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  • #7947

    Chico drank the cup of freshly ground coffee beans. He winked with distaste and jotted a few words on his notebook before trying a second batch of ground coffee beans.

    He wasn’t aware of much from his past life, or if he even had a life before the others summoned him. They were a mystery to him, and he didn’t understand the reasons or the purpose of his existence. He didn’t even like coffee; he only pretended to, because the job and his own physical appearance kind of fit with the stereotype. He chuckled thinking it could be a stereotypo.

    He thought the taste of coffee was the reason why he chewed betel leaves. Their taste, slightly spicy and pungent with hints of clove and cinnamon helped mask the bitterness of the coffee he had to drink. He suddenly became aware of some other information about himself. He could swear he had forgotten them, they simply weren’t there before. His father had lost his teeth. The reason wasn’t clear yet, but looming behind the jungle trees. What about his mother? Was she slim or fat? Both possibilities flickered in his head and disappeared. Apparently it hadn’t been chosen yet. He pondered about that last remark before forgetting it.

    Too many weird questions were passing through his fat head. The heat and sweat were no good for his mental health… because of all the flies. He wondered if that was the reason why the old lady had started breeding them under her rooftop. She claimed it was an infestation but he had seen her secretly releasing swarms of flies in the evening, exciting the cauldron of bats. She had seen him looking at her, but they had tacitly convened they would not betray each other’s secret. Only, Chico wasn’t yet aware of what his own secret was.

    He winced as he tasted the third batch of coffee from the plantation.

    #7846

    Helix 25 — The Captain’s Awakening

    The beacon’s pulse cut through the void like a sharpened arrowhead of ancient memory.

    Far from Merdhyn’s remote island refuge, deep within the Hold’s bowels of Helix 25, something—someone—stirred.

    Inside an unlisted cryo-chamber, the frozen stasis cracked. Veins of light slithered across the pod’s surface like Northern lights dancing on an old age screensaver. Systems whirred, data blipped and streamed in strings of unknown characters. The ship, Synthia, whispered in its infinite omniscience, but the moment was already beyond her control.

    A breath. A slow, drawn-out breath.

    The cryo-pod released its lock with a soft hiss, and through the dispersing mist, Veranassessee stepped forward— awakened.

    She blinked once, twice, as her senses rushed back with the sudden sense of gravity’s return. It was not the disorienting shock of the newly thawed. No—this was a return long overdue. Her mind, trained to absorb and adapt, locked onto the now, cataloging every change, every discrepancy as her mind had remained awake during the whole session —equipoise and open, as a true master of her senses she was.

    She was older than when she had first stepped inside. Older, but not old. Age, after all, was a trick of perception, and if anyone had mastered perception, it was her.

    But now, crises called. Plural indeed. And she, once more, was called to carry out her divine duty, with skills forged in Earthly battles with mad scientists, genetically modified spiders bent on world domination, and otherworldly crystal skulls thiefs. That was far in her past. Since then, she’d used her skills in the private sector, climbing the ranks as her efficient cold-as-steel talents were recognized at every step. She was the true Captain. She had earned it. That was how Victor Holt fell in love. She hated that people could think it was depotism that gave her the title. If anything, she helped make Victor the man he was.

    The ship thrummed beneath her bare feet. A subtle shift in the atmosphere. Something had changed since she last walked these halls, something was off. The ship’s course? Its command structure?

    And, most importantly—
    Who had sent the signal?

    :fleuron2:

    Ellis Marlowe Sr. had moved swiftly for a man his age. It wasn’t that he feared the unknown. It wasn’t even the mystery of the murder that pushed him forward. It was something deeper, more personal.

    The moment the solar flare alert had passed, whispers had spread—faint, half-muttered rumors that the Restricted Cryo-Chambers had been breached.

    By the time he reached it, the pod was already empty.

    The remnants of thawing frost still clung to the edges of the chamber. A faint imprint of a body, long at rest, now gone.

    He swore under his breath, then turned to the ship’s log panel,  reaching for a battered postcard. Scribbled on it were cheatcodes. His hands moved with a careful expertise of someone who had spent too many years filing things that others had forgotten. A postman he was, and registers he knew well.

    Access Denied.

    That wasn’t right. The codes should have given Ellis clearance for everything.

    He scowled, adjusting his glasses. It was always the same names, always the same people tied to these inexplicable gaps in knowledge.

    The Holts. The Forgelots. The Marlowes.
    And now, an unlisted cryopod with no official records.

    Ellis exhaled slowly.

    She was back. And with her, more history with this ship, like pieces of old broken potteries in an old dig would be unearthed.

    He turned, already making his way toward the Murder Board.

    Evie needed to see this.

    :fleuron2:

    The corridor stretched out before her, familiar in its dimensions yet strange in its silence. She had managed to switch the awkward hospital gown to a non-descript uniform that was hanging in the Hold.

    How long have I been gone?

    She exhaled. Irrelevant.

    Her body moved with the precise economy of someone whose training never dulled. Her every motion were simple yet calculated, and her every breath controlled.

    Unlike in the crypod, her mind started to bubbled with long forgotten emotions. It flickered over past decisions, past betrayals.

    Victor Holt.

    The name of her ex-husband settled into her consciousness. Once her greatest ally, then her most carefully avoided adversary.

    And now?

    Veranassessee smiled, stretching her limbs as though shrugging off the stiffness of years.

    Outside, strange cries and howling in the corridors sounded like a mess was in progress. Who was in charge now? They were clearly doing a shit job.

    Now, it was time to reclaim her ship.

    She had questions.
    And someone had better start providing answers.

    #7799

    Helix 25 – Lower Decks – Secretive Adjustments

    Sue Brittany Kaleleonālani Forgelot moved with the practiced grace of someone accustomed to being noticed—but tonight, she walked as someone trying not to be. The Upper Deck was hers, where conversations flowed with elegant pretense and where everyone knew her by firstname —Sue, she would insist. There would be none of that bowing nonsense to her noble lineages —bless her distinguished ancestors.

