TokoWrites
loading
A Girl Made of Fire
751 words
script cabin
SWC Writing Competition Entry
The Fire
In the heart of the ancient forest, the air hums with secrets, the trees whisper forgotten incantations. A girl named Thistle conjures a fire. This girl is a mystery, her magic both fragile and fierce, like the delicate petals of a rare flower. Her existence, an exquisite balance as well. Thistle moves through the forest, her feet brushing moss-covered roots, her eyes alight with the flicker of something otherworldly. The trees lean in, their gnarled branches forming a protective circle around Thistle. They know her, revere her – the girl who dances with fire.
The flames are Thistle’s companions, swirling around her like eager spirits. They lick at her skin, leaving no trace of burns, for Thistle had tamed them. She knows their secrets, the way they hunger for stories, memories, the very essence of life. And so, she feeds them, whispering forgotten tales into their fiery tongues.
One evening, as the sun slipped beneath the horizon, Thistle finds herself in a secluded glade. The fire crackles in the center, its warmth cocooning her. She twirls, her tattered dress catching the light. The flames mirror her movements, leaping higher, wilder. She imagines the cheers of distant campfires, the laughter, the camaraderie. With each pirouette, Thistle’s flames dance up a whirlwind, smoke, and ashes swaying along.
But Thistle knows the truth. Her magic is waning, hungering for more, a deeper well to draw from. Thistle’s mindless ideas and wishes, no longer enough. She needs a stronger source, something ancient and potent. And so, she reaches beyond the veil of reality. The flames sense it, a tremor in the air, a pulse of power. They stretch, their tendrils reaching toward the heavens. Thistle was not alone in this dance, for I, Death, watch from the shadows, curious and hungry.
Then comes Leonora, the girl’s sister. She stumbles into the clearing, her eyes wide with wonder. Leonora is no sorceress, her magic untrained and untamed, and the flames sense her vulnerability, her untapped potential. The tendrils of smoke slither toward Leonora, wrapping around her limbs, claiming her.
Leonora’s eyes flicker with the embers of her sister’s fire as she remains caught between worlds, her existence split like a fractured mirror. At that moment, the forest holds its breath, the swaying branches slow, and I linger, immersed in the trees, a silent witness.
In the dance of magic and power, sometimes even I can’t resist the allure of flames, their promise of eternity. Alas, I claim the girl. Not out of malice, but because magic demands its due. Leonora becomes one with the flame, a bridge between realms.
And so, Thistle dances on, her sister’s eyes forever burning in the heart of the fire. The ancient trees bow, their leaves brushing against me. For in the dance of magic and power, innocence is a fleeting concept, and choices issue consequences that echo through perpetuity, following into the next world and the next.
The Girl
In the darkness, behind closed eyelids, the fire dances, a relentless phantom. Thistle sees the fire that consumed the girl, leaving nothing but memories, burnt to a crisp. Regret coils around Thistle, tighter than the flames ever did, as she yearns from the film to rewind, a chance to alter Fate. Thistle wishes so hard, that the ending of that girl had been Thistle’s. That Thistle had been the one I claimed. But time is unyielding.
Leonora, Thistle’s sister, older by two years exactly, was the most precious thing to Thistle. Thistle cared for her so that sometimes it was as if she was the elder. Nory, as Thistle called her, was the smoke to her flame, the water to her life. Those were the words that bound them, whispered secrets between sisters.
It was the fire that devoured her. Thistle’s fire. She’s that girl with the raging fire, the inferno in her veins. Charred fragments of her and Leonora’s past scatter like ashes. Every spark Thistle ignites mirrors me, my duty. Each flame flickers with her inadequacy, thoughts of failure. Thistle wishes to have shielded Nory from the fire’s wrath, extinguishing the blaze before it consumed her, but hindsight offers her no solace.
In her heart, she could have altered destiny, rewritten the script. Yet replaying the scene in her mind yields no variety of outcomes. It was, of course, my fault, as I am the one who claimed Leonora, but that was merely my duty. The fire roars and Thistle remains, haunted by what she should have prevented.
