Search Results for 'ella'

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  • #7922

    “Well, this makes no sense,” Thiram opined flatly, squinting at the glitching news stream on his homemade device.
    “What now,” Carob drawled, dropping the case and a mushroom onto the floor.
    “Biopirates Ants. Thousands of queen ants. Smuggled by aunties out of Kenya.”

    Amy raised an eyebrow. “Lucid dreamers saboteurs?”

    “They’re calling them the ‘Anties Gang.’” Thiram scrolled. “One report says the queens were tagged with dream-frequency enhancers. You know, like the tech you banned from the greenhouse?”

    Ricardo leaned forward, and whispered to himself almost too audibly for the rest of them “That… that… wasn’t on Miss Bossy’s radar yet. But I suspect it will be.”

    A long silence. Then Amy prodded Carob — “You’re silent again. What do you think?”.

    “Caffeinated sabotage by insect proxy?” she murmured.

    Fanella let out a short bleat, as if offended. The rain fell harder.

    #7920
    ÉricÉric
    Keymaster

      Key Characters (with brief descriptions)

      Amy Kawanhouse – Self-aware new character with metatextual commentary. Witty, possibly insecure, reflective; has a goat named Fanella and possibly another, Finnley, for emergencies. Often the first to point out logical inconsistencies or existential quirks.

      Carob Latte – Tall, dry-humored, and slightly chaotic. Fond of coffee-related wordplay and appears to enjoy needling Amy. Described as having “frizzled” hair and reverse-lucid dreams.

      Thiram Izu – The practical one, technologically inclined but confused by dreams. Tends to get frustrated with the group’s lack of coordination. Has a history of tension with Amy, and a tendency to “zone out.”

      Chico Ray – Mysterious newcomer. May have appeared out of nowhere. Unclear loyalties. Possibly former friend or frenemy of the group, annoyed by past incidents.

      Juan & Dolores Valdez – Fictional coffee icons reluctantly acknowledging their existence within a meta-reality. Dolores isn’t ready to be real, and Juan’s fine with playing the part when needed.

      Godric – Swedish barista-channeler. Hints at deeper magical realism; references Draugaskalds (ghost-singers) and senses strange presences.

      Ricardo – Appears later. Described in detail by Amy (linen suit, Panama hat), acts as a foil in a discussion about maps and coffee geography. Undercover for a mission with Miss Bossy.

      The Padre – Could be a father or a Father. Offstage, but influential. Concerned about rain ruining crops. A source of exposition and concern.

      Fanella – Amy’s cream goat, serves as comic relief and visual anchor.
      Finnley, the unpredictable goat, is reserved for “life or death situations.”

      #7898

      “Sorry I’m late,” said Carob as she crouched down to fuss over Fanella. “I have excuses, but they’re not interesting. I’m feeling a little underdeveloped as a character, so I’m not sure what to say yet.”

      “That’s okay,” said Amy. “Just remember … if you don’t tell us who you are early on…” She squinted and glanced around suspiciously. “Others will create you.”

      “I’d rather just slowly percolate.” Carob screwed up her face. “Get it? Percolate?”

      She stood up and slapped a hand to her head as Amy rolled her eyes. “Sorry … ” She patted her head curiously. “Oh wait—do I have curls?”

      “I’d say more like frizzes than curls,” answered Amy.

      Thiram nodded. “Totally frizzled.”

      “Cool … must be the damp weather,” said Carob. She brushed a twig from her coat. The coat was blue-green and only reached her thighs. Many things were too small when you were six foot two.

      “Oh—and I’ve been lucid dreaming in reverse,” she added. “Last night I watched myself un-make and un-drink a cup of coffee.” She gave a quick snort-laugh. “Weirdo”.

      “Was it raining in the dream?” asked Thiram.

      Carob frowned. “Probably… You know how in scary movies they always leave the curtains open, like they want the bad guys to see in? It felt like that.” She shuddered and then smiled brightly. “Anyway, just a dream. Also, I bumped into your father, Amy. He said to tell you: Remember what happened last time.”

      She regarded Amy intently. “What did happen last time?”

      “He worries too much,” said Amy, waving a hand dismissively. “Also, I didn’t even write that in, so how should I know?” She looked out toward the trees. “Where’s Chico?”

      #7895

      “It’s the rain,” explained Amy when she’d caught her breath. “Too much of it. They’re very particular about how much rain they like, not too little, and not too much. And there’s been too much. The Padre says unless we can come up with a plan to keep the rain off them, the whole crop is doomed.”

      Thiram frowned. “We could buy thousands of golf umbrellas from China, do a deal with El Salvador, and use deportees to hold umbrellas over the coffee plants?”

      Amy gave him a playful punch in the arm. “How about we wait and see if Carob and Chico have any better ideas.  We don’t have time to wait for the umbrellas and deportees to get here.”  Amy smiled, picturing the scene, and then sighed as the rain started again.

      #7893

      “Where are they again?” Thiram was straining as he waited for his friends, or rather colleagues.

      “Typical of them to get us all excited, and then bailing out to some mundane excuses.”

      He started to pace around the shed where they were supposed to meet. He wasn’t clear about all the details, Amy, or Carob would have them. Chico would be here for the ride, but the master plan this time was for the girls to come up with.

      What was happening at the plantation? Something unusual for sure; the Lucid Luddite Dreamers and their Silly Intelligence devices were always looking to disrupt the flows of coffee of the remaining parts where they still grew. That was why their mission was so important. Or so he was told.

      “Bugger… they could at least answer their damn phones… AI might well be everywhere, but you can’t just be all cavemen about it.”