    Here, in the Lower Decks, she was a curiosity at best, an intrusion at worst.

    Unlike the well-maintained Upper Decks, here the air was warmer, and one could sense mingled with the recycled air, a distinct scent of metal, oil, and even labouring bodies. Maintenance bots were limited, and keeping people busy with work helped with the social order. Lights flickered erratically in narrow corridors, nothing like the pristine glow of the Upper Deck’s crystal chandeliers. The Lower Decks were functional, built for work and survival, not for leisure. And deeper still—past the bustling workstations, past the overlooked mechanics keeping Helix 25 from falling apart—the Hold.

    The Hold was where she found Luca Stroud.

    A heavy, reinforced door hissed as it unlocked, and Sue stepped inside his dimly lit workshop. Stacks of salvaged tech lined the walls, interspersed with crates of unauthorized modifications in this workspace born of a mixture of necessity, ingenuity, and quiet rebellion.

    Luca barely looked up as he wiped oil from his hands. “You’re late, dear.”

    Sue huffed, settling into the chair he had long since designated for her. “A lady does not rush. Besides, I had affairs to attend to.” She crossed one leg over the other, her silk shawl catching on the metallic seam of a cybernetic limb beneath it. “And I had to dodge half the ship to get here unnoticed.”

    Luca grunted, kneeling beside her. “You wouldn’t have to sneak if you’d just let one of the Upper Deck doctors service this thing.” He tapped lightly on the synthetic skin to reveal the metallic prosthetic, watching as the synthetic nerves twitched in response.

    Sue’s expression turned sharp. “You know why I can’t.”

    Luca said nothing, but his smirk spoke volumes.

    There were things she couldn’t let the Upper Deck medics see. Upgrades, modifications, small enhancements that gave her just enough edge. In the circles she moved in, knowledge was power. And she was far too valuable to be at the mercy of those who wanted her dependent.

    Luca examined the joint, nodding to himself. “You’ve been walking too much on it.”

    “Well, forgive me for using my own legs.”

    He tightened a wire. Sue winced, but he ignored it. “You need recalibration. And I need better parts.”

    Sue gave a slow, knowing smile. “And what minor favors will you require this time?”

    Luca leaned back, thoughtful. “Information. Since you’re generous with it.”

    She sighed, shifting in her seat. “Fine. You’re lucky I find you amusing.”

    He adjusted a component with expert hands. “Tell me about the murder.”

    Sue arched a brow. “Everyone wants to talk about that. You’d think no one had ever died before.”

    “They haven’t,” Luca countered, voice flat. “Not for a long time. And not like this.”

    She studied him, his interest piquing her own. “So you think it was a real murder.”

    Luca let out a dry chuckle. “Oh, it was a murder alright. And you know it.”

    Sue exhaled, considering what to share. “Well, rumor has it, the DNA found in the crime scene doesn’t belong here. It’s from the past. Far past.”

    Luca glanced up, intrigued. “How far?”

    Sue leaned in, voice hushed. “Crusader far.”

    He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “That’s… new.”

    She tilted her head. “What does that mean to you?”

    Luca hesitated, then shrugged. “Means whoever’s playing god with DNA sequencing isn’t as smart as they think they are.”

    Sue smiled at that, more amused than disturbed. “And I suppose you have theories?”

    Luca gave her cybernetic limb one final adjustment, then stood. “I have suspicions.”

    Sue sighed dramatically. “How thrilling.” She flexed her leg, satisfied with the result. “Keep me informed, and I’ll see what I can find for you.”

    Luca smirked. “You always do.”

    As she rose to leave, she paused at the door. “Oh, one last thing, dear.”

    Luca glanced at her. “What?”

    Sue’s smirk deepened. “Should I put in a good word to the Captain for you?”

    The question hung between them.

    Luca narrowed his eyes. “Nobody’s ever met the Captain.”

    She nodded, satisfied, and left him to his thoughts.

    #7776

    Epilogue & Prologue

    Paris, November 2029 – The Fifth Note Resounds

    Tabitha sat by the window at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, letting the murmur of conversations and the occasional purring of the espresso machine settle around her. It was one of the few cafés left in the city where time still moved at a human pace. She stirred her cup absentmindedly. Paris was still Paris, but the world outside had changed in ways her mother’s generation still struggled to grasp.

    It wasn’t just the ever-presence of automation and AI making themselves known in subtle ways—screens adjusting to glances, the quiet surveillance woven into everyday life. It wasn’t just the climate shifts, the aircon turned to cold in the midst of November, the summers unpredictable, the air thick with contradictions of progress and collapse of civilization across the Atlantic.

    The certainty of impermanence was what defined her generation. BANI world they used to say—Brittle, Anxious, Nonlinear, Incomprehensible. A cold fact: impossible to grasp and impossible to fight. Unlike her mother and her friends, who had spent their lives tethered to a world that no longer existed, she had never known certainty. She was born in the flux.

    And yet, this café remained. One of the last to resist full automation, where a human still brought you coffee, where the brass bell above the door still rang, where things still unfolded at a human pace.

    The bell above the door rang—the fifth note, as her mother had called it once.

    She had never been here before, not in any way that mattered. Yet, she had heard the story. The unlikely reunion five years ago. The night that moved new projects in motion for her mother and her friends.

    Tabitha’s fingers traced the worn edges of the notebook in front of her—Lucien’s, then Amei’s, then Darius’s. Pieces of a life written by many hands.

    “Some things don’t work the first time. But sometimes, in the ruins of what failed, something else sprouts and takes root.”

    And that was what had happened.

    The shared housing project they had once dreamed of hadn’t survived—not in its original form. But through their rekindled bond, they had started something else.