751 words
script cabin
SWC Writing Competition Entry
The story takes place in a world where words are a magical ability, and type of currency, something to be given and taken, though nothing comes without risk and a cost. The first part of the story, The Fire shows what happens when you lose control of your powers, an feat often enough when you barely have any remaining words. The second part of the story, The Girl is the aftermath of the event, where the girl who lost control of her powers experiences a wave of guilt.
The Fire
In the heart of the ancient forest, the air hums with secrets, the trees whisper forgotten incantations. A girl named Thistle conjures a fire. This girl is a mystery, her magic both fragile and fierce, like the delicate petals of a rare flower. Her existence, an exquisite balance as well. Thistle moves through the forest, her feet brushing moss-covered roots, her eyes alight with the flicker of something otherworldly. The trees lean in, their gnarled branches forming a protective circle around Thistle. They know her, revere her – the girl who dances with fire.
The flames are Thistle’s companions, swirling around her like eager spirits. They lick at her skin, leaving no trace of burns, for Thistle had tamed them. She knows their secrets, the way they hunger for stories, memories, the very essence of life. And so, she feeds them, whispering forgotten tales into their fiery tongues.
One evening, as the sun slipped beneath the horizon, Thistle finds herself in a secluded glade. The fire crackles in the center, its warmth cocooning her. She twirls, her tattered dress catching the light. The flames mirror her movements, leaping higher, wilder. She imagines the cheers of distant campfires, the laughter, the camaraderie. With each pirouette, Thistle’s flames dance up a whirlwind, smoke, and ashes swaying along.
But Thistle knows the truth. Her magic is waning, hungering for more, a deeper well to draw from. Thistle’s mindless ideas and wishes, no longer enough. She needs a stronger source, something ancient and potent. And so, she reaches beyond the veil of reality. The flames sense it, a tremor in the air, a pulse of power. They stretch, their tendrils reaching toward the heavens. Thistle was not alone in this dance, for I, Death, watch from the shadows, curious and hungry.
Then comes Leonora, the girl’s sister. She stumbles into the clearing, her eyes wide with wonder. Leonora is no sorceress, her magic untrained and untamed, and the flames sense her vulnerability, her untapped potential. The tendrils of smoke slither toward Leonora, wrapping around her limbs, claiming her.
Leonora’s eyes flicker with the embers of her sister’s fire as she remains caught between worlds, her existence split like a fractured mirror. At that moment, the forest holds its breath, the swaying branches slow, and I linger, immersed in the trees, a silent witness.
In the dance of magic and power, sometimes even I can’t resist the allure of flames, their promise of eternity. Alas, I claim the girl. Not out of malice, but because magic demands its due. Leonora becomes one with the flame, a bridge between realms.
And so, Thistle dances on, her sister’s eyes forever burning in the heart of the fire. The ancient trees bow, their leaves brushing against me. For in the dance of magic and power, innocence is a fleeting concept, and choices issue consequences that echo through perpetuity, following into the next world and the next.
The Girl
In the darkness, behind closed eyelids, the fire dances, a relentless phantom. Thistle sees the fire that consumed the girl, leaving nothing but memories, burnt to a crisp. Regret coils around Thistle, tighter than the flames ever did, as she yearns from the film to rewind, a chance to alter Fate. Thistle wishes so hard, that the ending of that girl had been Thistle’s. That Thistle had been the one I claimed. But time is unyielding.
Leonora, Thistle’s sister, older by two years exactly, was the most precious thing to Thistle. Thistle cared for her so that sometimes it was as if she was the elder. Nory, as Thistle called her, was the smoke to her flame, the water to her life. Those were the words that bound them, whispered secrets between sisters.
It was the fire that devoured her. Thistle’s fire. She’s that girl with the raging fire, the inferno in her veins. Charred fragments of her and Leonora’s past scatter like ashes. Every spark Thistle ignites mirrors me, my duty. Each flame flickers with her inadequacy, thoughts of failure. Thistle wishes to have shielded Nory from the fire’s wrath, extinguishing the blaze before it consumed her, but hindsight offers her no solace.
In her heart, she could have altered destiny, rewritten the script. Yet replaying the scene in her mind yields no variety of outcomes. It was, of course, my fault, as I am the one who claimed Leonora, but that was merely my duty. The fire roars and Thistle remains, haunted by what she should have prevented.