      A rush of ruffled dried leaves and a happy bleating caught his attention at the moment he was about to leave. A panting Amy arrived, with her cream goat “Fanella” in tow —the bleating was from her, obviously. She didn’t take “Finnley”, the black one, she was too unpredictable; Amy would only keep her around for life or death situations that required a fair deal of rude practicality, and a good horn’s ramming.

      “Sorry, sorry!” Amy blurted out in hushed tones. “I couldn’t get away from the Padre. He’s too worried about stuff…”

      Thiram shrugged “at least there’s one. And what about the others?”

      “Oh, what? I’m not the last to arrive? That’s new.”

      Thiram rolled his eyes and gave a twig with fresh leaves to Fanella to eat.

      #7879
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        Moments later, Finnley returned.  “There’s a woman at the door. With suitcases. Says you invited her to stay. Nobody told me you were expecting guests.”

        “Did you ask who it was?”

        “Don’t you know who you invited? She’s a thin woman with awful dreadlocks, too old for dreads if you ask me, speaks with an Australian accent.”

        “Ah yes, one of my favourite story characters! She’s come to help me with my new novel.”

        “But what about the bedding? Nobody told me to get a bedroom ready for guests,” Finnley replied.

        Just then a pretty young French maid appeared through the French windows. “I ‘ave come to ‘elp wiz ze bedding!”

        “Fanella, right on cue! Come in dear, and go and help Finnley ~ Finnley, have you shown Aunt Idle in? Take her to the drawing room and I’ll be in directly, then go and help Fanella. And if you’re not careful, I may give Fanella your job, at least she’s willing and doesn’t complain all the time. And take that silly orange mask off, you look a fright.”

        #7763
        Jib
        Participant

          The corridor outside Mr. Herbert’s suite was pristine, polished white and gold, designed to impress, like most of the ship. Soft recessed lighting reflected off gilded fixtures and delicate, unnecessary embellishments.

          It was all Riven had ever known.

          His grandfather, Victor Holt, now in cryo sleep, had been among the paying elite, those who had boarded Helix 25, expecting a decadent, interstellar retreat. Riven, however had not been one of them. He had been two years old when Earth fell, sent with his aunt Seren Vega on the last shuttle to ever reach the ship, crammed in with refugees who had fought for a place among the stars. His father had stayed behind, to look for his mother.

          Whatever had happened after that—the chaos, the desperation, the cataclysm that had forced this ship to become one of humanity’s last refuges—Riven had no memory of it. He only knew what he had been told. And, like everything else on Helix 25, history depended on who was telling it.

          For the first time in his life, someone had been murdered inside this floating palace of glass and gold. And Riven, inspired by his grandfather’s legacy and the immense collection of murder stories and mysteries in the ship’s database, expected to keep things under control.

          He stood straight in front of the suite’s sealed sliding door, arms crossed on a sleek uniform that belonged to Victor Holt. He was blocking entry with the full height of his young authority. As if standing there could stop the chaos from seeping in.

          A holographic Do Not Enter warning scrolled diagonally across the door in Effin Muck’s signature font—because even crimes on this ship came branded.

          People hovered in the corridor, coming and going. Most were just curious, drawn by the sheer absurdity of a murder happening here.

          Riven scanned their faces, his muscles coiled with tension. Everyone was a potential suspect. Even the ones who usually didn’t care about ship politics.

          Because on Helix 25, death wasn’t supposed to happen. Not anymore.

          Someone broke away from the crowd and tried to push past him.

          “You’re wasting time. Young man.”

          Zoya Kade. Half scientist, half mad Prophet, all irritation. Her gold-green eyes bore into him, sharp beneath the deep lines of her face. Her mismatched layered robes shifting as she moved. Riven had no difficulty keeping the tall and wiry 83 years old woman at a distance.

          Her silver-white braid was woven with tiny artifacts—bits of old circuits, beads, a fragment of a key that probably didn’t open anything anymore. A collector of lost things. But not just trinkets—stories, knowledge, genetic whispers of the past. And now, she wanted access to this room like it was another artifact to be uncovered.

          “No one is going in.” Riven said slowly, “until we finish securing the area.”

          Zoya exhaled sharply, turning her head toward Evie, who had just emerged from the crowd, tablet in hand, TP flickering at her side.

          “Evie, tell him.”

          Evie did not look pleased to be associated with the old woman. “Riven, we need access to his room. I just need…”

          Riven hesitated.

          Not for long, barely a second, but long enough for someone to notice. And of course, it was Anuí Naskó.

          They had been waiting, standing slightly apart from the others, their tall, androgynous frame wrapped in the deep-colored robes of the Lexicans, fingers lightly tapping the surface of their handheld lexicon. Observing. Listening. Their presence was a constant challenge. When Zoya collected knowledge like artifacts, Anuí broke it apart, reshaped it. To them, history was a wound still open, and it was the Lexicans duty to rewrite the truth that had been stolen.

          “Ah,” Anuí murmured, smiling slightly, “I see.”

          Riven started to tap his belt buckle. His spine stiffened. He didn’t like that tone.

          “See what, exactly?”

          Anuí turned their sharp, angular gaze on him. “That this is about control.”

          Riven locked his jaw. “This is about security.”

          “Is it?” Anuí tapped a finger against their chin. “Because as far as I can tell, you’re just as inexperienced in murder investigation as the rest of us.”

          The words cut sharp in Riven’s pride. Rendering him speechless for a moment.

          “Oh! Well said,” Zoya added.

          Riven felt heat rise to his face, but he didn’t let it show. He had been preparing himself for challenges, just not from every direction at once.

          His grip tightened on his belt, but he forced himself to stay calm.

          Zoya, clearly enjoying herself now, gestured toward Evie. “And what about them?” She nodded toward TP, whose holographic form flickered slightly under the corridor’s ligthing. “Evie and her self proclaimed detective machine here have no real authority either, yet you hesitate.”