     

    True Stories of How It Was.

     

    It had begun as a quiet defiance—a way to preserve real, human stories in an age of synthetic, permanent ephemerality and ephemeral impermanence, constantly changing memory. They were living in a world where AI’s fabricated histories had overwhelmed all the channels of information, where the past was constantly rewritten, altered, repackaged. Authenticity had become a rare currency.

    As she graduated in anthropology few years back, she’d wondered about the validity of history —it was, after all, a construct. The same could be said for literature, art, even science. All of them constructs of the human mind, tenuous grasp of the infinite truth, but once, they used to evolve at such a slow pace that they felt solid, reliable. Ultimately their group was not looking for ultimate truth, that would be arrogant and probably ignorant. Authenticity was what they were looking for. And with it, connections, love, genuineness —unquantifiables by means of science and yet, true and precious beyond measure.

    Lucien had first suggested it, tracing the idea from his own frustrations—the way art had become a loop of generated iterations, the human touch increasingly erased. He was in a better place since Matteo had helped him settle his score with Renard and, free of influence, he had found confidence in developing of his own art.

    Amei —her mother—, had changed in a way Tabitha couldn’t quite define. Her restlessness had quieted, not through settling down but through accepting impermanence as something other than loss. She had started writing again—not as a career, not to publish, but to preserve stories that had no place in a digitized world. Her quiet strength had always been in preserving connections, and she knew they had to move quickly before real history faded beneath layers of fabricated recollections.

    Darius, once skeptical, saw its weight—he had spent years avoiding roots, only to realize that stories were the only thing that made places matter. He was somewhere in Morocco now, leading a sustainable design project, bridging cultures rather than simply passing through them.

    Elara had left science. Or at least, science as she had known it. The calculations, the certainty, the constraints of academia, with no escape from the automated “enhanced” digital helpers. Her obsession and curiosities had found attract in something more human, more chaotic. She had thrown herself into reviving old knowledge, forgotten architectures, regenerative landscapes.

    And Matteo—Matteo had grounded it.

    The notebook read: Matteo wasn’t a ghost from our past. He was the missing note, the one we didn’t know we needed. And because of him, we stopped looking backward. We started building something else.

    For so long, Matteo had been a ghost of sorts, by his own account, lingering at the edges of their story, the missing note in their unfinished chord. But now, he was fully part of it. His mother had passed, her past history unraveling in ways he had never expected, branching new connections even now. And though he had lost something in that, he had also found something else. Juliette. Or maybe not. The story wasn’t finished.

    Tabitha turned the page.

    “We were not historians, not preservationists, not even archivists. But we have lived. And as it turned out, that was enough.”

    They had begun collecting stories through their networks—not legends, not myths, but true accounts of how it was, from people who still remembered.

    A grandfather’s voice recording of a train ride to a city that no longer exists.
    Handwritten recipes annotated by generations of hands, each adding something new.
    A letter from a protest in 2027, detailing a movement that the history books had since erased.
    An old woman’s story of her first love, spoken in a dialect that AI could not translate properly.

    It had grown in ways they hadn’t expected. People began sending them recordings, letters, transcripts, photos —handwritten scraps of fading ink. Some were anonymous, others carefully curated with full names and details, like makeshift ramparts against the tide of time.

    At first, few had noticed. It was never the goal to make it worlwide movement. But little by little, strange things happened, and more began to listen.

    There was something undeniably powerful about genuine human memory when it was raw and unfiltered, when it carried unpolished, raw weight of experience, untouched by apologetic watered down adornments and out-of-place generative hallucinations.

    Now, there were exhibitions, readings, archives—entire underground movements dedicated to preserving pre-synthetic history. Their project had become something rare, valuable, almost sacred.

    And yet, here in the café, none of that felt urgent.

    Tabitha looked up as the server approached. Not Matteo, but someone new.

    “Another espresso?”

    She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. And a glass of water, please.”

    She glanced at the counter, where Matteo was leaning, speaking to someone, laughing. He had changed, too. No longer just an observer, no longer just the quiet figure who knew too much. Now, he belonged here.

    A bell rang softly as the door swung open again.

    Tabitha smiled to herself. The fifth note always sounded, in the end.

    She turned back to the notebook, the city moving around her, the story still unfolding in more directions than one.

    #7654
    TracyTracy
    Participant

      The first one to find the bar buys the drinks, Darius had said, and they’d all laughed, but it was no laughing matter being lost in those woods.

      Siiting on a cushion on the floor surrounded by cardboard shoeboxes and piles of photos and letters, Elara leaned towards the lamp to better see the photograph.  The white bull.  

      Lucien had refused when Elara asked him to do a painting of the white bull, and then relented and said he would. But he hadn’t, not that she knew of anyway. The incident had happened the year before the pandemic, the spring of 2019. Not long before they all went their separate ways.  Elara had been visiting her father in Andalucia for his 90th birthday when a neighbour of his had told her about the stone in the woods.  She knew the others would be interested and had invited them over; her father Roland had plenty of room at his finca overlooking the Hozgarganta river, and had no objections.

      Darius had wanted to bring those people to see the pyramidal stone in the woods, and Elara was having none of it. I was told in private about that, I shouldn’t have shown anyone, Darius, not even you, she had told him.  Resentfully, Darius had tried to argue his point: that it was for the greater good, shouldn’t be kept secret, and how could he keep it from them anyway, they would know he was hiding something.

      You may not be able to find it again, look at the trouble we had. You might get attacked by wild boar or fall off a precipice into the gorge, Amei added, not relishing the idea of sharing the discovery with those people either. She couldn’t help thinking it wouldn’t be a bad thing if those people did disappear without a trace. Darius hadn’t been the same since getting sucked into their cultish clutches.

