This is it, my final draft! This story has come a long way, but I love the transformation. For the final revision, editor extraordinaire Jeni Chappel took her red pen to the story. Her edit was full of great line edits and suggestions to add a bit more detail to draw the reader in. One area that I haven't addressed yet, is the voice. Jeni had a comment about pulling out more of Azami's voice to really show her age. I can see what she's talking about, but that's an edit that would take far longer than a week for me to master.
There's a good chance this will be the first chapter of my next novel, so I'm going to keep in mind the recommendation to work on voice. I may even change this from 3rd person to 1st to really find Azami's voice.
I want to give Jeni a huge shout out of gratitude. Her edits were spot on for this short. I would highly recommend everyone check out her editing services if you're in need of a keen eye for detail. Without further ado, I give you the final draft of the (still) Untitled Witch's Story. The final word count comes in at 1046 words.
“Black as night. Light as day.” Azami choked on her tears as she draped her upper body over the lid of her mom’s casket. She whispered the coven’s prayer, a group she’d never met. “Extinguish the candle of the past. Today we celebrate the present and prepare for the future of tomorrow. We protect our coven, we love our family, and we care for those who cannot care for themselves.”
Aunt Charlotte’s arms wrapped around Azami’s waist and tugged. “It’s time to go.”
But Azami refused to let go of the cold metal beneath her hands. “No. I can’t leave her. She promised everything would be all right.”
One finger at a time, Aunt Charlotte pulled her pulled away until she twisted around and buried her head in her aunt’s stomach. Azami sniffed once more then backed away. She needed to get out of the stuffy funeral home. Why do they call it a home? No one would actually want to live here. The white walls and scratchy red benches closed in until she couldn’t find a breath. A burn built in the bottom of her lungs and pushed out through her eyes. While searching for an escape, Azami realized most of the people who’d come to say their final goodbyes were strangers.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. It will get better.” A woman’s voice offered, but they didn’t make her feel any better.
Words she’d heard over and over the last few weeks. Ever since the day Mom breathed the last breath she’d ever take. The day Azami lost the person she admired the most, the one who promised to teach her everything about being a witch. Not that the words mattered, they didn’t mean anything. How was it supposed to get better when she’d never get to talk to her mom again?
Sunlight streaming through a stain-glassed window across the way gave her something to focus on until the walls quit caving in and the fire in her lungs cooled. She tracked the light to a house off in the distance. It was etched in her memories from the many trips she and her mom had taken during the summer. Mom said it was a great place to practice since most people were too scared to visit. Pieces of siding dangled from the front and sides. Gray shutters hung on by a single nail. Mom always said it wouldn’t take more than a gust of wind to blow the off. Every time they visited, nothing changed. No one cleared the dead weeds from the front of the house or repaired the hole in the middle of the second step. The front door was the only piece of the house that didn’t look like it was five hundred years old.
Ghosts took up residence in the haunted place—or so the people in town said. Even if there were ghosts, it didn’t mean they were evil or filled with darkness. Azami and her mom were supposed to have a sleepover before school started again. It was supposed to be the first time Azami got to cast a spell by herself.
Without thinking, Azami took off to her left toward a door to get out of the place.
“Where are you goin’?” Aunt Charlotte called out.
“To the bathroom.” Azami swiped a hand across her cheek to dry the last of the tears she’d let fall. Aunt Charlotte nodded then turned to an old man and some kid about her height standing off to the side. He was maybe twelve or thirteen like her. His eyes, the color of a lime, caught her attention only to be outshined by a gold aura outlining his body. Auras and their meanings were the first lessons Mom had taught her.
He was different though. Most of the guests’ auras were black or gray, not a brilliant gold. Shinier than the gold ring Azami wore on her middle finger, a gift from Mom after Azami had completed her first potion.
The boy lowered his chin with a half-smile, half-frown. He took a step toward her, and the hair on the back of her neck rose. Azami turned on her heel and headed toward the hall for the exit.
Something about him felt familiar but wrong.
About halfway to the door, a picture on the wall fluttered. Azami looked over her shoulder to the boy. His hand was waving in the air. Had he done something to the picture?
She stopped to inspect it. With one finger, she traced the frame of the painting then glanced around to see if anyone watched her. No one, not even the boy was there. There was spark of light smack dab in the middle of the picture. Like the flame of a candle, but not. It was a flare.
Touching it sent electricity down Azami’s arm. She gasped but still traced the light to the hand holding it, and down the arm of a woman with long black hair similar to hers and silver eyes like her mom’s. The woman held onto a pole at the edge of a white cliff.
A voice eerily like her mom’s came from the open window at the end of hall. “Come in. It’s time.”
Azami ran out the door and up the street to the house. The click-clack of her low-heeled shoes against the pavement calmed the ache in the middle of her chest. A gust of wind lifted her skirt, but it didn’t matter. She’d worn shorts underneath, even if Aunt Charlotte said she was old enough not to have to wear them anymore.
She stopped at the bottom of the steps to the house, placed her hands on her knees, as tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Mom. Are you there?”
Of course she wasn’t.
Azami fell to the ground, gripped her hands around her knees, and buried her chin in her chest. “I miss you so much. Why isn’t there anything I can do to get you back? A spell. A potion. Something. Anything. I don’t want to be alone.”
The screen door squeaked open then banged shut.
Azami jumped to her feet and backed away. “Who’s there?”
“Me.” The boy with the gold aura stepped from around the corner of the house. “Your mom sent me.”