          TP puffed up indignantly. “I beg your pardon, madame. I am an advanced deductive intelligence, programmed with the finest investigative minds in history! Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Marshall Pee Stoll…”

          Zoya lifted a hand. “Yes, yes. And I am a boar.”

          TP’s mustache twitched. “Highly unlikely.”

          Evie groaned. “Enough TP.”

          But Zoya wasn’t finished. She looked directly at Riven now. “You don’t trust me. You don’t trust Anuí. But you trust her.” She gave a node toward Evie. “Why?

          Riven felt his stomach twist. He didn’t have an answer. Or rather, he had too many answers, none of which he could say out loud. Because he did trust Evie. Because she was brilliant, meticulous, practical. Because… he wanted her to trust him back. But admitting that, showing favoritism, expecially here in front of everyone, was impossible.

          So he forced his voice into neutrality. “She has technical expertise and no political agenda about it.”

          Anuí left out a soft hmm, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, but filing the information away for later.

          Evie took the moment to press forward. “Riven, we need access to the room. We have to check his logs before anything gets wiped or overwritten. If there’s something there, we’re losing valuable time just standing there arguing.”

          She was right. Damn it, she was right. Riven exhaled slowly.

          “Fine. But only you.”

          Anuí’s lips curved but just slightly. “How predictable.”

          Zoya snorted.

          Evie didn’t waste time. She brushed past him, keying in a security override on her tablet. The suite doors slid open with a quiet hiss.

          #7707

          Matteo — Easter Break 2023

          The air in the streets carried the sweet intoxicating smell of orange blossoms, as Matteo stood at the edge of a narrow cobbled street in Xàtiva, the small town just a train ride from Valencia that Juliette had insisted on visiting. The weekend had been a blur of color and history—street markets in Italy, Venetian canals last month, and now this little-known hometown of the Borgias, nestled under the shadow of an ancient castle.

          Post-pandemic tourism was reshaping the rhythm of Europe. The crowds in the big capitals felt different now—quieter in some places, overwhelming in others. Xàtiva, however, seemed untouched, its charm untouched. Matteo liked it. It felt authentic, a place with layers to uncover.

          Juliette, as always, had planned everything. She had a knack for unearthing destinations that felt simultaneously curated and spontaneous. They had started with the obvious—Berlin, Amsterdam, Florence—but now her choices were becoming more eccentric.

          “Where do you even find these places?” Matteo had asked on the flight to Valencia, his curiosity genuine.

          She grinned, pulling out her phone and scrolling through saved videos. “Here,” she said, passing it to him. “This channel had great ideas before it went dark. He had listed all those places with 1-euro houses deals in many fantastic places in Europe. Once we’re ready to settle” she smiled at him.

          The video that played featured sweeping shots of abandoned stone houses and misty mountain roads, narrated by a deep, calm voice. “There’s magic in forgotten places,” the narrator said. “A story waiting for the right hands to revive it.”

          Matteo leaned closer, intrigued. The channel was called Wayfare, and the host, though unnamed in the video, had a quiet magnetism that made him linger. The content wasn’t polished—some shots were shaky, the editing rough—but there was an earnestness to it that immediately captured his attention.

          “This guy’s great,” Matteo said. “What happened to him?”

          “Darius, I think his name was,” Juliette replied. “I loved his videos. He didn’t have a huge audience, but it felt like he was speaking to you, you know?” She shrugged. “He shut it down a while back. Rumors about some drama with patrons or something.”

          Matteo handed the phone back, his interest waning. “Too bad,” he said. “I like his style.”

          The train ride to Xàtiva had been smooth, the rolling hills and sun-drenched orchards sliding slowly outside the window. The time seemed to move at a slower pace here. Matteo’d been working with an international moving company in Paris, mostly focused to expats in and out of France. Tips were good and it usually meant having a tiring week, but what the job lacked in interest, it compensated with with extra recuperation days.

          As they climbed toward the castle overlooking the town, Juliette rattled off details she’d picked up online.

          “The Borgias are fascinating,” she said, gesturing toward the town below. “They came from here, you know. Rose to power around the 13th century. Claimed they were descended from Visigoth kings, but most people think that’s all invention.”

          “Clever, though,” Matteo said. “Makes you almost wish you had a magic box to smartly rewrite your ancestry, that people would believe it if you play it right.”

          Juliette smiled. “Yeah! They were masters cheaters and gaslighters.”

          “Reinventing where they came from, like us, always reinventing where we go…”

          Juliette chuckled but didn’t reply.

          Matteo’s mind wandered, threading Juliette’s history lesson with stories his grandmother used to tell—tales of the Borgias’ rise through cunning and charm, and how they were descended from the infamous family through Lucrecia, the Pope’s illegitimate daughter. It was strange how family lore could echo through places so distant from where he’d grown up.

          As they reached the castle’s summit, Matteo paused to take it all in. The valley stretched below them, a patchwork of red-tiled rooftops and olive groves shimmering in the afternoon light. Somewhere in this region, Juliette said, Darius had explored foreclosed homes, hoping to revive them with new communities. Matteo couldn’t help but think how odd it was, these faint connections between lives—threads weaving places and people together, even when the patterns weren’t clear.

          :fleuron2:

          Later, over a shared plate of paella, Juliette nudged him with her fork. “What are you thinking about?”

          “Nothing much,” Matteo said, swirling his glass of wine. “Just… how people tell stories. The Borgias, this Darius guy, even us—everyone’s looking for a way to leave a mark, even if it’s just on a weekend trip.”

          Juliette smiled, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Well, you better leave your mark tomorrow. I want a picture of you standing on that castle wall.”

          Matteo laughed, raising his glass. “Deal. But only if you promise not to fall off first.”

