Ok, so this is another Writing Contest that I'm doing. I am going to try to pump 1 out every 1-3 days. I'm going to change the way these are done a bit more because I want all of the participants to earn from their own stories as well as this one and to not be put off by the size limits that I put in place. Prizes will be awarded after the Closing of this Post.
Rules:
- Please only original works.
- Title must contain "Writing Prompt Contest #4 - The Wizard's Hat".
- Tags must include writingpromptcontest.
- Post your entry in a separate post of your own and copy the entry link in the comments section in this post.
- Post a link to this post at the bottom of your entry.
- Upvote and resteem after posting your link so that we can get as many entries as possible.
- Copy-paste the Writing Prompt segment from this post to the top of your own entry.
Prize:
If your post has the most upvotes and you have followed the rules outlined above, you will win a prize equal to 50% of the SBD Post earnings after Curation Rewards are taken out.
You cough deeply, clearing your throat of the dust and smoke that seems to just cling to the back of it. Your shirt sticks to your back as if the Summer's heat were at its apex instead of dipping early into Autumn. The only thing you can think to ease your mind from the heat of exertion is that today is Culling Day. Chop-chop-chop-lift-tote-stack is rote in your muscles, the only thing that you know at the moment, as you grow the stacks of firewood for Father's Forge. The smoke from the forge-fires, especially at this time of year, always seemed to dip and twist back to the dirt and just seeped into the very soil. Everything begins to smell like the embers and wisps of charred timber that sometimes floated around.
The King's Bells rung thrice. You don't move away from where you stand, just freeze in place as your body fizzes with excitement and nervous energy. You go back to the chopping process and wait for Father to come out of the forge. It is almost ten minutes before he does so, having to quench the shoe that he's finishing and salt the fire. He was always about safe practices and the minutia within the process... he could often be heard telling someone "the shoe fits, but the beauty is in the details", which they would then stoop closer to the shoe and gasp in awe at the intricacy of it.
He frames the doorway fully, a thick-muscled shape with a lean body and a shock of gray laced within his brownish curls. His eyes could pierce metal, you always think, whenever you meet them. He breathes in through the nose, a mangled nose that had seen fighting in his younger days. He pursed his thin lips and seemed to be thinking. You already knew what he would say, but it was impolite to interrupt or assume anything. You took the momentary pause to think just how much you must look like him, according to almost every goodwife that came to call.
"Thad," he began slowly, as if drawing out your name to savor the sound, "I believe that is the Culling Bell? I believe you may need to start running to catch up to all of your friends. You may," he continued, scratching his chin, "need to borrow someone's horse to go fast enough. Since you are such a slow runner, I think you may just as well stay put. What do you think?"
"I'll show you just how fast I can run, Father," you reply, crouching down. "Give me the signal!"
"Three... two... one... GO!" he shouts, his jovial spirit and hearty laughter sprinkling the air.
You are as fleet of foot as any child in the town. Many days during the Summer Festival would see racing like this, where your long legs covered so much more distance with so much less effort, that you would pass surprised children older and younger as they jogged or ran or skipped towards the Culling Field. This year, you know will be different, as this will be the first year that you will be tasked by one of the elders.
Thanks for reading the Writing Prompt, now please follow the rules and give me some good stories to read!