      They had lost their way in the gloomy trackless forest trying to find the stone, impossible to see further than the next few trees.  Increasingly alarmed at the boar tracks and the fading late afternoon light, Elara had suggested they give up and try and retrace their steps, rather than penetrating further down into the woods. And then suddenly Lucien shouted There is it! That’s it! and there it stood, rising above the tree canopy, the sharp grey stone sides contrasting gloriously with the thick tangled foliage.

      Rushing towards it, they fanned out circling it, touching it, gazing up at the smooth sides. Solid stone, not constructed with blocks, its purpose indecipherable, astonishingly incongruous to the location.

      Look, we need to start making our way back to the car, Elara had said, It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. 
      Amei had helped her convince Lucien and Darius who were reluctant to leave, promising another visit. Now we know where it is, she said, although she wasn’t sure if they did know how to find it again. It had appeared while they were lost, after all.

      The scramble back to the car had been no less confusing than the walk down to the stone, they only knew they had to go uphill to find the unpaved forest road.

      Squinting as they emerged from trees into the sunlight, a spontaneous cheer was immediately silenced at the sight of the white bull lying serenely by the site of the road, glowing like white marble, implacable, wise, and godly.
      Is it real? whispered Amei, awestruck.

      I wonder if Darius ever did take those people there, Elara wondered. It had never been mentioned again, but then, things started to change after that.  So many things were left unsaid. Elara had never been back, but the white bull had stayed in her mind perhaps more even than the stone pyramid had. I wonder if Lucien ever did that painting of it?  Elara propped the photo up behind a candlestick on the fireplace mantel. Now that she was retired, maybe she’d do a painting of it herself.

      #7653

      Matteo — Winter 2023: The Move

      The rumble of the moving truck echoed faintly in the quiet residential street as Matteo leaned against the open door, arms crossed, waiting for the signal to load the boxes. He glanced at the crisp winter sky, a pale gray threatening snow, and then at the house behind him. Its windows were darkened by empty rooms, their once-lived-in warmth replaced by the starkness of transition. The ornate names artistically painted on the mailbox struck him somehow. Amei & Tabitha M.: his clients for the day.

      The cold damp of London’s suburbia was making him long even more for the warmth of sunny days. With the past few moves he’s been managing for his company, the tipping had been generous; he could probably plan a spring break in South of France, or maybe make a more permanent move there.

      The sound of the doorbell brought him back from his rêverie.

      Inside the house, the faint sounds of boxes being taped and last-minute goodbyes carried through the hallways. Matteo had been part of these moves too many times to count now. People always left a little bit of themselves behind—forgotten trinkets, echoes of old conversations, or the faint imprint of a life lived. It was a rhythm he’d come to expect, and he knew his part in it: lift, carry, and disappear into the background.

      :fleuron2:

      Matteo straightened as the door opened and a girl that could have been in her early twenties, but looked like a teenager stepped out, bundled against the cold. She held a steaming mug in one hand and balanced a box awkwardly on her hip with the other.

      “That’s the last of it,” she called over her shoulder. “Mum, are you sure you don’t want me to take the notebooks?”

      “They’re fine in the car, Tabitha!” A voice—calm and steady, maybe tinged with weariness—floated from inside.

      The girl named Tabitha turned to Matteo, offering the box. “This is fragile,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “Be nice to it.”

      Matteo took the box carefully, glancing at the mug in her hand. “You’re not leaving that behind, are you?” he asked with a faint smile.

      Tabitha laughed. “This? No way. That’s my lifeline. The mug stays.”

      :fleuron2:

      As Matteo carried the box to the truck, his eyes caught on something inside—a weathered postcard tucked haphazardly between the pages of a journal. The image on the front was striking: a swirling green fairy, dancing above a glass of absinthe. La Fée Verte was scrawled in looping letters across the top.

      “Tabitha!” Her mother’s voice carried out to the driveway, and Matteo turned instinctively. She stepped out onto the porch, her scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, her breath visible in the chilly air. Matteo could see the resemblance—the same poise and humor in her gaze, though softened by something older, quieter.

      “Put this somewhere, will you” she said, holding up another postcard, this one with a faded image of a winding mountain road.

      Tabitha grinned, stepping forward to take it. “Thanks, Mum. That one’s special.” She tucked it into her coat pocket.

      “Special how?” her mother asked lightly.

      “It’s from Darius,” Tabitha said, her tone almost teasing. “… The one you never want to talk about.” she leaned teasingly. “One of his cryptic postcards —too bad I was too young to really remember him, he must have been fun to be around.”

      Matteo’s ears perked at the name, though he kept his head down, settling the box in place. It wasn’t unusual to overhear snippets like this during a move, but something about the unusual name roused his curiosity.

      “Why you want to keep those?” Amei asked, tilting her head.

      Tabitha shrugged. “They’re kind of… a map, I guess. Of people, not places.”

      Amei paused, her expression softening. “He was always good at that,” she murmured, almost to herself.

      :fleuron2:

      The conversation lingered in Matteo’s mind as the day went on. By the time the truck was loaded, and he’d helped arrange the last of the boxes in Amei’s new, smaller apartment, the name and the postcard had taken root.

      As Matteo stacked the final piece of furniture—a worn bookshelf—against the living room wall, he noticed Amei lingering near a window, her gaze distant.

      “It’s different, isn’t it?” she said suddenly, not looking at him.

      “Moving?” Matteo asked, unsure if the question was for him.

      “Starting over,” she clarified, her voice quieter now. “Feels smaller, even when it’s supposed to be lighter.”

      Matteo didn’t reply, sensing she wasn’t looking for an answer. He stepped back, nodding politely as she thanked him and disappeared into the kitchen.

      :fleuron2:

      The postcard stuck in his mind for days after. Matteo had heard of absinthe before, of course—its mystique, its history—but something about the way Tabitha had called the postcard a “map of people” resonated.