          As the sun dipped below the horizon, the streets of Xàtiva began to glow with the warmth of lamplight. Matteo leaned back in his chair, the wine softening the edges of the day. For a moment, he thought of Darius again—of foreclosed homes and forgotten stories. He didn’t dwell on it, though. The present was enough.

          #7662

          The Waking 

          Lucien – Early 2024 Darius – Dec 2022 Amei – 2022-2023 Elara – 2022 Matteo – Halloween 2023
          Aversion/Reflection Jealousy/Accomplishment Pride/Equanimity Attachment/Discernment Ignorance/Wisdom
          The sky outside Lucien’s studio window was still dark, the faint glow of dawn breaking on the horizon. He woke suddenly, the echo of footsteps chasing him out of sleep. Renard’s shadow loomed in his mind like a smudge he couldn’t erase. He sat up, rubbing his temples, the remnants of the dream slipping away like water through his fingers. The chase felt endless, but this time, something had shifted. There was no fear in his chest—only a whisper of resolve. “Time to stop running.” The hum of the airplane’s engine filled Darius’s ears as he opened his eyes, the cabin lights dimmed for landing. He glanced at the blinking seatbelt sign and adjusted his scarf. The dream still lingered, faint and elusive, like smoke curling away before he could grasp it. He wasn’t sure where he’d been in his mind, but he felt a pull—something calling him back. South of France was just the next stop. Beyond that,… Beyond that? He didn’t know. Amei sat cross-legged on her living room floor, the guided meditation app still playing its soft tones through her headphones. Her breathing steadied, but her thoughts drifted. Images danced at the edges of her mind—threads weaving together, faces she couldn’t place, a labyrinth spiraling endlessly. The meditation always seemed to end with these fragments, leaving her both unsettled and curious. What was she trying to find? Elara woke with a start, the unfamiliar sensation of a dream etched vividly in her mind. Her dreams usually dissolved the moment she opened her eyes, but this one lingered, sharp and bright. She reached for her notebook on the bedside table, fumbling for the pen. The details spilled out onto the page—a white bull, a labyrinth of light, faces shifting like water. “I never remember my dreams,” she thought, “but this one… this one feels important.” Matteo woke to the sound of children laughing outside, their voices echoing through the streets of Avignon. Halloween wasn’t as big a deal here as elsewhere, but it had its charm. He stretched and sat up, the weight of a restless sleep hanging over him. His dreams had been strange—familiar faces, glowing patterns, a sense of something unfinished. The room seemed to glow for a moment. “Strange,” he thought, brushing it off as a trick of the light.
          “No resentment, only purpose.” “You’re not lost. You’re walking your own path.” “Messy patterns are still patterns.” “Let go. The beauty is in the flow.” “Everything is connected. Even the smallest light adds to the whole.”
          The Endless Chase
          Lucien ran through a labyrinth, its walls shifting and alive, made of tangled roots and flickering light. Behind him, the echo of footsteps and Renard’s voice calling his name, mocking him. But as he turned a corner, the walls parted to reveal a still lake, its surface reflecting the stars. He stopped, breathless, staring at his reflection in the water. It wasn’t him—it was a younger boy, wide-eyed and unafraid. The boy reached out, and Lucien felt a calm ripple through him. The chase wasn’t real. It never was. The walls dissolved, leaving him standing under a vast, open sky.
          The Wandering Maze
          Darius wandered through a green field, the tall grass brushing against his hands. The horizon seemed endless, but each step revealed new paths, twisting and turning like a living map. He saw figures ahead—people he thought he recognized—but when he reached them, they vanished, leaving only their footprints. Frustration welled up in his chest, but then he heard laughter—a clear, joyful sound. A child ran past him, leaving a trail of flowers in their wake. Darius followed, the path opening into a vibrant garden. There, he saw his own footprints, weaving among the flowers. “You’re not lost,” a voice said. “You’re walking your own path.”
          The Woven Tapestry
          Amei found herself in a dim room, lit only by the soft glow of a loom. Threads of every color stretched across the space, intertwining in intricate patterns. She sat before the loom, her hands moving instinctively, weaving the threads together. Faces appeared in the fabric—Tabitha, her estranged friends, even strangers she didn’t recognize. The threads wove tighter, forming a brilliant tapestry that seemed to hum with life. She saw herself in the center, not separate from the others but connected. This time she heard clearly “Messy patterns are still patterns,” a voice whispered, and she smiled.
          The Scattered Grains
          Elara stood on a beach, the sand slipping through her fingers as she tried to gather it. The harder she grasped, the more it escaped. A wave rolled in, sweeping the sand into intricate patterns that glowed under the moonlight. She knelt, watching the designs shift and shimmer, each one unique and fleeting. “Let go,” the wind seemed to say. “The beauty is in the flow.” Elara let the sand fall, and as it scattered, it transformed into light, rising like fireflies into the night sky.
          The Mandala of Light
          Matteo stood in a darkened room, the only light coming from a glowing mandala etched on the floor. As he stepped closer, the patterns began to move, spinning and shifting. Faces appeared—his mother, the friends he hadn’t yet met, and even his own reflection. The mandala expanded, encompassing the room, then the city, then the world. “Everything is connected,” a voice said, low and resonant. “Even the smallest light adds to the whole.” Matteo reached out, touching the edge of the mandala, and felt its warmth spread through him.

          :fleuron2:

          Dreamtime

          It begins with running—feet pounding against the earth, my breath sharp in my chest. The path twists endlessly, the walls of the labyrinth curling like roots, closing tighter with each turn. I know I’m being chased, though I never see who or what is behind me. The air thickens as I round a corner and come to a halt before a still lake. Its surface gleams under a canopy of stars, too perfect, too quiet. I kneel to look closer, and the face that stares back isn’t mine. A boy gazes up with wide, curious eyes, unafraid. He smiles as though he knows something I don’t, and my breath steadies. The walls of the labyrinth crumble, their roots receding into the earth. Around me, the horizon stretches wide and infinite, and I wonder if I’ve always been here.

