#caffeinechallenge

[deathmuse0218]

Urban Magic

@caffeinewitchcraft sorry for the late submission and SUPER late to the prompt writing party. Hope this is okay!

For the lyric prompt Patricia by Florence and the Machine:

. . .

There was City magic in Her bones, reminiscent of a time before She packed up and crossed the country. When She was young and could not quite contain it, the sidewalk split beneath Her shoes. Even barefoot, Her footsteps rattled against the hard tile. But this place? This place had the habit of sucking the loud right out of a girl and condensing her into a complacent woman who does not take up space.

The North does not like Her kind anymore. They have lost their patience with strange gods and strange things. Though she has never lived outside of this tiny town, Pat thinks there are too many churches up North, spreading lies and corruption. She does not remind Pat of the six different denominations spread only between two blocks here.

But she is right. Things are different. The South has always been more considerate to superstitions. The people here welcome anything new and bright. Though skin like a dirt road makes people hesitate, the churches offer testimonies of miracles and good deeds alongside "Magic is a gift from the gods" theologies. She supposes everywhere has their vices.

There was City magic in Her bones. She had been created with it and it followed Her like a lost thing before curling like a cat around Her very being. Sometimes, soft tendrils would flick around Her fingers when she was agitated; a comfort and a menace.

When She moved to the country, the towns were too small to contain it. The sidewalks once again cracked beneath Her scuffed boots, unbraced for a girl so full of 7am traffic jams and noisy underpass grafitti.

The air was wet here, humid and sticky even when the ground was hot and barren. Every summer captures headlines as the hottest in at least a decade. There is never new news in small towns. When it rains more than a few inches, the newspapers run an article about the first and only major natural disaster to hit the county. It happened eight years ago and even still, tornado sirens call people to shelters with their shrieking call.

Where She walks, cool breeze follows. She sweeps past a couple in the local grocery store. They shiver at Her humor, cold and dry. The bread aisle smells like frost. The locals chalk it up to Her icy, no-nonsense gaze. Even after many years here, She has yet to learn the warmth behind Southern Hospitality. She has no patience for idle gossip. She nods Her thanks and when the clerk's hands brush Hers to return Her change, he notes that Her fingers are smooth and hard like new asphalt and sparkling glass.

She still drinks her tea unsweetened. Alchemy has never been Her strongest suit. Her first time, She'd mistakingly poured two cups of sugar into a piture of iced tea.

She has a lover who's laugh is honey and sunshine and bubbly as a brook. When Pat takes the undrinkable liquid to pour down the drain, She does not hesitate to defend Herself. She drinks, crunching saccharine crystals with Her teeth. She sticks out Her tongue and admits defeat.

She watches as Pat refils the piture with water from the unfiltered tap and measures out tea leaves. Pat pinches mint from a mason jar planter on the windowsill. At her touch, it grows back and She kisses Pat's talented hands in response. The beautiful country nymph She has fallen for could heal even the Earth if she wanted to.

At night, they lay tangled in the grassy backyard. She traces a group of stars with her finger, mapping out a constellation.

"That one is you." She whispers against Pat's peachy hair. "The North star is your heart, guiding me back to you."

Pat entwines their fingers. "The town calls me 'goddess-tamer' " she says it softly, as though she is afraid of the title.

She tries not to laugh. She is a dark, massive thing, a destroyer of worlds indeed. "How quaint of them to believe I can be tamed."

"Are you not?" Pat rolls over to plant kisses against Her shoulder. "I have worshipped your 'temple' plenty to know you of all gods can be tamed."

She closes Her eyes and hums pleasure. This girl of Hers was quick. "I must go soon." She says it like a curse.

"Will you be back?"

Though the kisses at Her skin had hesitated, She did not. "Yes. I will always come back to you." The oath settled around them as a weight, an anchor.

Yes, She was a goddess of cold destruction. She had fallen in love with mortals many times during her immortality. She had never promised them anything before. She had been dismissed from Her realm with intentions on destroying this one. It could wait. Wait another lifetime. Wait on another god to bring reckonning. She had once thought this place to be hideous and dull.

Pat resumed her kisses, following the line of Her jaw, over Her chin. Pressed gently against Her lips. Yes, it could wait.

