September's prompt: write a less than 400 word sci-fi or fantasy story that involves the colours gold, red, and orange. Hard mode: start each sentence of your story with a different word.
As always, creative liberty with the prompt is encouraged!
Post your stories in the channel when you're done; one entry will be selected (providing we receive 3+ entries) to be put through the editing process and then read aloud on Mythos & Ink's podcast, Wayfarer's Guide to Worldbuilding.
You've got until 11:59pm CST on September 30th to submit your piece!
Written September 18th, 2022
Not for the first time, you thank your mother for teaching you magic. Hiding the lessons from your father hadn't been easy, and he often punished her for less.
You sit in the anger, the trauma, perhaps for a moment too long. Hexing would be kindness, plus your mother taught you only to use this gift for self-empowerment. So you unpack your materials and refocus the original intention, twist the wording into your favor as you hum. A candle, painstakingly dipped in orange and red wax, etched with sigils you designed. Color magic was the first thing your mother taught you.
“Red is associated with passion, courage, power. Beyond that, it helps in confrontation and joy. Orange works to relieve depression, it breaks down barriers that surround us, and encourages strength and dominance.”
Rolling the candle in a thin layer of oil aids in sticking the flecks of gold shavings. Gold is precious, and known to bring prosperity and power. The last lesson she shared, before she handed you a pouch of coins that very color and told you to run.
Time flew by, but her love stayed constantly on your mind. Learning she passed not soon after you vanished from her life and from your father’s control only proved her presence in your mind was purposeful.
“Ancestors speak to us and live on through us, or die if we let them fall out of mind and memory.”
Deciding to return to this house, even with all the horrid memories, was an easy choice. Second easiest is choosing when.
Humming happy birthday, you light the candle and sit with your mother, in your father’s bedroom. He was always a heavy sleeper after drinking. Breathing in the scent of cinnamon, you can hear your mother laugh as she realizes what your plan is in its entirety.
Self-empowerment looks different for everyone; and today, staring at your father’s peaceful face where he lays, covered in sheets stained with booze on a bedframe raised over scraps of paper and brittle sticks, self empowerment looks like the flame of your candle as you set it under the bed and bar the door. More than anything, self-empowerment looks like the letter informing you of his passing, and all you inherited upon his passing as his only surviving family.
Magic works in mysterious ways, but your mother always loved your more hands-on approach.