the wooden table. She closed her eyes and listened. Her head was tilting one way to another as if she was navigating invisible lanes.
Isla wanted to understand. She tried, wanted to help people, but when was it enough? She closed her eyes. The loud gulps from the boiling water flooded her thoughts instead. Her anger created a wall, a void of no voices. She squeezed her eyes tighter, feeling her amber cheeks lifting. She thought of the lively roots that seemed to pulse still as they prepped them for the young witches at the mountains' rise. She remembered Carma teaching her it took time to listen, feel, and reach for the cast.
Carma's movements nudged Isla to open her watery eyes. She found her abuela's studying her before saying, "Soon." Carma filled her hands with another handful of plucked leaves, dumping them into the pot. "But in the meantime, another round of the same roots?" She pointed to the few pale-gray roots lying on a single dish.
Before leaving, Isla confessed, "I cannot hear them, the casts." She bowed her head in shame. "I want to help." "I've told you once before, dear Isla, you are helping." Carma pulled Isla into her embrace. Isla's body crumbled to the comfort of abuela's tender arms. All the emotions seemed to return. She felt the aches, the anger, and shame.
Carma soothed Isla's curls back. "It's not as simple of wanting to hear the casts. You must be granted, and only if they know you are ready to complete the casts." Carma took a step back with a hand on each of Isla's shoulders, she gave them a light shake, "How about those roots?"
Isla agreed and walked towards the large door. She wondered if one day she would faithfully travel up the mountain as abuela did almost every night to answer the calls before her. Her mother didn't even hear the casts, could the same happen to Isla? Their family line of witches was fading out, just like the moon tonight being taken over by the sun. Carma was the last practicing witch, and Isla feared it was the end of their family line. The single cabin on top of the mountain would no longer answer the casts below.
Stepping outside, Isla realized the boiling pot seemed to know exactly how she felt even though she couldn't tell what the brew was saying. Isla tightened the sweater around as the bitter winds of the mountain mocked her for wasting their time, and it stung. She squeezed the basket in one hand, marching over to the field of flowers. Her other hand was hidden in the pocket trying to stay warm before they would dig into the ground for the roots over and over again. It's not like Isla could take a shovel and rip them from the ground. Carma warned her of disfavoring the very elements that could answer the casts.
She found her march changing to a quick walk, silently apologizing to the ground. If only someone heard her. Isla laughed to herself and laughed until she crumbled on top of the flower beds, dropping the basket and covering her face. She couldn't do anything right.
Rolling over, forgetting the brew for a moment, she laid facing the stars fighting to show through the darkened clouds. Maybe the voices will never come. Maybe, Isla would be Carma's help for as long as they could, and that was okay. Taking a deep breath, she turned over and made quick work of digging out roots, filling the basket once more. She walked more carefully but in haste back to the cabin, noting the sun's rays peeking from behind the clouds. It was too late.
Isla rushed to Carma stepping out from the cabin, "Ready!"
Carma already had a jug filled cradled in her arms. She motioned Isla to put the basket down and placed the jar in Isla hands, "You are ready." She pointed Isla to the edge of the mountain.
2
Week 2 posts / Night Cast draft 2
« on: August 16, 2020, 01:29:37 AM »
Draft 2 and although I had the idea going with YA character, it seemed to move towards a MG tale like story. I'm still not sure where I want to go by the end.
Night Cast
By Yara C.
It was past midnight, before the sun would rise, the older woman stirred the ladle spoon in the boiling pot. With weary eyes, she looked out the single window, fogged to anyone who walked by. But nobody ascended up the mountain to the single house by the fields. Not on a night like this or any night for that matter.
Isla sat at the center table plucking the peddles from the bundle of chamomile flowers. Her fingertips dusted in yellow separated the leaves from the peddles into two baskets. She looked over to her abuela, Carma, who threw another bundle of herbs into the bubbling pot. She hasn't moved from that spot in over an hour.
Isla was sure the basket filled to the brim was enough for Carma's brew. It had to be. They've been in the cabin since the sun set hours ago and Isla didn't think she could take another round of pollen slithering up her nose and crawling around her skin.