There was City magic in Her bones. Some days it paced restlessly in Her chest and crackled around Her sharp nose. But when this girl of healing and rebirth stepped on the cracks She made on the sidewalk, flowers followed.

[spicychickencows]

Caffeine Challenge 20: A Conversation With a Tree

I used prompt 4 the picture of the tree. Lost the first five minutes trying to write a different story using the opening line prompt but then this arrived and demanded to be written instead. It’s a more deserving story than I was trying to write so I’m glad of it.

When the yellow moon rose we all went to gather at the old tree. The old withered tree that sat at the edge of the village. It had a hill to itself and mostly we left it alone. Not all the time. There were always children who thought they knew better or teenagers rebelling for the sake of rebelling. No one who really knew better would intrude on the space that belonged to the tree.

Unless the moon was yellow.

A yellow moon meant the tree didn’t mind. It meant the tree would like the company. We could all go up and sit on the hill and watch the moon sit in the sky for a while.

Somewhere at the back of our hearing it would be clear that the moon was singing to the tree. The tree never sang back. But we could hear something else. The tree was listening. It was always listening. It listened to the stories of the people in the village.

It kept the stories for us.

Under the yellow moon. As the yellow moon sang. We would go up to the hill and we would tell the tree stories. Last time my grandfather told the tree his story. It was the story of a man, and a woman, and of running away. The story my grandfather told began with his old life.

His life in a different village. A village without a tree. A village that had never seen the yellow moon.

The old tree was distraught by the middle of the story.

As my grandfather explained the reasons for his running away. The people he was getting away from. The tree silently wept. But like all stories told by someone my grandfather’s age it ended on a bittersweet note. My grandfather’s story was a story of love, of the woman he had met in this village and the stories she had told him.

And it ended when that woman had died.

There was a lot in the middle of those events. Stories need a meandering middle to be stories. They need a beginning and an end but if that’s all they have they aren’t really stories.

The tree needed real stories.

When it was my turn to tell the tree a story I wanted to lie. I didn’t think I had anything to say. I was fifteen years old and the tree was so old that no one in the village could remember it being anything other than the gnarled web of branches that it was now.

Nothing I had to say hadn’t been said already.

The moon was hanging low. Glowing yellow. The whole village was gathered on the hill watching the moon. They were all silent so they could hear its song. One of the old women from the village lead me over to the tree and told me to kneel down. Said I didn’t have to say anything out loud if I didn’t want to. That the tree would understand. Told me to think about what I wanted to say and that was all it would take.

“I haven’t done anything worth saying.” I thought.

“Few have.” I hadn’t expected an answer but a voice, older than the concept, had found its way into my head and had whispered in ancient tones.

“What am I supposed to say?”

“Whatever you want.”

“I don’t want to say anything.”

“Than don’t.”

I sat in silence and the tree sat with me. It did not ask for anything else. It did not ask any questions. It did not attempt to say anything.

“What does the song sound like?”

“You do not hear it?” The tree didn’t sound surprised by this. It’s tone gave off a sense of disinterest. It was not that it didn’t want to hear but simply that it was too different to ever take any of what was said to heart. “The song sounds like it has been sung for millennia. It is always the same song. It is the song the stars sing. An interpretation of it. I have never heard the original. I have only heard it as the yellow moon sings it.”

“Don’t you want to hear the original?”

“How would I?”

I smiled. Sighed. “I don’t know.”

“A song is a story. The song is older than anyone listening to it or singing it today. It will go on long after us. Would you like to hear a story? I have countless stories to tell.”

“Sure.”

“There was a girl once. She came to me and sat where you now sit. She had been cast away from her family because the child in her had been conceived out of wedlock. When she reached me she was filthy and starving. The village was a just a few houses. I was a transient part of her life. I do not know what happened next.”

“That’s not a story.”

“It is a part of a story. Some people only get part of a story. Perhaps another?”

“Why not?” I leaned against the tree and put one hand its bark. It was a rough but not uncomfortable. Worn down by generations of people who had sat and told a story.

The tree thought a moment. “A young boy once sat behind me eating stolen cookies. He offered one to a squirrel. The squirrel sat next to him and picked the nuts from the cookie. The boy laughed until he was called back by his mother.”

There was silence.

“Is that it?”

“Does it need to be more? This made the boy happy.”