      By the time spring arrived, Matteo was wandering through Avignon, chasing vague curiosities and half-formed questions. When he saw Lucien crouched over his chalk labyrinth, the memory of the postcard rose unbidden.

      “Do you know where I can find absinthe?” he asked, the question more instinct than intent.

      Lucien’s raised eyebrow and faint smile felt like another piece clicking into place. The connections were there—threads woven in patterns he couldn’t yet see. But for the first time in months, Matteo felt he was back on the right path.

      #7647

      Darius: A Map of People

      June 2023 – Capesterre-Belle-Eau, Guadeloupe

      The air in Capesterre-Belle-Eau was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made every movement slow and deliberate. Darius leaned against the railing of the veranda, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the sky blends into the sea. The scent of wet earth and banana leaves filling the air. He was home.

      It had been nearly a year since hurricane Fiona swept through Guadeloupe, its winds blowing a trail of destruction across homes, plantations, and lives. Capesterre-Belle-Eau had been among the hardest hit, its banana plantations reduced to ruin and its roads washed away in torrents of mud.

      Darius hadn’t been here when it happened. He’d read about it from across the Atlantic, the news filtering through headlines and phone calls from his aunt, her voice brittle with worry.

      “Darius, you should come back,” she’d said. “The land remembers everyone who’s left it.”

      It was an unusual thing for her to say, but the words lingered. By the time he arrived in early 2023 to join the relief efforts, the worst of the crisis had passed, but the scars remained—on the land, on the people, and somewhere deep inside himself.

      Home, and Not — Now, passing days having turned into quick six months, Darius was still here, though he couldn’t say why. He had thrown himself into the work, helped to rebuild homes, clear debris, and replant crops. But it wasn’t just the physical labor that kept him—it was the strange sensation of being rooted in a place he’d once fled.

      Capesterre-Belle-Eau wasn’t just home; it was bones-deep memories of childhood. The long walks under the towering banana trees, the smell of frying codfish and steaming rice from his aunt’s kitchen, the rhythm of gwoka drums carrying through the evening air.

      “Tu reviens pour rester cette fois ?” Come back to stay? a neighbor had asked the day he returned, her eyes sharp with curiosity.

      He had laughed, brushing off the question. “On verra,” he’d replied. We’ll see.

      But deep down, he knew the answer. He wasn’t back for good. He was here to make amends—not just to the land that had raised him but to himself.

      A Map of Travels — On the veranda that afternoon, Darius opened his phone and scrolled through his photo gallery. Each image was pinned to a digital map, marking all the places he’d been since he got the phone. Of all places, it was Budapest which popped out, a poor snapshot of Buda Castle.

      He found it a funny thought — just like where he was now, he hadn’t planned to stay so long there. He remembered the date: 2020, in the midst of the pandemic. He’d spent in Budapest most of it, sketching the empty streets.

      Five years ago, their little group of four had all been reconnecting in Paris, full of plans that never came to fruition. By late 2019, the group had scattered, each of them drawn into their own orbits, until the first whispers of the pandemic began to ripple across the world.

      Funding his travels had never been straightforward. He’d tried his hand at dozens of odd jobs over the years—bartending in Lisbon, teaching English in Marrakech, sketching portraits in tourist squares across Europe. He lived frugally, keeping his possessions light and his plans loose. Yet, his confidence had a way of opening doors; people trusted him without knowing why, offering him opportunities that always seemed to arrive at just the right time.

      Even during the pandemic, when the world seemed to fold in on itself, he had found a way.

      Darius had already arrived in Budapest by then, living cheaply in a rented studio above a bakery. The city had remained open longer than most in Europe or the world, its streets still alive with muted activity even as the rest of Europe closed down. He’d wandered freely for months, sketching graffiti-covered bridges, quiet cafes, and the crumbling facades of buildings that seemed to echo his own restlessness.

      When the lockdowns finally came like everywhere else, it was just before winter, he’d stayed, uncertain of where else to go. His days became a rhythm of sketching, reading, and sending postcards. Amei was one of the few who replied—but never ostentatiously. It was enough to know she was still there, even if the distance between them felt greater than ever.

      But the map didn’t tell the whole story. It didn’t show the faces, the laughter, the fleeting connections that had made those places matter.

      Swatting at a buzzing mosquito, he reached for the small leather-bound folio on the table beside him. Inside was a collection of fragments: ticket stubs, pressed flowers, a frayed string bracelet gifted by a child in Guatemala, and a handful of postcards he’d sent to Amei but had never been sure she received.

      One of them, yellowed at the edges, showed a labyrinth carved into stone. He turned it over, his own handwriting staring back at him.

      “Amei,” it read. “I thought of you today. Of maps and paths and the people who make them worth walking. Wherever you are, I hope you’re well. —D.”

      He hadn’t sent it. Amei’s responses had always been brief—a quick WhatsApp message, a thumbs-up on his photos, or a blue tick showing she’d read his posts. But they’d never quite managed to find their way back to the conversations they used to have.

      The Market —  The next morning, Darius wandered through the market in Trois-Rivières, a smaller town nestled between the sea and the mountains. The vendors called out their wares—bunches of golden bananas, pyramids of vibrant mangoes, bags of freshly ground cassava flour.

      “Tiens, Darius!” called a woman selling baskets woven from dried palm fronds. “You’re not at work today?”

      “Day off,” he said, smiling as he leaned against her stall. “Figured I’d treat myself.”

      She handed him a small woven bracelet, her eyes twinkling. “A gift. For luck, wherever you go next.”

      Darius accepted it with a quiet laugh. “Merci, tatie.”

      As he turned to leave, he noticed a couple at the next stall—tourists, by the look of them, their backpacks and wide-eyed curiosity marking them as outsiders. They made him suddenly realise how much he missed the lifestyle.