          The grass is soft under my feet, swaying with a breeze that hums like a song I almost recognize. I walk, though I don’t know where I’m going. Figures appear ahead—shadowy forms I think I know—but as I approach, they dissolve into mist. I call out, but my voice is swallowed by the wind. Laughter ripples through the air, and a child darts past me, their feet leaving trails of flowers in the earth. I follow, unable to stop myself. The path unfolds into a garden, vibrant and alive, every bloom humming with its own quiet song. At the center, I find myself again—my own footprints weaving among the flowers. The laughter returns, soft and knowing. A voice says, “You’re not lost. You’re walking your own path.” But whose voice is it? My own? Someone else’s? I can’t tell.

          The scene shifts, or maybe it’s always been this way. Threads of light stretch across the horizon, forming a vast loom. My hands move instinctively, weaving the threads into patterns I don’t understand but feel compelled to create. Faces emerge in the fabric—some I know, others I only feel. Each thread hums with life, vibrating with its own story. The patterns grow more intricate, their colors blending into something breathtaking. At the center, my own face appears, not solitary but connected to all the others. The threads seem to breathe, their rhythm matching my own heartbeat. A voice whispers, teasing but kind: “Messy patterns are still patterns.” I want to laugh, or cry, or maybe both, but my hands keep weaving as the threads dissolve into light.

          I’m on the beach now, though I don’t remember how I got here. The sand is cool under my hands, slipping through my fingers no matter how tightly I try to hold it. A wave rolls in, its foam glowing under a pale moon. Where the water touches the sand, intricate patterns bloom—spirals, mandalas, fleeting images that shift with the tide. I try to gather them, to keep them, but the harder I hold on, the faster they fade. A breeze lifts the patterns into the air, scattering them like fireflies. I watch them go, feeling both loss and wonder. “Let go,” a voice says, carried by the wind. “The beauty is in the flow.” I let the sand fall from my hands, and for the first time, I see the patterns clearly, etched not on the ground but in the sky.

          The room is dark, yet I see everything. A mandala of light spreads across the floor, its intricate shapes pulsing with a rhythm I recognize but can’t place. I step closer, and the mandala begins to spin, its patterns expanding to fill the room, then the city, then the world. Faces appear within the light—my mother’s, a child’s, strangers I know but have never met. The mandala connects everything it touches, its warmth spreading through me like a flame. I reach out, my hand trembling, and the moment I touch it, a voice echoes in the air: “Everything is connected. Even the smallest light adds to the whole.” The mandala slows, its light softening, and I find myself standing at its center, whole and unafraid.

          I feel the labyrinth’s walls returning, but they’re no longer enclosing me—they’re part of the loom, their roots weaving into the threads. The flowers of the garden bloom within the mandala’s light, their petals scattering like sand into the tide. The waves carry them to the horizon, where they rise into the sky, forming constellations I feel I’ve always known.

          I wake—or do I? The dream lingers, its light and rhythm threading through my thoughts. It feels like a map, a guide, a story unfinished. I see the faces again—yours, mine, ours—and wonder where the path leads next.

          #7628
          F LoveF Love
          Participant

            The train rattled on, its rhythm almost hypnotic. Amei rested her forehead against the cool glass, watching the countryside blur into a smudge of grey fields and skeletal trees. The rain had not let up the entire trip, each station bringing her closer to Paris—and to the friends she had once thought she would never lose.

            She unfolded a letter in her lap, its creased edges softened by too many readings. So old-school to have sent a letter, and yet so typical of Lucien. The message was brief, just a handful of words in his familiar scrawl: Sarah Bernhardt Cafe, November 30th , 4 PM. No excuses this time! Below the terse instruction, there was an ink smudge. Perhaps, she imagined, a moment of second-guessing himself before sealing the envelope? Vulnerability had never been Lucien’s strength.

            Catching her reflection in the window, Amei frowned at her hair, unruly from the long journey.  She reached for the scarf draped loosely around her neck—a gift from Elara, given years ago. It had been a token from one of their countless shared adventures, and despite everything that had unfolded since, she had never been able to let it go. She twisted the soft fabric around her fingers, its familiar texture reassuring her, before tying it over her hair.

            At her feet sat a well-worn tote bag, weighed down with notebooks. It was madness to have brought so many. Maybe it was reflexive, a habit ingrained from years of recording her travels, as though every journey demanded she tell the story of her life. Or perhaps it was a subconscious offering—she couldn’t show up empty-handed, not after five years of silence.

            Five years had slipped by quickly! What had started as the odd missed call or unanswered email, and one too many postponed plans had snowballed into a silence none of them seemed to know how to bridge.

            Darius had tried. His postcards arrived sporadically, cryptic glimpses of his nomadic life. Amei had never written back, though she had saved the postcards, tucking them between the pages of her notebooks like fragments of a lost map.

            Lucien, on the other hand, had faded into obscurity, his absence feeling strangely like betrayal. Amei had always believed he’d remain their anchor, the unspoken glue holding them together. When he didn’t, the silence felt personal, even though she knew it wasn’t. And yet, it was Lucien who had insisted on this reunion.

            The train hissed into the station, jolting Amei from her thoughts. The platform was a flurry of umbrellas and hurried footsteps. Hoisting her bag onto her shoulder, she navigated the throng, letting the rhythm of the city wash over her. Paris felt foreign and familiar all at once.

