Tell a story of Magic. Not the fictional kind, but a personal power that connects you to the world to see things in an original light specific to you.
Connecting with others, truly empathizing with thier emotions and feelings, without thought of your own, is a magic that transforms the world. We see this evolution, genetically, in humans. Our very DNA is paired, connected in a magnificent helix that represents all we encompass. Bonding is not just a human ability. We witness this magical tie between animals of the great oceans of Earth. Pods of dolphins will beach by the hundreds for the sake of the one. These horrific scenes that once evoked the power of the Gods, the anger of Poseidon, were actually the strength of the Bonding in these creatures. "Til death do us part" was never solely a committment between man and women. As scientist, in their cold and pristine labs, lance at the brains of dearly departed killer whales, thier surgical bayonets reveal a higher development of the emotional portion of the brain. These leviathans of the deep are more advanced, bonding as a family, as a species, stronger than humans can ever accomplish. The scientists smile with cheshire grins and predatory eyes, thinking they have discovered a way to exploit this inferior mammal for their own benefit. They do not see, do not feel, do not Bond with this dead Earthling. They know nothing. They are not magical.
Write a story about seasonal change, but the change is wrong or backwards, and your character needs to find a way to solve it.
The roads were empty, the fields desolate. The smoke hung heavy upon the small village, from the chimneys of every home, as folks tried in vain to keep warm, to keep the biting cold from seeping into stiff bones. Layers of clothing, wool mittens, hoods and homemade masks to protect ears and noses from frostbite. It wasn't enough. Falls Brook was icing over, its inhabitants preparing for hibernation in the height of summer.
Rhyming couldn't understand any of it. In between the struggle to mentally remembering gathering wood, keeping the chimney hot, occasionally eating or drinking, and maintaining the fire, while taking small naps, Rhyming wondered, "How can this be?!". In all his 38 years, never had he experienced such cold. Was this penance for traveling far from home? Should he have stayed at the family farm, instead of following his dreams?
Over the chattering of teeth and crackle of the fire, Rhyming could hear is father, "Your gypsy feet will get you into hot water, boy! There's naught but trouble beyond the farm. Stay home, stay safe.". Hot water. What I wouldn't give for hot water, he thought. Unfortunately, the time it took to pull a roiling pot of water off the fire and empty it into a small bowl of dried noodles, the temperature plummeted to lukewarm, the noodles didn't cook, everything was just too cold.
Perhaps there was a simple solution, move back home. This was a mistake. There was always help needed on the farm, Rhyming was sure his father would wrap him in a warm hug upon his return. Hateful words at his departure would be forgotten, there was work to be done. The once stifling humidity and clouds of flies would be a welcome discomfort if Rhyming could now feel the warmth of the sun, rising over the Greenbriar Hills.
That wouldn't do. Who was he kidding? Rhyming was never going home. The way back was gone, like the memories of midsummer days, fanning away the sweat beading on one's cheeks. This just wouldn't do. All this dreaming would lead to his death. More wood on the fire. Need more wood, but he'd gone through all the cords he had stacked next to his hovel. None of his neighbors would spare any, if they had any to spare. No one left their houses anymore. The last one to brave the snowy storms disappeared without a trace. Rhyming was in his hovel. Old Russell would understand. No use in another man dying in this unnatural cold.
It was unnatural, even supernatural. A cold wind on a summer day was usually nice. Leastways it started that way. But it kept up, strengthening into a gale, soon turning to storms of sleet, then hail. The weather change was sudden and fierce. Supernatural, indeed, and deadly. Half the village, quicker to see the danger, fled the land, speeding northward on the rumor of warmer destinations. Half of those left died inside a week, the frozen statues decorated Falls Brook, reminders that braving the outside was foolheardy. Rhyming peeked out his window, glimpsing the stilled form of a girl in mid-run, forever crossing the road, never reaching safety. There were many frozen forms dotting the village. Too many reminders.
Wood. I need more wood, Rhyming reminded himself, the mantra he'd repeated thousands of times in a ritual of survival. Rubbing his woolen hands together was done thoughtlessly. A habit that didn't keep the tips of his fingers from turning black, needling pain was a constant, as was a gnawing hunger. Keep moving, Rhyming thought, or you'll never move again. Get up. Walk around. The hovel was seven paces in length and three paces across. He'd walked it hundreds of times. "Get. Up.", Rhyming told himself, out loud, as if the words would give him the strength he needed to shift his boots along that cold, familiar path, seven long, three across. "Get up, Rhyming!".
"Uh?". Rhyming rubbed the sleep from his eyes, fingers stiff with cold. "You fell asleep in the ditch again, boy. What I wouldn't give for a hardworking kid, like Paul's got next farm over. Now that child knows what work is all about! Clear's two acres a day, gets his chores done, and has time to chip in around here, while you sleep in the shade! Lazy, is what you are...", Rhyming's father rambled on, headed to the field to continue bringing in the day's harvest. Rhyming felt the cool dirt in his hands, the slow return of warmth to his limbs and a smile, spreading on his face. Getting to his feet, he chuckled to himself, "What a dream.", dusting off the dirt stains along his trousers and shirt. His father shouted, "Get up, ya bum! Get that wood to the kitchen, we'll need it for tonight's stew! Or do ya wanna sleep through that as well?".
Prompt - "All Hallows Eve"
Beakers bubble, potions brew.
All to make a better you.
Sipping slowly, like a cat at milk,
You down the mixture, smooth as silk.
A bayonet of pain pierces your gut.
Fire races down toward your butt.
This is wrong, you've made a mistake?
It should taste like spiced cake!
You should in fury, "What terrible odds!",
As your race toward porcelain gods.
Maybe next year you'll get it right.
Life everlasting is just within sight.