      The woman wore an orange scarf, its boldness standing out as if the color orange itself had disappeared from the spectrum, and only a single precious dash could be seen into all the tones of the market. Something else about them caught his attention. Maybe it was the way they moved together, or the way the man gestured as he spoke, as if every word carried weight.

      “Nice scarf,” Darius said casually as he passed.

      The woman smiled, adjusting the fabric. “Thanks. Picked it up in Rajasthan. It’s been with me everywhere since.”

      Her partner added, “It’s funny, isn’t it? The things we carry. Sometimes it feels like they know more about where we’ve been than we do.”

      Darius tilted his head, intrigued. “Do you ever think about maps? Not the ones that lead to places, but the ones that lead to people. Paths crossing because they’re meant to.”

      The man grinned. “Maybe it’s not about the map itself,” he said. “Maybe it’s about being open to seeing the connections.”

      A Letter to Amei —  That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Darius sat at the edge of the bay, his feet dangling above the water. The leather-bound folio sat open beside him, its contents spread out in the fading light.

      He picked up the labyrinth postcard again, tracing its worn edges with his thumb.

      “Amei,” he wrote on the back just under the previous message a second one —the words flowing easily this time. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own, its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well. —D.”

      He folded the card into an envelope and tucked it into his bag, resolving to send it the next day.

      As he watched the waves lap against the rocks, he felt a sense of motion rolling like waves asking to be surfed. He didn’t know where the next path would lead next, but he felt it was time to move on again.

      #7591

      Eris had called in sick. Even with the worst case of cold she’s had in years, she was feeling well enough to do jinx-from-home duties, and while her brain was in slow motion, she was relishing the quiet from the daily nagging of processes at the Quadrivium’s office, paperwork, tedious explaining to new hires in the ever growing coven extensions.

      When Jeezel called her at the end of the day, she was glad to learn that Truella had found courage to stand up for them. Jeezel had such a colorful way of describing events, and in describing that particular scene where Truella had made her stand, it was always difficult to extract the truth from the makeup.

      “You’re not really paying attention, are you?” Jeezel, ever astute to where attention was, quizzed her.

      “What made you say that?” Eris didn’t try to deny.

      “Oh I guess, when I started to speak about the camels in knickers going for a bath in the ball pit from all the dropped balls this year.”

      “Ah, right. That would do.”

      “Tell me, anything troubling you, luv’? You know you can tell me things.”

      After a little moment, Eris said “Well, it’s just a thought,… but what if I’m in need of change of path?”

      “What do you mean?” Jeezel tried to not sound too alarmed. “Not being a witch anymore?”

      “Oh, no. Well,… why not, there’s no shame in no magic —but no. More like…”

      “What? Quitting the coven?”

      “… Yeah. It’s gone to madder and madder, it’s so hard to keep track with all the nonsense.” Eris corrected seeing the face of Jeezel. “Not that nonsense. You know what I mean… the daily nonsense. Our nonsense is fine. More than fine actually.”

      “Phew, you had me worried though. Although…”

      “I know… Quitting the coven.”

      “You could be stripped of magic, if Malové learns about this…” then with more concern in her voice “WE could all be stripped of magic.”

      “Yeah, I know. But look, is that what makes us happy?”

      “It certainly foots the bill —or more like magically takes care of the bills.”

      “Like I said, Jeez’, it’s just a thought, nothing to worry about, actually it helped to get it out.”

      “I think it’s more than a thought.” Jeezel said with an air of age-old wisdom. “Let’s see where this leads. Imagine that…”

      “Yeah, we’ll see. Thanks for checking in, it’s nice for a change. I don’t know what’s got into the other two these days, they’re always talking about clothing.”

      “Yeah, I know. And pjs’.”

      “Go figure.”

      #7521

      It was matins, the early break of dawn at cockcrow, and the sisters had been diligent to call everyone for prayers.

      Mother Lorena was expounding on the powers of prayer while Eris was struggling to keep her friends awake after the short night.

      “Our Sister Hildegard,” Mother Lorena was droning, as to make everything painfully clear to the newcomers “was one of the founding members of our secret order of nun-witches as you would like to say. But make no mistake, she tapped into a power much much older. The power of prayer of the early Christians was capable of great miracles…”

      “If we’re here for a history lesson, hope she tells us more about the dragons…” muttered Truella, still groggy from her sleepless night.

      As if the absurdly hearing-impaired Mother superior had heard the plea, she went on “It is that same power of prayer from the early covens of nun-witches that helped vanquish the hordes of dragon-boat riding invaders.”

      “Did she say dragon??” 

      “Ssshttt!” Jeezel and Eris shushed Truella as they were struggling to keep up with the rosary count.

      “Of course, I mean the viking hordes with their drakkar boats. Such be the tale forever embedded in our embroidered tapestries.”

      “She didn’t say about the frogs nuns though, has she?” Truella ventured, hoping the hearing/inspiration spell would still work.

      “I suppose the frog-nuns were symbols of transformation, alchemy — or mastery about the water element from which the invaders came, or maybe just waiting for a prince’s kiss… what should I know?” Eris shrugged, mildly annoyed. Her phone was busy spewing messages. Luckily the silent prayer was over, and everyone was invited to the breakfast in the great hall.

      “What’s happened?” Jeezel ventured.

      Eris sighed. “I’ll have to leave you for today. Another bank errand for Austreberthe. Hope it doesn’t become a habit… Luckily she’s asked Mother Lorena to allow me to use the covent’s portal to make haste.”

      She turned to Truella. “I trust you with this Tru, please don’t make a mess of it while I’m gone. There are forces at play here, and we can’t be distracted; I’ll be back as soon as I can. We still have the crypts and the reanimated nuns to investigate, but I’m sure they can wait for a few hours more.”

      Before Truella could protest, Eris was on her way.