Any other night, Carma wouldn't need her. But tonight, she specifically asked Isla for help ? that's never happened before. On other nights, Isla would come along and watch, taking notes on how Carma moved around with the herbs. Within hours, a spell would be conjured and Carma would send it slithering down the mountains to those casting wishes, pleading to be answered.
It wasn't necessarily a wish and not all casts were answered. Isla still didn't get it. She didn't her any voices and she sure didn't see the spell slithering.
Isla walked over with the two baskets placing them close to Carma. "Should that be enough?" She hoped the answer was a yes as she began to wipe the powdery yellow from her face.
Carma did not answer. Her eyes moved from the boiling pot to the window, as if an untimed race was coming to an end.
"I mean, abuela, what would happen if we took a bit longer?" Isla asked. "A spell should still work even when the sun is up."
The ladle stopped moving. With tired eyes and a strip of lines like driftwood creasing her forehead, Carma looked defeated. "Tonight, is different." She repeated the same tune from earlier to Isla who still wanted to know more - like why.
"I cannot just hear a few but hundreds of casts urging to be answered." Carma paused looking over her inventory laid out on the wooden table. She closed her eyes and listened. Her head tilting one way to another as if she was navigating invisible lanes.
Isla closed her eyes and listened. The loud gulps from the boiling water flooded her thoughts instead. Still, she squeezed her eyes tighter, feeling her amber cheeks lifting. Where are the voices? Isla asked herself.
Carma said it took time to listen, to feel, and reach for the right one. Isla wanted to know how. She wanted to move freely among the spirited earth. The lively roots that seemed to still pulse as they prepped them for the young witches at the rise of the mountains.
Carma's movements nudged Isla to open her eyes. With a soft smile, she assured Isla, "Soon." Carma filled her hands with another handful of plucked leaves, dumping them into the pot. "But in the meantime, another round of the same roots?" She pointed to the few pale-gray roots laying on a single dish.
"Why are there so many calls tonight?"
Carma clucked her tongue and her fingers pointed to the pedals, roots, and herbs dancing together among the bubbles, "They speak - uneasy? trouble? and change."
"Well, how can I hear them? I want to help," Isla asked, still looking at the pedals flittering around the water.
"I've told you once before dear Isla, you are helping." Carma answered. "...and the roots?"
Isla turned and walked towards the large door. She would just be the help. She would not faithfully travel up the mountain as abuela did almost every night to answer the calls before her. Her own mother didn't even hear the calls. Carma's line of witches was fading out just like the moon tonight being taking over by the sun.
Stepping outside, Isla realized the boiling pot seemed to know exactly how she felt even though she couldn't tell what the brew was saying. Isla could have been down the mountains planning Friday night like a normal teen. Instead, Isla tightened the sweater around her to collect roots as the bitter winds of the mountain mocked her for wasting their time and it stung.
She squeezed the basket in one hand marching over to the field of flowers. Her other hand was hidden in the pocket trying to stay warm before they would dig into the ground for the roots over and over. It's not like Isla could take a shovel and rip them from the ground. Carma warned her of disfavoring the very elements that could answer the calls.
She found her march changing to a quick walk, silently apologizing to the ground. If only someone heard her. Isla laughed to herself. And laughed until she crumbled on top of the flower beds, dropping the basket and covering her face.
She couldn't do anything right.
Rolling over, she laid facing the stars above forgetting for a moment Carma's brew. Maybe the calls will never come. Just maybe, Isla would be Carma's help and that was, ok too.
Isla made quick work of digging out roots, filling the basket once more. She walked more carefully but in haste back to the house, noting the rays of the sun peeking from behind the clouds.
"Here." Isla said in a rush, hoping they still had time.
Carma already had a jug filled. She placed in Isla hands, "You're ready."
Night Cast
By Yara C.
It was past midnight, before the sun would rise, the older woman stirred the ladle spoon in the boiling pot. With weary eyes, she looked out the single window, fogged to anyone who walked by. But nobody ascended up the mountain to the single house by the fields. Not on a night like this or any night for that matter.
