The whimsical prompt today was written by a writerly friend of mine. Friday after Friday for nearly two years (though I think we began on a Thursday, and the day of the week didn’t matter so much as us finding a weekly time to connect) we’d meet. We called ourselves the Rogue Writers. And we were. In the beginning it was just the two of us. We would chat for a good 50 minutes and sort our weeks, and drink coffee and laugh and cry. Then we would write on a prompt for 5 minutes (or 7 if we were feeling inspired) and then we would read our writing to each other.
It was so energizing and magic. Then we added a third, and it got even more magic. By the end of our time together (I moved away and I miss our weekly gatherings) there were five of us. A solid group of really wondrous writers. And each of us have such different writing styles that I’d leave inspired. And it felt like a brilliant coven of gentle hilarious witches writing ourselves a reality in which we had a strong group of friends on whom we could depend if times were rough or joyous. And it was MAGIC.
This weekly Whimsical Writing journey is a tribute to Abigenesis, and her ability to bring us together week after week. And the Rogues…they still gather, and I get to be there in spirit.
So it really is an honour to be writing on a series of prompts from Abigenesis. And to be able to call her friend, and fellow writer is one of my favourite things about this life.
The whimsical prompt: (I shall set a five minute timer and just write)
Where is my new broomstick?
(I read it aloud, just like we’d do at Rogue Writers)
I know I put it in the closet. A beautiful new broomstick. It was hard carved. The crone who’d made it had oiled it with purple iridescence and bound the straw head with a wire she’d hammered from copper she’d found left next to the highway. The handle was made of driftwood from my favourite beach. I’d brought the wood to the gentle crone on the last full moon. It had taken her until the next full moon to pluck the straw and get it just so. She’d sent me a handwritten note by crow. Your broom is ready.
The moment I held it in my hands I knew it was meant to fly. But only on Wednesdays under a moon nearly full. The crone had whispered a fond goodbye to her creation. She’d smiled at me as I gave her seven loaves of fresh baked bread, a smooth rock meant for skipping and a large bottle of spiced apple cider I’d brewed myself.
I’d walked home seven miles sweeping every six steps. I sang my favourite song to the broom as we walked.
Once home I’d put the broom in a special closet draped with peppermint and strawberry thyme.
I left it sit safely in the dark until a Wednesday under a nearly full moon.
But when I opened the closet, it was gone.
I live alone.
I looked out the window.
In the backyard, there was my broom, waiting upright, tilted at the moon.
heart,
Wake
Thank you Wake, you have transmuted my off the cuff prompt into a fantastical story of magic and love. I too miss our weekly writings and the comradery,the love and understanding of those who posses a different way of thinking and being.❤️