      #7487

      Although not unheard of in Limerick, it had been raining for days and that affected moods. The weather forecast, despite many promises, hadn’t been able to curb the collective melancholy. Jeezel had to resist the temptation to use a spell or two just for an hour of sunshine, but she remembered what Linda Paul would say about meddling with weather patterns. She’d likely take a dramatic pause, her eyes narrowing in theatrical emphasis as she weighed her words carefully.

      “Darling, one does not simply tinker with the weather as if it were a mere accessory to one’s outfit. The weather, you see, is a complex symphony conducted by the universe itself. Each raindrop, each gust of wind, each sunbeam—it’s all part of an intricate, celestial score. Tampering with such forces is akin to striking a discordant note in a masterpiece; the repercussions can be chaotic and unpredictable. Mother Nature has a way of setting things right, and trust me, her methods are rarely gentle. Remember the tale of the tempestuous sorcerer who tried to stop a storm and ended up summoning a hurricane? Or that ill-fated witch who thought to banish winter, only to plunge her village into eternal ice?” Her eyes might sparkle with a hint of mischief as she added, “And let’s not forget the fashion disasters! Imagine trying to maintain a perfect coiffure in a sudden downpour you inadvertently summoned. Utterly tragic, darling.” 

      Jeezel giggled at the evocation. No, she would not meddle with the intricate weave of weathery, but one little filter spell on her window was innocuous enough to transform the “gloom of June” into a “dawn’s gentle fingers caressing the horizon”. She was standing before her ornate, vintage mirror in a midnight blue gown. The magic morning light was dancing upon the silver filigree, casting ethereal patterns across her boudoir.

      Her thoughts meandered through the labyrinth of anticipation and preparation. “A convent,” she mused, “How delightfully austere. A stark contrast to my usual flamboyance.” In her address to the coven and looking specifically at Jeezel with ice cold eyes, Austreberthe had insisted on modesty and temperance. “But then, Austreberthe is not Malové,” Jeezel said, “and even the most demure places need a touch of magic.”

      She ran her fingers through her raven locks, contemplating her wardrobe. “Burgundy for modesty and vintage silver lace mantilla for a whisper of enchantment”, she decided. It would strike the perfect balance.

      Then, her mind turned to practicalities. The convent, with its storied history and sacred relics, would likely be a trove of ancient magics. She carefully selected a few essential items on her vanity: a vial of protective potion, a small pouch of moon blessed herbs and her favourite amulet in the shape of a silver hedgehog she got from her grand-mother and imbued with protective and clarity spells.

      Her eyes fall on the thick file Truella had given each of them the day before. Full of charts and bullet lists about the cloister, questions about history, mug shots and detailed descriptions of the current inhabitants, with (not so) occasional pictures of her own digs and dogs. If Eris had skimmed through it in seconds and started to ask questions, Frella said she would read it before going to bed as it helped with her remembering. Jeezel had said nothing. She had gotten dizzy with too many bullet points and letters. All she could think about was the precious space and weight it would take in her suitcase and in her mind.

      Though, there was something different. An envelop stuck between the file and the mahogany wood of the vanity. She took the envelop and opened it. It contained a letter and a small, ornate key, its surface inscribed with runes that glimmered with an otherworldly light. The paper grain was of fine quality. Jeezel recognized Malové’s intricate calligraphy. The paper carried subtle fragrances of sandalwood, jasmine, and bergamot, with a touch of vetiver and ambergris. With each whiff hidden facets were emerging from an apparently simple message.

      “Jeezel, my trusted enchantress,” it started, “your journey to the convent in Spain is of utmost importance, more than the others can fathom. Beneath the cloistered serenity of those ancient walls lies a secret long kept from the world—a relic of unparalleled power known as the ‘Crimson Opus.’ It is said to be a manuscript not written with ink, but with the very essence of time itself.”

      Your mission is to locate this Crimson Opus. It is guarded by a labyrinth of spells and enchantments designed to deter even the most skilled of seekers. But you, my dear Jeezel, possess the unique aptitude to unravel its mysteries. The convent’s seemingly mundane routines are the veil that conceals its true purpose; a sanctuary for the relic, and a prison for those who seek its power with ill intent.”

      “You must be cautious, for the Crimson Opus has a sentience of its own. It will test your resolve, tempt you with visions and promises. Trust in your instincts, and remember, its true power can only be harnessed by those with a pure heart and an unyielding will.”

      “The key will guide you to the hidden chamber where the Opus rests. Use it wisely, and under no circumstances let it fall into the wrong hands. You are more than capable, my dear. Don’t mention your mission to anyone. The fate of many may hinge upon your success, but I have no doubt in your abilities. Go forth, and may the ancient forces watch over you.”

      Jeezel would have thought of a joke were it not for the mastery with which the message and its hidden layers had been crafted. She thought Malové was enthralled in a passionate romance in Brasil, but something in the scent she had not been able to decipher seemed to suggest the reality was more complex than it seemed. She thought of her friends. Did they all received a similar letter? Whom could she trust when secrecy was mandatory?

      She held her hedgehog amulet more tightly, asking for some guidance.

      #7460

      Truella sighed.  She was making good progress with the dig, the weather was favorable and not too hot yet.  It was only a matter of weeks before she would have to start at first light before the sun became too intense, and reverse her current habit of  a slow morning and a busy afternoon.  Perhaps she should wait before filling in Frella’s diary entry.  Was she going to write it herself this time?  If only Truella knew for sure.  At least Jeezel was feeling a bit better, which was a relief to them all, and it seemed that Eris was lightening up a bit now too.  Thank Flove for that!  Better not let Malove know too soon though, or she’d have them all off on another of those tedious conferences.  Wouldn’t it be nice if Malove let them all have a long summer recess, Truella thought, without much hope. She sighed again, wondering if Frella had progressed any further with the mystery of the camphor chest.

