When the Witches Gather
a Samhain party scene
Every week I share a randomly-selected writing prompt along with my response. These prompts are meant to be creative seeds that you can build on later into full stories, reflections, scenes, or poems. All previous prompts are listed here and are a part of my sub-newsletter, Seedlings. Feel free to adjust them as needed to fit what you want to write about (fiction, nonfiction, poetry, etc.). None of them are meant to be a box, so let your inspiration guide you and be flexible!
Each prompt is intended for 10-30 minutes of writing (though you can of course write for longer if inspiration strikes you). To participate, set your timer and write for 10+ minutes; then share a line from what you wrote and tell us how it went in the comments below.
Happy Writing!
Week #9 Prompt
Use your favorite holiday as the setting for a scene. Who is present and who isn’t? What is the mood like? How are the people interacting?
Orla had never been to a Samhain party before. The coven gatherings in New England had been sedate, homely events, full of spiced cookies and cups of ginger tea. Before that, the Halloweens of her childhood—plastic costumes bought from the Spirit store once a year, sorting candy into ranked piles, teeth aching from all the sugar.
This party was different. Carved pumpkins lined either side of the long driveway leading up to the house, each bearing the face of a different jack-o-lantern and flickering with candlelight. They must’ve taken Clio an eternity to carve. That or she’d employed the small army of neighborhood kids to do it for her. Strings of lights looped through the trees overhead, illuminating pockets of crimson and gold-threaded leaves against the dark canopy. They connected to the house, a crisscrossed pathway leading you up and in.
Inside, the remodeled cottage was bedecked with candles, more pumpkins and strings of lights. A cursive sign by the door asked you to select a tarot card that would be your guide for the evening. It sat next to a basket of masks that you were to wear if you hadn’t brought your own. The masks were no ordinary, dollar-store costumes. Each was a work of art, a confection of feathers, bark, and other natural materials crafted into the faces of woodland animals, both real and imaginary. Orla knew they’d cost Clio a small fortune, commissioned from a local artist somewhere in Norfolk. Everything glowed with a soft hum of light, matching the underlying beat of psychedelic indie music and conversation that moved through the space with a pulse of life.
Seated in a bookshelf-lined room off the main foyer, Orla sipped her apple-cider mimosa and quietly watched the throng of people. Clio’s flair for the dramatic had demanded that everyone keep their faces covered and transformed the crowd into an otherworldly maze of creatures. They circled around each other, swaying in time with the music whether they realized it or not. A choreographed dance of deer, mice, and men.
“What card did you pull?” a voice asked to her left.
Orla turned and found herself face-to-face with an owl. The curls of foraged, dried plants were arranged on the mask to look like feathers, a slight spray of gold paint around the openings for the eyes. The person in it wore a suit of dark purple, silk shirt open at the neck. With their hair cropped short on the sides and slight frame, she couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman she spoke to.
“Queen of Cups,” she said, holding up the card. “You?”
The owl-masked person flicked two fingers to show a card with a robbed figure and lantern on it. “The Hermit,” they said and waved at their mask. “Seems I have a type.”
Orla smiled and returned to scanning the crowd.
“Is that a dragon mask or a fish?” the stranger asked.
Orla’s fingers brushed the edge of the gold and copper scaled mask that covered half her face like something out of Phantom of the Opera.
“I’m honestly not sure,” she said. “I’d say fish, but that doesn’t seem quite like Clio’s style.”
“She does love her apex predators,” the owl said, swirling the whiskey glass they held in their other hand. They leaned against the back of the burgundy sofa.
“You know Ryan?” the stranger asked, nodding towards the hall.
Orla glanced to where she’d been both looking and trying not to look for the past ten minutes. Across the foyer, a man stood in the hall. He wore a red fox mask that did nothing to hide his debonair smile. Matching red hair was swept back from his face on top, the strands glinting in the firelight. He was leaning against the doorframe of a broom closet, talking to someone she couldn’t see in an animated, captivating way, where his eyes lit up and every word was punctuated by a gesture of his hands.