Isla sat at the center table plucking the peddles from the bundle of chamomile flowers. Her fingertips dusted in yellow separated the leaves from the peddles into two baskets. She looked over to her abuela, Carma, who threw another bundle of herbs into the bubbling pot. She hasn't moved from that spot in over an hour.
Isla was sure the basket filled to the brim was enough for Carma's brew. It had to be. They've been in the cabin since the sun set hours ago and Isla didn't think she could take another round of pollen slithering up her nose and crawling around her skin.
Any other night, Carma wouldn't need her. But tonight, she specifically asked Isla for help ? that's never happened before. On other nights, Isla would come along and watch, taking notes on how Carma moved around with the herbs. Within hours, a spell would be conjured and Carma would send it slithering down the mountains to those casting wishes, pleading to be answered.
It wasn't necessarily a wish and not all casts were answered. Isla still didn't get it. She didn't her any voices and she sure didn't see the spell slithering.
Isla walked over with the two baskets placing them close to Carma. "Should that be enough?" She hoped the answer was a yes as she began to wipe the powdery yellow from her face.
Carma did not answer. Her eyes moved from the boiling pot to the window, as if an untimed race was coming to an end.
"I mean, abuela, what would happen if we took a bit longer?" Isla asked. "A spell should still work even when the sun is up."
The ladle stopped moving. With tired eyes and a strip of lines like driftwood creasing her forehead, Carma looked defeated. "Tonight, is different." She repeated the same tune from earlier to Isla who still wanted to know more - like why.
"I cannot just hear a few but hundreds of casts urging to be answered." Carma paused looking over her inventory laid out on the wooden table. She closed her eyes and listened. Her head tilting one way to another as if she was navigating invisible lanes.
Isla closed her eyes and listened. The loud gulps from the boiling water flooded her thoughts instead. Still, she squeezed her eyes tighter, feeling her amber cheeks lifting. Where are the voices? Isla asked herself.
Carma said it took time to listen, to feel, and reach for the right one. Isla wanted to know how. She wanted to move freely among the spirited earth. The lively roots that seemed to still pulse as they prepped them for the young witches at the rise of the mountains.
Carma's movements nudged Isla to open her eyes. With a soft smile, she assured Isla, "Soon." Carma filled her hands with another handful of plucked leaves, dumping them into the pot. "But in the meantime, another round of the same roots?" She pointed to the few pale-gray roots laying on a single dish.
"Why are there so many calls tonight?"
Carma clucked her tongue and her fingers pointed to the pedals, roots, and herbs dancing together among the bubbles, "They speak - uneasy? trouble? and change."
"Well, how can I hear them? I want to help," Isla asked, still looking at the pedals flittering around the water.
"I've told you once before dear Isla, you are helping." Carma answered. "...and the roots?"
Isla turned and walked towards the large door. She would just be the help. She would not faithfully travel up the mountain as abuela did almost every night to answer the calls before her. Her own mother didn't even hear the calls. Carma's line of witches was fading out just like the moon tonight being taking over by the sun.
Stepping outside, Isla realized the boiling pot seemed to know exactly how she felt even though she couldn't tell what the brew was saying. Isla could have been down the mountains planning Friday night like a normal teen. Instead, Isla tightened the sweater around her to collect roots as the bitter winds of the mountain mocked her for wasting their time and it stung.
She squeezed the basket in one hand marching over to the field of flowers. Her other hand was hidden in the pocket trying to stay warm before they would dig into the ground for the roots over and over. It's not like Isla could take a shovel and rip them from the ground. Carma warned her of disfavoring the very elements that could answer the calls.
She found her march changing to a quick walk, silently apologizing to the ground. If only someone heard her. Isla laughed to herself. And laughed until she crumbled on top of the flower beds, dropping the basket and covering her face.
She couldn't do anything right.
Rolling over, she laid facing the stars above forgetting for a moment Carma's brew. Maybe the calls will never come. Just maybe, Isla would be Carma's help and that was, ok too.
Isla made quick work of digging out roots, filling the basket once more. She walked more carefully but in haste back to the house, noting the rays of the sun peeking from behind the clouds.
"Here." Isla said in a rush, hoping they still had time.