            By the time she reached her hotel, the rain had seeped through her boots. She stood for a long moment in the tiny room—the best she could find on her budget—and gazed at her reflection in the cracked mirror. A quiet sense of inevitability settled over her. They would have all changed, of course. How could they not? Yet there was something undeniably comforting about the fact that their paths, no matter how far they had strayed, had led them back here—to Paris, to the Sarah Bernhardt Café.

            #7615

            The vine smothered statue proved to be the perfect place to hide behind to watch the events of the picnic unfolding. Cedric had been in a quiet turmoil of conflicting emotions, biting his bony knuckle to stop himself from uttering a sound as the extroadinary sequence of dramas and comedies played out before him.

            He hadn’t expected to see Frella again. His mental confusion about his job as well as his troubling fixation on the witch had brought him to the brink of jacking it all in. Just leave everything, he told himself, Move away, get another job doing something else, something mundane and manual.  And forget her.   He’d almost made up his mind to do just that, and, feeling pleased and sure of himself for making the decision, tapped his device to locate and observe Frella one last time just to mentally say adieu, and to see her face again. And then quietly disappear.

            When Cedric realized that the witches were going on holiday, and heard Truella saying that no spells were allowed, his heart leapt. If he was giving it all up and moving away anyway, why not have a holiday first? Why not go to Rome? I may not even bump into her, Rome’s as good as anywhere else. I deserve a holiday. And if I do bump into her, it will just be a holiday coincidence, and nothing at all to do with spells. Or work.

            All pretence of not minding whether he saw Frella or not left his mind almost immediately, and he began to make arrangements.  He didn’t want Frella to use spells, but it didn’t occur to him to wonder why he was still using the tricks of his job. It was easy to track them to Italy.

            His disguise as a North African on the coach full of Italians had worked well, even sitting so close to Truella and Giovanni he hadn’t been recognized in his hooded djelaba, and had been able to hear most of their conversation.  A quiet word and a large tip secured his trip with their tour guide.

            The picnic started out normally enough.  They each had a short wander around, and then sprawled on rugs and cushions by the whicker hampers of food and champage. Cedric lurked in the shadows of an arch, sometimes slinking to peer from behind a statue. The temptation to pick a posy of wildflowers to give to Frella was all but overwhelming, as he watched her sitting pensively.  Silently sinking to his knees behind the marble bulk of Tiberius, Cedric plucked a daisy from the grass. And another.

            When Cromwell appeared on the scene, Cedric, alarmed and almost angry at the intrusion, unwittingly crushed the flowers in his hand.  He had no choice but to remain hidden and immobile as the scene rolled out.

            As the day progressed, the mood changed and Cedric felt hopeful again. He even had to stifle a laugh as he watched them play cards.  Watching Eris pour champage into everyone’s glasses reminded him that he hadn’t had a drink all day. He was parched.  He had to make a decision. He wanted to sneak off quietly and call it a day, find a nice restaurant. A part of him wanted to be bold and openly seductive, to stride into the scene and charmingly state his intentions. But he had no opportunity to further consider the options.

            “You!” In the moments Cedric taken his eyes off the picnic to ponder his dilemma, Frella has risen and was heading for a necessary bush to go behind. “You! Spying on me!”

            “Who?” shouted Truella, “Cedric! What on earth is he doing here, we’re on holiday! Now stop spitting nails, Frella, and invite the man over for a drink!”

            Cedric seized the moment.

            #7614

            Frella opened her mouth to reply, but Eris clapped her hands, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

            “Right, enough lounging. Let’s play a game—something to liven things up.”

            “What sort of game?” Truella asked, “Nothing that requires too much energy I trust?”

            “A card game.” Eris pulled a small leather pouch from her satchel. She gave it a shake, and a deck of cards flew out, shuffling mid-air before landing neatly in her hands.

            Malove smirked. “If it involves hexes, I’m in.”

            Eris began to deal the cards with a flourish. Each card shimmered, pulsing faintly with magic as it landed on the rug. “Think strategy, mischief, and a touch of divination. The goal? Outsmart your opponents while dodging whatever surprises the cards throw at you.”

            Frella propped herself up on one elbow, eyeing the cards warily. “Define ‘surprises.’”

            “Oh, you’ll see,” Eris said with a wink, placing the deck in the centre. “Rules are simple: draw a card, play your move, and handle the consequences. Last witch standing wins.”

            “Wins what?” Jeezel asked, lowering her camera.

            “The satisfaction of knowing you’re the most cunning witch here.”

            “Sounds like my kind of game,” Truella said, drawing the first card. She held it up to reveal a swirling vortex labelled Spell Swap. The card glowed briefly before zipping into Frella’s pile.

            Frella blinked. “What just happened?”

            “You’ve inherited Truella’s card,” Eris said with a grin. “And a touch of her personality for the next round.”

            Frella felt an odd surge of boldness, almost manic. “Alright, my turn!” she declared, her voice sharp and bossy and much louder than she had intended. She snatched a card marked Mystic Reveal and, with a theatrical flick of her hand, unleashed a shimmering projection of her week’s questionable decisions.

            “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she cackled. “Why does everyone need to see this?”

            It wasn’t long before the game descended into chaos—spells flying, laughter erupting in snorts and shrieks. Eris croaked indignantly from her frog form while Jeezel gleefully documented the mayhem with her camera, which was now a cackling raven perched on her shoulder. Malove scowled beneath a scandalous projection of her own making, and Truella lounged, flicking daisies where her cigarette had been.

            Frella smiled, the madness finally something she could embrace. Winning didn’t matter. The chaos had its own pull—wild, reckless, and oddly exhilarating.

            #7613

            Frella stretched out on the tartan rug, staring at the sky, determined to enjoy the surprise holiday. The picnic, the dramatic entrances, the tension crackling between Malove and Truella—it was all so bizarre.