I nodded. “Would you tell me another?”

“Of course. There are ashes buried around me. All around the place. They belong to many people. Once an old man brought a small wooden box up to me and dug a little in the space between my roots. He buried the ashes of his lover in the ground and he cried. He told me of her last words. But it is not my place to share them with you.”

I asked. “How do you decide which stories to tell?”

“I tell all the stories. Once there was a young girl who would come and climb among my branches. She would climb as high as she could and hang by one hand until she grew tired. She stopped doing this once she was ten. She fell to the ground once and left with a broken arm. As soon as it was healed she climbed again.”

“No one stopped her?”

“There was a man. About your age. He came here only once. There was a yellow moon. It was singing the song the stars sing. The man leaned gently against me and he told me he was tired. That he was going to sleep a while but that first he wanted to hear the song the stars sing. I sang it to him. He wanted to cry but found he could not.”

The tree fell silent. I did not intrude on its silence. I waited for it to speak again.

“At the next yellow moon a woman came to me. Her son had disappeared. She wanted ask me why. To ask if I knew. I said I did not. I have heard more stories than any who stand on this hill tonight and I cannot tell you who told any of them. I am not certain of their order.”

“My grandad buried ashes here.”

“Lot’s of people do.”

I thought for a moment.

“My mum used to climb in the tree branches all the time. Her left arm never properly recovered. She still gets this moments when she can’t close her hand.”

I felt the tree smile. “A man and a woman once stood under my branches and declared their love for each other. They kissed and they swore that on this hill was where they belonged where they would always be.”

It started to become clear that of all the stories the tree had heard and all the stories it could have told. It had chosen one. It had chosen my story. The story I didn’t think I had. “Would you sing to me?” I said. “It’s late. I’m getting tired. But before I go to sleep I think I’d like to hear the song the stars sing.”

The tree sang to me. I listened to the wordless tune that spun through the air around us. The people around me stood and watched the sun. Some of them started to pack up to leave. There was a couple that were wrapping up their baby in a blanket. They walked off together.

Two older gentlemen embraced before they parted. One of them heading away from the village to somewhere else.

The stars twinkled in the sky and the yellow moon continued its steady journey.

A girl my age smiled at me but turned away when she saw I’d noticed. She tucked her her hair behind her ear and walked away.

One man stood alone staring at the moon. He was at least twice my age but he had worn it well. His hair was slicked back and he smiled like someone who know everything they had ever wanted to know. He tipped his hat before he left.

As I stood. I heard the tree say, “Goodbye.”

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Caffeine Challenge #3

Today, starting at 4:05 pm CST, write for one hour with me! (Oops that’s now!)

You can watch me write here: (X) 

It’s a word document so it’s real time. If that link doesn’t work, let me know!

At the end of the hour, share what you’ve written with the tag CaffeineChallenge

I’ll add it to the word doc so you can go back and look at all the prompt fills!

Today’s prompt: Is from @writing-prompt-s because I saw it on my dash. Reblog their post with your writing or not, I’m not a cop :p You can find it HERE

See y’all in an hour!

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Caffeine Challenge #2

Today, starting at 5 pm CST, write for one hour with me! (Oops that’s now!)

You can watch me write here: (X)

At the end of the hour, share what you’ve written with the tag CaffeineChallenge

I’ll add it to the word doc so you can go back and look at all the prompt fills!

Today’s prompt: This post about witch coffee shops! (X)

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Writing Challenge- COMPLETE

You can read mine here (X) or below! If you did the challenge, tag it CaffeineChallenge and I’ll add it to the doc!

I’m going to do one of these a day for the rest of October, so tune in tomorrow at 5 pm CST for the next one!

Lily doesn’t go down easily. She’s been a fighter her entire life and she--

She doesn’t go down easily.

Still, when the mages allow their sparks to fizzle out, when Brienne calls for a ceasefire, a surrender, when everyone stops killing each other, she’s down. She’s lying in the mud behind a random farm, letting the cold seep through her thin pants and shirt, because she’s down and she’s pretty sure she’s not going to get up again.

It’s worth it, she thinks viciously. She coughs and a hundred daggers embed themselves into her lungs. Something warm dribbles from her lips, slides down her cheek, skirts the fold of her ear before being absorbed by the earth. The ground sings with another drop of blood, louder and louder to her magic-sensitive ears.  It’s worth it.

