Author's Notes: I wrote these as word-of-the-day drabbles (using 's word of the day) at various times during high school. It was a great writing activity to keep me creative and also learn new words; I highly suggest it. I did occasionally share them, just because they made my friends smile. These mostly have to do with daily life at Discipline-finding those who need finding, replanting, doing chores-and at the end the four young mages' thoughts on growing up.
"Your plants are sulking from lack of water and the soil doesn't look at all well prepared," Rosethorn criticized, hands on her hips. "What on earth have you been doing?"
Briar glanced up at the animadversion and shrugged gently, his mind in a dark and faraway place. He spoke truthfully: "I don't know."
"Well, that's apparent," Rosethorn affirmed with furrowed brows. "Get those plants happy."
He nodded and she left.
At the kitchen table she was confronted by a slender soul. Before Lark could speak, Rosethorn said, "Yes, I'm sorry" and turned around.
Lark smiled sweetly. "Old dog, new tricks."
Daja was burnishing a metal frame as Rosethorn came in. She huffed, her version of a greeting. Daja hid a lopsided grin; she had always felt endearment toward Rosethorn's no-nonsense approach.
"Have you seen Lark?" Rosethorn put forth, one eyebrow raised high. Daja couldn't help wondering if Lark was in a spot of trouble.
"No, I haven't." Daja was sensible: she didn't turn her next comment into a question. "I'm sure you asked Briar."
"Dolt of a boy pointed me in the wrong direction. Tris told me to ask you."
Daja merely smiled, soft and slow. "Could check the attic."
Rosethorn sighed as she gingerly picked up the runaway bean plant; an escaped seed must have brought it away from its designated location. She shook her head and took the young plant back to her workshop to plant it in a new and appropriate home.
"Rosethorn? Where's Briar?" Lark entered the workshop through the kitchen door. "Did you send him out?"
The first woman nodded. "I sent him out a long while ago. Why?"
"I need something heavy lifted—it would tamper with my breathing."
Rosethorn stood with haste. "I'll help. That boy is errant as the breeze."
Lark smiled.
Tris sighed as she watched the undulant motion of the waves. For a moment she allowed herself to think back to the time when she had tried to control the tide: foolish, she knew now. Sometimes, still, she wished to go back to the days when she didn't know. Everything was new when she was younger. It was before Daja had been figuring out romantic interests; before Briar brought home a different girl every night; before Sandry had lost the right to brag about her lands in another country.
The weather-witch was growing older and life was getting beyond difficult.
Briar laughed in the face of the cop on his tail. Another of his nightly flings had sold him out, apparently. Somehow in these days it was better to plead rape than premarital interest with consent. The boy wondered if the cop had opened her on the spot or was waiting until after the chase.
"Bugger off, filth!" Briar growled over his shoulder. The dog, panting, was not surprised by the act of sedition coming from the dark-skinned boy. "You'll be up to the same thing in a minute!"
The green-mage was growing older and life was getting beyond difficult.
Daja smirked as she reached to toy with the young woman's hair.
"I'm not a dog, you know," the other female remarked with a slow smile. All the same, she nuzzled into the soft dark hand and warm brass covering.
"I know: you're a cat," Daja replied seriously. The jocular was their way of life.
The two young women laughed, lounging luxuriously against each other. Daja's companion stroked her thigh.
Daja knew that if this girl's mother or father caught them, there would be one noisy and uncomfortable conflict.
The smith-mage was growing older and life was getting beyond difficult.
Sandry grimaced down at the stack of paper set so sturdily on her desk: so much work, so little play time. Sandry remembered the days of her childhood, playing about on the roof with her foster-brother and -sisters. She saw them some, but they were all children grown now: adults.
Her work devoured her. She was making good profits and was well-liked by those she knew, but her reputation from her younger years preceded her at times. Still, she only cared that her foster-siblings and foster-mothers still loved her.
The stitch-witch was growing older and life was getting beyond difficult.