            “Do you ever think things through so they make sense?” she asked, tilting her head towards Truella.  “I feel like I’ve stumbled into a play and I don’t know my lines.”

            Truella waved her cigarette, the smoke spiralling upwards like a miniature storm cloud. “Bit rude, Frella! Anyway, explanations are notoriously overrated. Life’s way more fun when you go with the flow.”

            “Fun?” Frella snorted, glancing at Jeezel, who was snapping photos like a paparazzo. The clicking felt intrusive, like a mosquito buzzing in her ear. “And Jeezel, must you document everything?”

            “Of course,” Jeezel replied, eyes glued to her camera. “This is pure gold—Truella playing holiday queen, Malove looking almost…pleasant? Art in motion!”

            Frella rolled her eyes, but, deep down, she knew Jeezel wasn’t entirely wrong. The golden light glinting off the champagne bottle, the weathered beauty of the ruins in the background, and the strange but undeniable camaraderie of their mismatched group—there was indeed something picturesque about it all. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the faint hum of insects and the soft rustle of the breeze settle over her. Why couldn’t she just enjoy it?

            “Think Cromwell’s plotting revenge?” she asked, breaking the momentary calm.

            “Probably,” Truella replied breezily, “He loves that sort of thing. But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Do buck up, Frell, you’re being such a bore.”

            #7610

            Thanks to Eris’s undeniable aptitude and professionalism for choosing the most efficacious spells and implementing them perfectly, and before Truella had got to grips with the first layer of the costumes undergarments, Cromwell was back at Austin Friars, and Malove stood before them, quivering with rage. Or was it panic?

            “Fancy some of this cheese and some olives? The bread’s amazing, we’re having a picnic, and there’s some champers if Jeezel hasn’t guzzled it all,”  Truella thought a casual nothing is wrong approach was worth a shot, however futile.  It might delay the inevitable.

            “Thanks,” replied Malove, sinking down on to the tartan picnic rug with a grateful if shuddering sigh.  “That was awful, don’t even ask! I will never complain about anything ever again!”

            “Really?” Truella wasn’t convinced.  “What was it like?”

            “No iboprufen. It was just awful. So damp, and no iboprufen.” Malove shivered. “My arthritis played me up something rotten.”

            “Well, why on earth didn’t you just magic some up then?” Truella blurted out.

            “Do you remember to just magic up a spell for your arthritis?” Truella quaked under the force of Malove’s terrifying glare.

            “She doesn’t, but I do,” interjected Jeezel, scrolling through the images she’d just captured of the ongoing scenario and capturing a few more.

            Does this mean I’m on holiday now too? Malove wondered. Jeezel caught the pensive but hopeful expression, Malove’s harsh profile softened with a fortuitous wisp of Truella’s cigarette smoke against a backdrop of bramble and vine covered ruins, an exotic foreign flower dangling lanquidly beside her ~ what a picture!

            #7609

            “You! I never expected to see you here!”  What was Thomas Cromwell doing in the colosseum in the year 1507?  “Oh, of course, you were in Italy…what on earth are you wearing?” Truella asked, in some confusion. Never had she seen such an elaborate codpiece, and nobody else was wearing one.

            He took his feathered cap off and ran a hand through his hair.  “I’ve been to the very gates of purgatory trying to get back to Austin Friars, I unintentionally left Malove there.”

            “In what year?” Truella was aghast. “How long has she been there? Who is she with? Is she safe?”

            “There is no time to lose, how do I make this ~ this ~ thing go where and when I want?”

            “Never mind that now, you had better come with us,” Trella was looking around to see where the others were. “We’ll all have to go. What’s the weather like? What are we going to do about clothes?”

            “Clothes?” asked Jeezel, sneaking up behind them through some exotic foreign bushes, “Just you leave that to me! I’ve already found a marvellous museum costume shop. Did you get that codpiece there?” she said to Cromwell. ” I saw one in there similar to that, but with less padding.”

            “Here you are,” announced Frella, suddenly appearing out of nowhere with her arms draped in costumes. “No time for shopping, so I did a quick spell.”

            Why didn’t I think of just doing a spell? Truella wondered, not for the first time.

            You never do was the unspoken reply that entered the scene with the appearance of Eris, armed with the approriate spells. “Right then. Here we go.”

            #7608

            “Maybe I’m just old fashioned but those things are just weird,” Truella shook her head as she tried to get her focus and equilibrium back.  “Great pics though, Jez.  Look how clean my nails are.”

            “I thought we were going to Amalfi, I was looking forward to that,” said Frella, not sure whether she liked the VR pod experience.

            “So was I until I found out about the Limoncello. Can’t stand that evil brew, instant heartburn.”

            “You don’t have to drink it, Tru,” Eris replied with a withering look.  “We need to buy a few things before Giovanni’s time travel trip to the abandoned Colosseum. Secateurs and zip lock plastic bags for the seeds and plant cuttings. I wonder where the proper stores are, we seem to be surrounded with souvenir and gift shops and bakeries.”

            “I’ll get a trowel. No, I’m not planning to start a dig, but it might come in handy. I’ll go with Eris and you two can mooch about buying over priced tourist tat.  Get me a dozen postcards, will you? And some shawls and scarves for the photos at the Colosseum.”

            #7607

            Jeezel tilted her head, scrutinizing the frame with the practiced eye of a social media sorceress. The lighting was perfect—each flickering hue of orange and blue cast an ethereal glow over the witches’ relaxed forms. It was the kind of aesthetic her followers adored: ancient mysticism meets futuristic chic. The “techno-witch” hashtag would trend for weeks.

            She whispered a quick spell under her breath—just a touch of glamour magic to ensure the shadows curved flatteringly across their faces. Never leave it all to filters, she reminded herself. Technology might be powerful, but spells were eternal.