Carma already had a jug filled. She placed in Isla hands, "You're ready."
3
Week 1 posts / First Draft Night Cast
« on: August 07, 2020, 03:58:06 AM »
Hi!
For my draft, when I seen the prompt I had an idea where I wanted to go with a story but waited a few days before writing! My first thoughts of the prompt, I thought it was a well rounded photo and I was trying to go against what I first thought of - yet here we are with a witch tale.
When I'm working on a draft, I use a ton of parentheses to revisit at a later time when I'm in the flow - if I get stuck or can't think of a specific word, name etc. like the draft below, I leave myself notes so when I self-edit, I kinda of have an idea where I want to focus.
Night Cast
By Yara C.
(727 wc)
Past midnight, before sunrise, the old woman stirred the ladle spoon. With weary eyes, she looked out the single window, fogged to anyone who happened to walk past the lonely house on the hill.
Isla sat at the center table plucking the peddles from the bundle of chamomile flowers. Her fingertips dusted in yellow separated the leaves from the peddles into two baskets. She looked over to abuela who threw in another bundle of herbs in the bubbling pot. Isla was sure what filled the baskets was enough for abuela. It had to be. They've been in the cabin since the sun set hours ago and Isla didn't think she could take another round of pollen slithering up her nose and crawling around her skin.
Any other night, abuela wouldn't need her. Some nights, Isla came and watched, noted the way abuela moved around with the herbs. Within an hour, a spell would slither down the mountains to those winding a cast, pleading to be answered.
Not all casts were answered. Abuela said it took time to listen, to feel, and reach for the right one. Isla wanted to know how. She wanted to move freely among the spirited earth. The lively roots that seemed to still pulse as they prepared them for the young witches casting at the rise of the mountains.
Isla walked over with the two baskets placing them close to Abuela. "Should that be enough?" Isla hoped it was a yes.
Abuela did not answer. Her eyes moved from the boiling pot to the window, as if an untimed race was coming to an end.
"I mean, abuela, what would happen if we took a bit longer?" Isla asked. "A spell should still work even when the sun is up."
The ladle stopped moving. With tired eyes and a strip of lines like driftwood creased her forehead, Abuela looked defeated. Tonight, was different. Abuela couldn't her just a few but hundreds of casts urging to be answered.
"Nina," Abuela paused looking over her inventory laid out on the wooden table. She closed her eyes and listened. Her head tilting one way to another as if she was navigating invisible lanes.
Isla closed her eyes and listened. The loud gulps from the boiling water flooded her thoughts. Where are the voices? Isla asked herself. She squeezed her eyes tighter, feeling her amber cheeks lifting.
Abuela's movements nudged Isla to open her eyes. Abuela tsked to herself and filled her hands with another handful of plucked leaves, dumping them into the pot. "Another round of the same roots..." She pointed to the few pale-gray roots laying on a single dish.
Isla nodded. She would just be the aide. She would not faithfully travel up the mountain as abuela did almost every night to answer the calls before her. Her own mother didn't even hear the calls. Abuela, line of Brujas de Luna, was fading out just like the moon tonight being taking over by the sun.
Isla turned and walked towards the large door. Before opening it, she looked behind her shoulder and asked, "Why are there so many calls tonight?"
Abuela clucked her tongue.
(add here- convo ? reveal?)
Stepping outside, Isla thought of what Abuela said. Isla could be down, past the mountains planning Friday night like a normal teen. Picking out the next dress for a neighbor's cook out or meet late night at the boardwalk. (not sure if I want to spin it with the present/tech time) Instead, Isla tightened the sweater around her as the bitter winds of the mountain mocked her for wasting their time and it stung.
She squeezed the basket in one hand marching over to the field of flowers. Her other hand was hidden in the pocket trying to stay warm before they would dig into the ground for the roots over and over. It's not like Isla could take a shovel and rip them from the ground. Abuela warned her of disfavoring the very elements that could answer the calls.
She found her march changing to a quick walk, silently apologizing to the ground. If only someone heard her. Isla laughed to herself. And laughed until she crumbled on top of the flower beds, dropping the basket and covering her face.
