The Farmer's Regret

So I was definitely supposed to update this with new writing every day. Hm. Anyways, this was started Thursday or sometime last week. Prompt from writesf.com

Try writing the description (of your made up magical world) from the point of view of a nonmagical character, such as a merchant who encounters the magical ones from time to time, but can only guess at the true extent of their powers.

The sun was setting on a field of growing food. From between the vibrant green leaves, fruits and flowers of all colors dully reflected the sunlight, giving the impression of rubies, sapphires, and diamonds swimming in a sea of green. A hand reached down and grabbed a ruby-colored strawberry, turning it this way and that way. When satisfied, with a deft pluck and a tug, the strawberry snapped free from its vine and was deposited in a woven basket. The hand’s owner stood up straight with a petulant sigh. “Grandpa, it’s getting dark! Can’t we stop now?” Stacy called out to the figure of an older man working a hundred feet away. The figure was stooped down low, preoccupied with picking, and showed no sign of having heard her.

Stubbornly, Stacy marched over to her grandfather, stopped right in front of him, and looked him straight in the eye. At least, she would have, if he’d bothered looking up at her. Minutes passed with the old man still picking, moving from one plant to the next. Finally, he stopped when Stacy’s body prevented him from moving forward.

When he spoke, he voice was gravelly, like a hundred rocks colliding against each other. “What, child?” he asked. “There’s still daylight.” He regarded her coolly, with perceptive eyes that seemed to know what was coming next.

“Jimmy at school says that if we used magic, we could pick a whole field in less than an hour! Why can’t we go learn-“ Her voice stopped short when a heavy hand slapped against her face, sending her to the ground.

“What have I told you about magic-talk? I don’t even want to hear you use the word! Now get back to work!”

Stacy scampered off, running to the far side of the field and forgetting her basket. The old man could see her pretending to bend down and pick the berries while actually rubbing her stinging cheek and trying to hold back tears.

His face was calm however, despite his outburst. I knew she’d start asking about it someday. We all did, he thought. But he’d hoped she’d be different. He’d hoped his granddaughter would just take his word for it, unlike his good for nothing daughter. He bent down and attacked the berries with a sudden ferociousness. “Mages,” he spat with disgust. How could a child understand the heavy price of magic? How could those mages, knowing the cost, still continue their evil arts? How could his own daughter…

Tears stung his eyes, and he stopped picking. It had been a long while since he’d cried over her. In order to move on with his life he’d had to accept that she’d made her decision and he could do nothing to change it. He wondered if she even still lived. What parent didn’t hope, didn’t expect, that their children would outlive them.  But he’d heard tales of what the people called the mage’s price, and he’d seen the last mage that came through the village. The mage’s back protruded in a hump, and he stooped low. He could barely walk. When the old man saw the mages face, it had been old and decrepit, with more wrinkles than the old man had. But the worst part was when the mage spoke his age. He had to repeat himself twice, because each time when he spoke, the crowd gathered went into an uproar. The mage had been ten years younger than the man. Practicing the evil arts of magic ate away at a person’s soul, at a person’s own life. Never before had the old man been glad his parents had been so strict on him. Now he only wished he had been as strict on his daughter.

day 1

Inspired by this amazing video 

http://www.upworthy.com/this-kid-just-died-what-he-left-behind-is-wondtacular-rip

When I was 16 years old I found out that I would never graduate from high school. Because I’d be dead. I won’t bore you with the specifics, like how to pronounce whatever obscure disease I have. Even I don’t remember that. All I remember from that day is sitting in a cold, white room with white, snow-framed windows, and feeling like winter would never end. Like for the rest of my life I would be freezing, alone inside a white room with needles to prick at me until I bleed, with white gloves reaching to tear me limb from limb. At that moment I remember wanting nothing more than to go home, to retreat to my bedroom and pull the covers up to my chin. I spent that night in a hospital room. And the night after that.

When I was finally able to go home, I remember that being all I did. Laying in bed, under the covers, as if my covers could hide me from the disease inside me. I didn’t know it at the time, but like a fungus in a warm, stagnant environment, the disease was becoming bigger, and bigger. So big that it kept me from going back to school once the doctors said it was okay. My parents stayed with me the first few days. But they eventually gave up trying to get through to me. I was inconsolable. And day after  day, my head was filled with all the things I would never get to do, all the dreams I once had that I would never accomplish. All the things I wasn’t doing as I laid in bed, day after day. 

I started going to school again. My once perfect grades fell to a C average. But what was the point? I’d never finish high school. Never apply to college. Why waste the little time I had left on school? Ironically, wasting time is exactly what I was doing. Day in and day out, school then home, glazed eyes no matter where I was. Dreaming instead of living. 

But one day I woke up. It was after school. I had ridden the bus home and was in my room, alone, playing video games instead of studying. I used to play them for hours. If I was going to die, I might as well have as much fun until it happened. But I was losing at the game. And the more I played, the more frustrated I got. Frustrated and angry and angrier until I hurled the controller across the room as a sob ripped my throat. I wasn’t having fun. I tried to think of what I could do instead, of what I wanted, really wanted. I realized I played video games to distract myself, and something inside of me had been screaming in protest the whole time. But if not video games, then what did I want to do? To live. The answer shone straight through the winter clouds that hung above me like a beam of sunlight. But why did I want to live when living was so miserable? This time, the answer came more slowly. Because I had dreams. I wanted to do things, see things, touch things. I wanted to become someone. 

Then go do it. 

That sentence weighed on my mind like a prisoner’s ball that night. And the next morning I woke up eager, excited for the first time in months, ready to… One week later nothing had changed. 

Stopped because lazy. 

The first step

I once read somewhere that before I could write even one good word, I'd first have to write one million bad ones. This is word one.