“Lily!” The scream pierces the air and rises above the groans and curses of the injured. Lily hears someone running towards her, slipping and sliding, and she lets her eyes close. Brienne drops next to her, strings cut, and pulls her into her arms. “Lily!”

Lily can’t speak. She doesn’t know if it’s from using her powers or if she’s too injured. All she knows is that she can trace the shape of Brienne’s face with her eyes one last time. It’s a blessing, a boon, one she hadn’t thought to get. She wants to die like this, looking into the face of the woman she loves.

The younger woman is as beautiful as the day Lily met her. Her wide nose shows signs of having been broken more than once and there’s a horrible bruise blooming across one of her sharp cheekbones, but she’s still gorgeous. Brienne’s dark eyes fly over Lily’s face and body, cataloguing each of her injuries. From the way she pales, Lily can surmise that it’s not good.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” Brienne whispers. She swallows heavily. “You weren’t-- Lily.”

The badge on Brienne’s chest, once shiny and bright, is tinged red. It’s the mark of the King’s Sorcerer Corp, a mark of distinction. The day Brienne had joined, Lily had dismissed her as an apprentice, unwilling to give the King anymore of her secrets. She’d asked Brienne if that was what she really wanted, to be a dog for the Court, to have to turn against her own kind.

Brienne had walked away without another word, aura sparking with her fury. That had been two years ago, two long years filled with minimal contact and barbed words.

Lily hopes it was worth it to Brienne.

“Your King doesn’t want you back,” a new voice says. Lily still has the presence of mind to recognize the leader of the Mage Rebellion, Augusta. The stern woman is standing over them, hair white as sepulcher and expression grim. “‘Course, even if he did, he’s not going to be on the throne for much longer anyway.”

Brienne’s arms tighten around Lily as if anticipating Augusta interfering. “The King is a fool. We-- we know that now. We won’t fight whatever the rebellion has planned for us. We’ve surrendered.”

“The King is a fool, right enough,” Augusta says, still looming. She wipes at the blood staining her leathers. “Yet you still fought for him, until the end.”

“Is there a question in there?” Brienne asks, voice tight. “You know the enchantments he puts on the Corp. You know why we stood by his side.”

“Sure,” Augusta agrees easily. “We all do. We understand.”

Brienne’s brow furrows. “Y-you understand?”

“Yep,” Augusta says. She finally drops to their level, where Lily doesn’t have to strain to look at her. “Doesn’t mean we don’t think you’re a bunch of spineless cowards, though.”

Brienne’s head flies back as if struck. “The enchantment made it so we--”

“You had to join him before any enchantments,” Augusta says, lip curling. She scans Lily, much like Brienne had, and her face crumples. “There’s always a price to pay when fools go to fight imaginary wars.”

“Y-you can heal her, right?” Brienne asks, ignoring being called a fool. “She wasn’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be safe.” Brienne’s voice breaks and she bows her head so only Lily can see the glimmer of tears.

“Lily,” Augusta says, leaning forward, “Lily, will you let me heal you?”

“Why are you asking her?” Brienne demands to know. “She can’t talk, just do it!”

“Hush,” Augusta snaps. “I know Lily taught you better than to do a working on the unwilling.” Her focus returns to Lily. “Can I heal you?”

Lily feels her lips trembling. She needs to-- to tell her. “C...cost.”

Augusta sits back on her heels. She looks, all at once, her age. The lines around her mouth deepen and a fine mist gathers over her eyes. “Oh, Lily.”

“What?” Brienne looks between the woman in her lap and the leader of the rebellion. “What cost? Why aren’t you healing her?”

“The ritual worked,” Augusta says, voice soft. Her weathered hand finds Lily’s cold one and squeezes. “Oh, my dear.”

Brienne shakes her head. “No, the ritual didn’t work! Kaine had it set up but you intercepted it in time-- everyone kept their magic and he died--”

“The ritual worked,” Augusta repeats evenly. She closes her eyes and brings Lily’s hand up to press against her forehead. “It tried to strip us of our magic, strip us of our lives. Not just us, silly girl, but every magic user on the battlefield.  Lily took all the effects into herself.”

