Observation: I’m almost frightened to go back and look at the two previously posted days because the typos in this one were so bad…and I’m sure there might be more.
So, you probably noticed that I didn’t write yesterday. It might have been a good thing because I came up with a direction to go in. Yippeee!
Update: I will try to write another passage for today so that I can closer to where I should be, but a cup of tea and sustenance are in order.
Disclaimer: A draft! Maybe a very bad draft! 🙂 Read at your own risk.
Total word count: 18046
for yesterday I would have been behind by: 291. If I don’t write anymore today, I’ll be behind by: 1958.
You can read previous sections here.
So, I’m sure I look a little smug, but it’s a relief to know I’m back.
Further discussions with Heath were uneventful. We were like two prize fighters dancing for position, feigning punches we didn’t throw. If he believed that I suspected he was more than just a good grandson visiting his elderly grandmother, he didn’t let on.
He devoured two bowls of my soup and a half a loaf of Rose’s bread while telling Nikki and me about life in England. When he finally left, I have to confess I was a little relieved. I expected Nikki to tie him up and start to interrogate him. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. She seemed depressed that there had been no fireworks of any kind. Me? Well, in the past few weeks I’ve had more drama and revelations than I expected or needed, so I was a little bit happy about having my house to myself when they both left.
My gran gave me a book last night that “will shine light on who your ancestors were and how you fall in the realm of things.” Realm of things. Now that is one line I never imagined hearing fall from gran’s lips.
I make a cup of tea, not the infamous gingery, binding-powers blend of my Mom, but a simple Earl Gray that smells as delicious as it tastes with the addition of just a smidge of honey, and then I settle on the loveseat that looks over the backyard and into the woods.
Quickly I become engrossed and then slightly terrified as the history of my family unfolds, women who were persecuted for the use of herbal remedies or because unusual events happened when they were around. I can certainly testify that that last situation could arise. This week has been evidence of that.
Every five generations a special set of siblings is born. Four sisters with bright red hair and strong powers. If the children are not bound or well versed and trained in their powers, they become more of a liability than an asset. The power can intensify to such a degree that the individual becomes hungry for more and can become insane. The magick community will have to intervene or outsiders will become aware of the community.
A handwritten “post it” has been placed in the corner. It’s gran’s writing. “Our fear is now that the girls could be used by the government or other powerful entities, if their powers come to fruition and they are discovered.”
Now I understand why so many people showed up from far and wide when word got out about the soup fiasco. Four red-haired sisters. Is that us? Are we the powerful generation? I think we must be. That would explain why Mom, Gran, and Aunt Lea bound our powers. It doesn’t explain why they didn’t opt to train us, unless they really are afraid of us being discovered by outside entities. Of course, I don’t believe that magical soup making is a very useful to the military. What would they do to the enemy: “here we’ve got some soup that will…make you fly?” Oh. OH!
“Other things too.”
“What?” I respond and then feel the hairs on the back of the neck raise. There is no one here with me, yet I just heard a voice. Or I heard it in my mind.
Suddenly I notice a tri-colored collie-looking dog sitting on the deck facing me. Gingerly I open the door. I love dogs but still find myself wary at times after me and my pup were attacked ten years ago.
“Hello there,” I say, my breath white in the cold late afternoon air.
The dog stands, walks forward, and presses her cold wet nose into my hand, and then slides by me into the house. She sniffs around a few minutes before jumping up onto the loveseat.
“Well, make yourself at home.” I wonder if dogs can understand sarcasm?
She seems to raise an eyebrow at me.
She isn’t wearing a collar and I don’t remember ever seeing her around here before. I wonder if a camper lost her, and she wandered through the woods until she found me.
“If you can really talk, you’d tell me how to get you back to your family.”
“I’m with my family.”
I definitely hit my head harder than I thought I did. A bit panicked I consider calling the emergency room to find out if this is abnormal and then I mentally kick myself. Of course, it’s abnormal. Dogs don’t talk, well, maybe they talk but not in English. They can only speak dog, right?
“Not to be concerned. Not all dogs talk. I’m your familiar, and now that your powers are allowed to surface, I’ve been called to you.”
Oh. “Can anyone else hear you?”
“Nope. You’re not really hearing me either. I’m inside your head.”
“Do I need to talk to you or can I be inside your head?”
Huff. “I don’t know that I want you inside my head,” she says. “You won’t be able to unless you’re trained. It takes talent.”
“You’ve been trained?”
Can a dog roll it eyes? Well this one can and talks too. Just figures I’d get a dog as snarky as me.
I sit on the loveseat with her, regarding her smart, old eyes. “Let me get this straight. No one’s looking for you.”
“You just appeared out of thin air?”
“Really? Nope. I’m a dog.”
I wait, watching, as she rests her white chin on her freckled paws and proceeds to stare at me.
“I don’t think you’re ready for all of the answers just yet. You need some assistance in dealing with things besides me. Just treat me like a dog and get used to it. I like baked chicken, by the way.”
“Of course, you do. I don’t eat meat.”
“No one suggested you eat it.”
“Got me there.”
The dog jumps up suddenly, faces the woods, and growls. Darkness has fallen, and I can’t see anything, but the dog moves from looking out the window to scratching on the French door.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Yes. Let me out, so I can see.”
“They could hurt you.”
“I won’t get close enough. I can be stealthy.”
I open the door. The dog slides out, disappearing into the darkness. I can’t even hear the rustle of her pads on leaves, but I can hear someone, not so stealthy in the woods. If I were the paranoid type, I’d think someone was spying on me. Okay, maybe climbing a mimosa tree to see if Heath was doing something that botched up my soup might be slightly paranoid, or a lot paranoid, but would someone really spy on me?
My thoughts wander back to the book and Gran’s note. Maybe there are people watching to see if my sisters and me slip up. Maybe there are people who will want to use our powers, if we actually possess then.
I hear a masculine grunt and curse, a growl, and then the sound of a gunshot. Before I can think of my reaction, I’m out the door running to the woods with the baseball bat I keep next to the door in my hand. Yep, I know I can always bat away bullets. If someone has just hurt my new found familiar, they will be sorry.
Someone is running towards the road. I can see the moment when they switch on their flashlight and its white light bobbing. What I can’t see is how tall they are or anything else. Maybe I should get in my car and chase after them.
“Familiar dog?” I call.
No answer. I must be the worst witch ever to lose her familiar within fifteen minutes of being introduced.
5 thoughts on “NaNoWriMo Day 11, Soup’s Off”
That’s an unexpected twist. Love the taking dog.
OK…..this is a great ride. I love where it’s going. Write on…… never mind typos!!
Love the twist! This is so good and such fun to read! Typos be damned, who cares! Your writing is what counts wooot
I like the addition of the dog. She’s like a guide dog for witches. I know damn well you didn’t kill the dog. I wrote a story where I needed to kill someone, and I had to make up a lame excuse for the constant dog companion to be elsewhere because I couldn’t kill the dog.
Thanks. I mostly can’t read fiction books about dogs anymore because they almost always die.