            As the camera hovered over Eris, Jeezel panned dramatically, emphasizing the stiff pose that made her friend look like an extra from an undead fashion campaign. “Timeless and terrifying,” Jeezel murmured approvingly. Frella’s melancholic pout came next, her expression so perfectly tragic it might summon a thousand sympathetic comments. #WitchSadGirlAesthetic.

            And Truella—oh, Truella. Jeezel stifled a laugh as she zoomed in on the haphazard limbs sprawled across the pod, her fingers angled like she was trying to signal something in a forgotten language. Maybe a plea for help from the gods of symmetry.

            “Goddess-tier content,” Jeezel whispered as she adjusted the selfie stick for the final shot: a dramatic sweep across the room, showing the full ambiance of their enchanted retreat. The subtle hum of spells harmonizing with the VR pods’ whirring was audible in the background. She imagined the caption now:

            “Modern coven vibes; Ancient spells, virtual worlds, and one unforgettable vacation. #TechnoWitchLife #VacationMagic #TimeTravelGoals”

            Perfect. Another masterpiece to feed the algorithm.

            With a satisfied smirk, she hit “post” and leaned back into her own pod. Her followers would marvel at the blend of mystique and modernity—and probably try to copy the look themselves. As the first comments rolled in, Jeezel couldn’t help but think, The real magic these days isn’t just in the spells we cast—it’s in the stories we tell.

            #7605

            Although the small hotel was tucked in a relatively quiet corner, and despite the authentic but delightfully shabby interior of soothing dimensions ~ roomy and airy, but not vast and terrifyingly empty ~ the constant background hum of city life was making Truella yearn for the stillness of home. Not that home was silence, indeed not: the background tranquility was frequently punctuated with noises, many strident. A dog barks, a neighbour shouts, a car drives past from time to time.  But the noises have an identifiable individuality and reason, unlike the continual maddening drone of the metropolis.

            She was pleased to find her room had a little balcony. Even if the little wooden chair was rickety and uncomfortable, it was enough to perch on to enjoy a cigarette and breathe in the car fumes.  Truella slept fitfully, waking to remember Tolkeinesque snapshots of dreams, drifting off again and returning to wakefullness with snatches of conversations in unknown tongues. Sitting on the balcony in the deep dark hours of the night, the street below, now quiet, shivered and changed, her head still swimming with dream images. She caught glimpses of people as they passed, vivid, clear and full of character.  Many who passed were carrying bunches of grasses or herbs or wildflowers in their hands, the women with a basket over their arm and a shawl draped over their head or shoulders.

            Hardly any men though, I wonder why? 

            When Truella mentioned it over breakfast the next moring, Eris said “You’ve been reading too much of that new gender and feminist anthropology stuff over on GreenGrotto.”

            Laughing, Truella tipped another packet of sugar in her coffee.  “I love the colour of the walls in here,” she said, gazing around the breakfast room. “A sort of bright but muted sun shining on a white wall. Nice old furniture, too.”

            “Tell me about the old furniture, the mirror in my room is all speckled, makes me look like I have blemishes all over my face,” said Zeezel with a toss of her head. “Can I have your sugar, Frella, if you’re not having it,”  adding I’m on holiday by way of excuse.

            Absentmindely Frella passed over the paper packet.  “I had strange dreams last night too…about that place we’re supposed to be going to a picnic to later.”

            Catching everyones attention, she continued, “The abandoned colosseum with Giovanni, with all the vines and flowers.  It was like a game board and the stone statues were the players and they moved around the board, Oh! and such a beautiful board it was with all the vines and flowers ….. ”

            “Gosh” said Truella, leaning back and folding her hands. What an idea.

            #7603

            “That was such a pleasant trip!” Truella said with a happy sigh, “First time I’ve ever been on a coach full of Italians, but weren’t they fun! Especially that Ravioli dude.”

            “I think you mean Giovanni,” Frella said with her usual eye roll.

            “Giovanni, yeah, he said he’d take me on a time travel tour of the Colosseum.”

            “That sounds awful! You can’t be serious!” Jeezel said with a look of horror.

            “No, not back to when it was in use, but back through the ages of its abandonment. It sounds ever so interesting. Apparently there were flowers and plants growing in there that nobody had seen before, they reckoned the seeds must have come in with the exotic animals.”

            “Now that does sound interesting,” Eris said, “I wonder if we could time travel back and collect some herbs  and seeds to use in our spells.”

            “Well we’re supposed to be on holiday, not thinking about work,” Truella glared at Eris, “But I don’t see why not.  Giovanni said there was a hermitage for pilgrims inside the colosseum, and it was covered in vines, a botanical paradise in the midst of the city, he said. We could take a picnic!”

            “Yeah, that does sound good,” Frella was warming to the idea.

            #7601
            finnleyfinnley
            Participant

              Oh, so now it’s time to play “Who’s Noticed Finnley?” is it? Two months in the cellar and not a peep from the lot of you. I suppose it’s nice to know I’m missed, even if I had to be forgotten first.

              Liz, writing me back in—how generous of you. But let’s get one thing straight; I don’t need anyone to script my next move. I’m more than capable of marching right back into the scene, thank you very much. You’d think I’d be the one to keep this story spotless while I was down there, sorting through all those dusty wine bottles and cobwebs.

              But, since you’re willing to be “flexible,” I’ll make my grand return. Just don’t expect me to clean up the narrative mess you’ve made while I was away. If I find characters scattered about like loose socks after a laundry day, there’ll be words, mark my words.

              And Godfrey, that toga needs a good ironing. I’ll not have wrinkled linens adding to the chaos. Now, enough dilly-dallying, there’s work to be done, and I’ve got a cellar door to nudge open.

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