“I used to,” Orla admitted quietly. Ryan had lifted his mask now, revealing a strong jaw and sharp nose that only enhanced his fox-like appearance.
A beat of silence, then the owl-that-was-not-an-owl asked, “What happened between you two?”
Maybe it was something about the thudding bass or the half-light of the room, but Orla didn’t find the directness of the question odd. Or maybe it was the evening itself, Samhain thinning the veil and creating a space that fell out of time and reality. Things said tonight would not last after morning. Under the masks, they could be anyone. Either way, she found herself answering honestly.
“I loved him once, because I thought he was going to save me.”
Orla’s stomach clenched as a woman walked up to the red-haired man. Fawn ears poked out from a mass of brown curls, just a shade or two lighter than the women’s skin. She didn’t wear a mask, but gold freckles adorned the bridge of her nose like dappled spots.
“And I loved her,” Orla continued, “because she did.”
The stranger beside her said nothing. Orla took a swig from her drink and then got up. She went the opposite direction from the hall, skirting the dining table layered with charcuterie, dried fruit, and an actual harvest horn. Weaving through the kitchen, she spotted Clio, her bright red hair topped with a pair of replica deer antlers that made her even taller than she already was. People jostled and bumped her, but she managed to slip out the side door to the yard.
Just as she made it to the bottom of the wooden steps, a figure darted in front of her and she felt a hand on her waist.
“Forgive me,” a voice whispered in her ear. “But I’m in desperate need of assistance.”
Orla looked up at the man above her. He wore a grey and brown wolf mask pulled low over his face. It matched the color of his vest, worn over a burgundy shirt open at the collar. Dark hair was pulled back into a knot at the nape of his neck and in the glow of the edison bulbs overhead, she thought she saw a smear of smokey eye makeup beneath the holes of the mask.
“Assistance?” she asked, moving to step back. The man kept pace with her.
“I truly am sorry for standing so close, I just need to appear occupied for a moment,” his eyes darted to the door she had just come through. “My ex is smashed and looking for an opportunity to corner me.” His gaze returned to Orla and he smiled widely. “Help a friend-of-a-friend out? I’ll make it worth your while.”
Anywhere else, Orla would’ve had warning bells in her head ringing; but Clio was notoriously picky with her friend group and would never allow someone in her home who wasn’t of upstanding character. And Orla wasn’t ready to go back inside yet. Leaning back against the low wall next to the house, she decided to let herself be entertained.
Author’s Note:
Neil Gaiman teaches in his Art of Storytelling masterclass the importance of having a compost pile: a collection of words, characters, and bits of narrative that you’ve amassed and let marinate in your head. The compost pile is a resource. You can use it as a source of inspiration or to fertilize an idea you already have.
This piece is one hundred percent compost born.
Unsure where to start for this prompt, I decided to tap into the autumn energy that’s flitting around and write a scene set at Samhain. The party is one that I’ve honestly always dreamed of throwing myself (who wouldn’t want to go to a fancy masquerade?) and the characters are a composite of friends, archetypes, and fantasies. Orla’s character was inspired by a Magick and Alchemy podcast episode, and I imagine everyone walking around in these masks while listening to Tash Sultana and Sylvan Esso.
My favorite thing about writing fiction is the capacity it has to surprise me. I love that I can sit down with no plan and suddenly an entire cast of characters is born, each with their own background and motivations. So often it feels like an excavation: that I’m uncovering the story rather than creating it myself. While I enjoy poetry and memoir, writing fiction just feels like home.
I already have ideas for where to take this scene and story next. While I’d considered going my usual fantasy route with it, a friend in my writing group challenged me to keep it more grounded in reality. Both possibilities intrigue me, and I’m looking forward to discovering how these characters and their relationships evolve.
Loved reading this! What escapism! What a setting!