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).
Topic: First Draft Night Cast (Read 1633 times)