She couldn't do anything right.
(add an end that includes a transformation of sorts for Isla).
For my draft, when I seen the prompt I had an idea where I wanted to go with a story but waited a few days before writing! My first thoughts of the prompt, I thought it was a well rounded photo and I was trying to go against what I first thought of - yet here we are with a witch tale.
When I'm working on a draft, I use a ton of parentheses to revisit at a later time when I'm in the flow - if I get stuck or can't think of a specific word, name etc. like the draft below, I leave myself notes so when I self-edit, I kinda of have an idea where I want to focus.
Night Cast
By Yara C.
(727 wc)
Past midnight, before sunrise, the old woman stirred the ladle spoon. With weary eyes, she looked out the single window, fogged to anyone who happened to walk past the lonely house on the hill.
Isla sat at the center table plucking the peddles from the bundle of chamomile flowers. Her fingertips dusted in yellow separated the leaves from the peddles into two baskets. She looked over to abuela who threw in another bundle of herbs in the bubbling pot. Isla was sure what filled the baskets was enough for abuela. It had to be. They've been in the cabin since the sun set hours ago and Isla didn't think she could take another round of pollen slithering up her nose and crawling around her skin.
Any other night, abuela wouldn't need her. Some nights, Isla came and watched, noted the way abuela moved around with the herbs. Within an hour, a spell would slither down the mountains to those winding a cast, pleading to be answered.
Not all casts were answered. Abuela said it took time to listen, to feel, and reach for the right one. Isla wanted to know how. She wanted to move freely among the spirited earth. The lively roots that seemed to still pulse as they prepared them for the young witches casting at the rise of the mountains.
Isla walked over with the two baskets placing them close to Abuela. "Should that be enough?" Isla hoped it was a yes.
Abuela did not answer. Her eyes moved from the boiling pot to the window, as if an untimed race was coming to an end.
"I mean, abuela, what would happen if we took a bit longer?" Isla asked. "A spell should still work even when the sun is up."
The ladle stopped moving. With tired eyes and a strip of lines like driftwood creased her forehead, Abuela looked defeated. Tonight, was different. Abuela couldn't her just a few but hundreds of casts urging to be answered.
"Nina," Abuela paused looking over her inventory laid out on the wooden table. She closed her eyes and listened. Her head tilting one way to another as if she was navigating invisible lanes.
Isla closed her eyes and listened. The loud gulps from the boiling water flooded her thoughts. Where are the voices? Isla asked herself. She squeezed her eyes tighter, feeling her amber cheeks lifting.
Abuela's movements nudged Isla to open her eyes. Abuela tsked to herself and filled her hands with another handful of plucked leaves, dumping them into the pot. "Another round of the same roots..." She pointed to the few pale-gray roots laying on a single dish.
Isla nodded. She would just be the aide. She would not faithfully travel up the mountain as abuela did almost every night to answer the calls before her. Her own mother didn't even hear the calls. Abuela, line of Brujas de Luna, was fading out just like the moon tonight being taking over by the sun.
Isla turned and walked towards the large door. Before opening it, she looked behind her shoulder and asked, "Why are there so many calls tonight?"
Abuela clucked her tongue.
(add here- convo ? reveal?)
Stepping outside, Isla thought of what Abuela said. Isla could be down, past the mountains planning Friday night like a normal teen. Picking out the next dress for a neighbor's cook out or meet late night at the boardwalk. (not sure if I want to spin it with the present/tech time) Instead, Isla tightened the sweater around her as the bitter winds of the mountain mocked her for wasting their time and it stung.
She squeezed the basket in one hand marching over to the field of flowers. Her other hand was hidden in the pocket trying to stay warm before they would dig into the ground for the roots over and over. It's not like Isla could take a shovel and rip them from the ground. Abuela warned her of disfavoring the very elements that could answer the calls.
She found her march changing to a quick walk, silently apologizing to the ground. If only someone heard her. Isla laughed to herself. And laughed until she crumbled on top of the flower beds, dropping the basket and covering her face.
She couldn't do anything right.
(add an end that includes a transformation of sorts for Isla).
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