The Inkwell presents: What Are You Waiting For?

By The Inkwell

This month is all about the anticipation. That moment before everything changes. The hours spent longing to see someone once more, the instant the reason for being somewhere is revealed.
Come join us on these journeys of discovery in 10 brand new stories from The Inkwell.

What are YOU waiting for?

The Ritual - A lowly bard busies himself preparing a spell in the middle of ancient wood...but what is he waiting for?
Trouble in Waiting - Raelanth and his familiar Zael feel trouble brewing in the forest.
Written - A man wanders down a hallway, hesitant to reach the end. What lays in wait there?
Cold - From job and warm house to cold and homeless, he learns how cruel the streets can be.
The Ruination and the Light - All tattoos are personal, but none more so that draw from the canvas' own memories to make them more than just skin deep
Waiting on Trouble - All he wanted was a cup of coffee, but fate had other plans while he waited
The Warrior King and his Pizza - Amy is dragged to the park with her boyfriend and his best friend in an attempt to cheer him up.
JK LOL - Some days a rash decision can bring your world crumbling down around you.
Hell Stone #2 - Visit Kevin and the Sins again and find out how everything went to hell in a handbasket.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Inkwell
• Release date: Mar 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005629502

The Inkwell

We are a writing collective founded on Discord that currently includes 20+ writers all helping each other on the climb to completed works.

Book preview

The Ritual

Written by LA Harper

The forest was quiet as dark approached but, if you listened, she would speak to you.

Wind whispered through boughs older than any of the songs they sing in taverns. Leaves rustled, small animals foraged for the last scraps they could. There was no birdsong – they had all roosted safely for the coming night – but the forest, it had a music all its own.

I adjusted the harp in my hands, picking my way through the forest path while the last hours of day struggled through the thick trees.

Though the sun had yet to touch the horizon; it was already twilight in the woods. The ancient trees absorbed the light, glutting the last rays for themselves. I emerged out of the deep path into a hidden glade, where lapping water filled the space with a sleepy hush, lulling the air into a quiet serenity under the amber light. A single willow knelt at the rocky shore, surrounded by hawthorn and alder, bowed in endless, silent mourning. 

To my people, willow trees were sacred. Symbols of rebirth, new emergence, vibrancy, and poetic sensibilities. They signified the release of pain, the ability to grow stronger, bolder, a broken branch that can reroot and grow anew in soft soils.

Closely tied to the triple goddess, they were also important to another group of my people, practitioners of magic. Real magic, the kind that the Christian God and his fervent followers feared. They distrusted it, though real magic was ancient, deeper in the old ways than the being they followed so blindly.  

I found my well-worn footpath through the meadow grasses and wildflowers, smoothed out by my many visits to this particular spot. All of my greatest ballads were composed under this lone willow. This sentinel of the pond had witnessed all my musings, my journal scribblings. It was said that if one had a secret that could not be uttered, you could tell it to a willow tree. She will keep your secret safe among her limbs, bowed low as if for an embrace, and you would feel lighter for unburdening yourself. Many of my own furtive thoughts were trapped between these leaves. In many ways, this tree knew me just as well as I knew myself. 

This willow, too, had seen many of my other conjurings. Nature had been generous with my gifts and, when I played, She liked to dance. I could strum a few notes and a bird would answer, or a bee hum a basso beneath my tune. Flowers would nod, and the wind tumbled. Grasses and shrubs hung low whenever the song was somber. 

But, for all the meandering tales that I had written, none were about love. Love was a magic I had yet to know the pleasure of; the penance, I supposed, for my other talents that had come so freely to me. 

To that end, I was here. I carefully laid my harp against the knobby trunk of the tree and pulled my heavy satchel forward to empty it of its contents. I had time to spare. I had time to take my time. Hurried magic was often scattered, weak. I would not waste this opportunity.

Inhaling deeply, I removed each item with quiet intention. Five candles, freshly made. A bronze bowl, cleaned with spring water and wrapped carefully in linen. A stick of charcoal. A bundle of sage. A scrap of parchment. I laid all these on a smooth stone by the river before turning back to the tree.

If you would allow me a few branches, I said politely to it, I would be very grateful.

There were no ill portents in the following silence, only the quiet lapping of the water by the pond, and I nodded, thanking the tree. You did not just steal a branch without permission, much as you would not cut clothing off a stranger to wear as your own. Using a brass knife, I removed a handful of branches and bound them together with the linen cloth, creating a small broom. I cleaned the dirt from under the tree, a spot that stayed bare no matter the season, undisturbed by the thick leaves above it. Looking up at the sky, I beheld a fading rose blossom. Still, I had to wait. Using a small stone, I etched sigils into the earth, five in a large ring, with one in the middle. Each one I circled in turn. 

This part of magic was not bound by rules; it was just foci, and each ring signified something important to me. I drew lines, connecting all the rings to one another, as my will connected all those principles to me. In the center, I placed the bowl, careful to not disturb my work. Around the edges went the candles. Taking up my harp, I sat on the mostly empty, flat rock under the tree. 

I inhaled, and the scent of sweet flowers and green growth entered me. Playing a soft tune, I asked the spirits of fire to grant my wish for light. The Fae were always fond of music and, though I had only seen fleeting glimpses of them here, I knew they were around. They were everywhere.  I plucked a string, and the note raced across the water, a clarion bell in the nearing darkness.

Solas mo choinnle, tabhair solas dom

cosain mé ón oíche atá le teacht

tine sidhe éisteacht mo ghlao

deonaigh mo thoil le do thoil sula dtitfidh oíche.

The candles flickered to life. A bright mote, barely bigger than dandelion fluff and warm orange, wandered between them before snuffing out, presumably to the space Between. Faerieland. 

Peering between the leaves of the willow, I sighed. It still was not time. Picking up the charcoal and parchment, I thrust my intent into it. My will extended into the smooth, black stick, like leafy tendrils in spring, and