“Th-that’s impossible,” Brienne stutters. She meets Lily’s eyes, sees the sad truth in them. “But it’s just a spell! You can heal spell damage, I know you can--”

“I can,” Augusta says. “But the spell isn’t dead yet. She’s trapped it inside of her body. It dies when she does.”

“Impossible,” Brienne repeats. “She can’t--that’s not possible!”

“She’s a mage” Augusta says. “Trapping a spell is easy for someone like her.” Unlike you, Augusta doesn’t say. Brienne had never completed her studies, had never become all she could be.

“What happens if you do heal her?” Brienne asks, changing tactics. “The spell gets released, right? You guys are better prepared for it, my Corp will help, we can kill it--”

Augusta is already shaking her head. “Brienne, it’s done. There’s nothing more we can do. If we save Lily, we kill everyone here.” She reaches out with her free hand and strokes Lily’s hair. “Thank you for saving us, Lily. I’m sorry.”

Lily takes another rasping breath and sends a curl of warm magic to Augusta. She hopes it conveys all she wants it too. That she’s thankful for the older woman’s guidance, her compassion. That she’s thankful that she’s allowing her this, her final moments with dignity.

Augusta’s eyes close when the magic brushes against her cheek. “I understand. Rest well, my dear. We will meet again, one day.” She stands, wavering slightly before finding her equilibrium. “I’ll give you this time to say goodbye. I’ll return shortly.” She strides across the blooded ground, towards the remnants of the Corp.

“There has to be a way,” Brienne says, eyes darting over Lily’s face. “I--this is my fault. I’ll take the spell, I’ll take it with me into the next world. Just--please, Lily.”

Lily, with great effort, shakes her head. She might have dismissed Brienne as her apprentice, but she’s still her teacher. It’s her job to protect the younger magic user from her mistakes, her job to protect her from the enemy. She’s been failing to do that for years, ever since Brienne joined the Corp, and she’s not going to let herself fail now.

“No!” Brienne presses her forehead against Lily’s. Her tears fall hotly on Lily’s nose, cheeks, and lips. “No, I am not going to let you pay for my mistakes! Not again.”

Lily’s eyes widen as she feels Brienne’s magic, rough and wild from lack of training, pressing against her skin. Her hands come up weakly to push at the younger woman’s shoulders but she’s weakened by her physical injuries.

Brienne’s power sinks into Lily’s barriers, pulling and tugging at the locks it finds. It’s trying to get inside of her, into her core, but she can’t. She can’t let Brienne take this from her, can’t let the spell free. She struggles, lashes out at Brienne with her own magic, but that too is weakened.

Lily had accepted Brienne because of her power. She’d been glowing with it all those years ago, accidentally changing reality around her with simple wishes. Even then, untrained, Brienne had more power than Lily.

Now, half-trained, Brienne surpasses her teacher far too easily.

Lily convulses as Brienne’s magic breaks through her barriers, floods her mind with the smell of spice and the taste of oranges. It soothes the deep wounds the spell had gouged into her psyche, but it’s wrong. She’s going to be killed and Lily will have failed again--

You never failed, Brienne’s voice echoes in her mind. We can do this. Please, Lily, help me. Show me.

Lily sends the last of her magic around the spell. It’s akin to laying hands on a tiger and it bites into her. She wraps who she is around it, uses her essence to block it from Brienne’s sight. She’s startled when she feels Brienne’s essence (beautiful and wonderful, like her) folds itself around her, drenches her in warmth.

Let me see, Brienne’s voice whispers. Let me help. Let me save you.

No, Lily replies. Her voice is so much quieter than Brienne’s. No, no, I won’t let you, it’s worth it--

Nothing is worth it, Brienne growls. Her magic pulls at Lily until the barest hint of the spell darts through the crack. Lily cries out while Brienne purrs in satisfaction. It’s mine.

Lily’s hold on the spell breaks and it floods them both. Lily, disconnected from her body as she is, can tell that they’re both taught, every muscle straining, as the spell wreaks havoc.

Lily, gone as she is, can feel it killing Brienne.

NO! She’s out of energy, out of magic, but there’s still one place she can go. It’s dangerous, it might kill her on its own, but she won’t let it take Brienne. She won’t.

Lily reaches down, down, down, and touches the power of the Mother for the second time in her life.