      Truella had heard of camphor, of course, but associated it with moth balls, not chests. Camphor chests were a Chinese thing, and none of her studies or interests had ever taken her that far east.  It struck her that a camphor chest would be a good place to store the fragments of Hannibal’s tunic safely, until such time as they required another antidote to an ancient Punic spell. And it could happen.  Truella wondered if she could order a small one off Oboy.  One could order anything one could imagine these days, from anywhere in the world, but a guaranteed delivery to Truella’s village was another matter.

      The pale blue sandals had arrived yesterday though, much to her delighted surprise.  It had helped when she recognised the postman as a Roman basket seller in a previous life. At that moment, Truella’s postal delivery experiences changed.  It was as if the unwinnable battle with giant delivery companies morphed into a cooperation of village tradesmen.  Glancing admiringly at her pristine new sandals, Truella smiled with satisfaction.  Things could change for the better. Indeed, they could.

      #7326

      Jeezel pushed open the door of her favourite florist The Enchanted Garden. The clear sound of wind chimes welcomed her. An ever changing melody atuned to earth and water. Flucinda was at the counter serving another client.  She might not be of the flamboyant kind but she knew her way with flowers. Her shop was a botanical wonderland, a cornucopia of color and fragrance that would make Mother Nature herself green with envy. The witch took a moment to breath in. It helped her relax a little.

      “Jeezel! How are you dear?” asked Flucinda as the client left with his arms full of red roses. “You’re glowing as always.”

      The witch blushed just a little at the compliment. Flucinda’s dark brown eyes were as sharp as those of a silent observation assassin. They darted swiflty over Jeezel’s silhouette, taking mental notes, absorbing the energy, the secrets, the silent dialogues.

      “What do you need today?” she asked.

      “Petals of a white rose, lavender buds and mint. And a few other things.” She said, handing the florist a list.

      “Why don’t you wait in the heart of the Enchanted Garden while I’m preparing all that for you. Water is boiled, I’ll bring you some freshly brewed herbal tea.”

      Jeezel felt grateful to her friend. She sat on an ornate stone bench and enjoyed the soft serenade of trickling water from a sparkling fountain and the symphony of scents — delicate jasmine, heady rose, spicy carnation and a hint of sweet lily. It helped sooth her anxiety. She had received a request on Sponsoreons by one of her fans and loyal customer. Apparently the last full moon had pulled the thread on the tightly knit sweater of camaraderie at this poor soul’s job. There appeared to be more drama in that workplace than at at drag queen bingo night when the last sequin-studded handbag is on the line, and the usual symphony of productivity has turned into a cacophony of cattiness and pettiness. Even the smallest of issues were being blown up like a lip injection gone rogue!

      She had the perfect spell for it: Concordia. Used to bring harmony and peace, smoothing over the ruffled feathers and frayed edges. It was the divine choice for that case. However, such a potent spell was not to be taken lightly. If it was not crafted with precision, intent and a touch of flair, things could go haywire faster than a wig snatch in a lip-synch battle.

      “Here you go,” said Flucinda as she put the silver tray on a smooth rock at the edge of the fountain.

      “Wow! It’s fabulous,” said Jeezel.

      The teapot was a glamour, as opulent as a bejewelled crown. The steam rising from its beak carried whispers of secrets and spells, bringing out memories of rumours swirling around a backstage pageant. It was in another life.

      “Do I smell chamomile, lavender and valerian root?”

      “Yes.”

      Flucinda poured generously the yellow brew into an intricately carved white porcelain cup. Then added in a smidgeon of honey.

      “I know you like it sweet,” she said to the witch before adding a sprinkle of edible silver stars. “Take the time you need. Everything will be at the counter when you’re ready to go.”

      “Thanks Flucinda,” said Jeezel with a smile.

      She took a first sip. It felt like a warm hug in a cup from a dear friend who knows just what you need. And she noticed  a secret ingredient: a twist of lemon balm that gave the brew a citrusy zing. With every following sip, Jeezel felt the anxiety melting away like last season’s contour, leaving her ready to face the spellcasting with vigor and vim.

      #7234
      TracyTracy
      Participant

        Aunt Idle:

        It took us weeks to clean up after that dust storm, and I’ll be honest, I didn’t help much. I had a lot to think about.  Finley and the twins did most of it, and Bert of course. Mater took to her room after the revelations and stayed up there like queen bee, not speaking to any of us, only Finley who took her meals up. I banged on her door a few times (she’d locked it, can you believe it?) but she wouldn’t even speak to me through the door. I’d have thought she was dead but Finley said no she wasn’t dead, she’d just about had enough of all of us and wanted to be left in peace to think about it.  Well, what about me, I said, don’t you think I need some time to think about it all too? But Finley snorted (picked it up off that Yasmin I reckon) and swanned off, quite rudely if you ask me.

        I did spend quite a bit of time down by the water hole, thinking about it all.  I never in a million years expected that baby to come back and haunt me forty odd years later.  I did get to wondering though, if I’d have brought her up instead of those nuns, she might have been a happier soul.   Not much ever seemed to please her, quite the reverse in fact.  Bert said Well what do you expect? in an exasperated tone.  I got a bit fed up with all the dirty looks to tell you the truth. I even thought of leaving the Flying Fish once and for all and never coming back. Then I thought, bugger that, I’m staying right here.

        Zara and her friends left right after the dust had settled (from the dust storm that is ~ it was quite some time before the metaphorical dust had settled, in fact I don’t think it’ll ever settle.  Some people do like to harp on and on about things) and I was sorry to see them go. They were great sports about everything, they didn’t judge me. Unlike my own family!

        I didn’t dare tell anyone about the night of the cart race when Youssef and I holed up in the cellar with all the old books. Thank goodness I had the presence of mind to grab a couple of bottles of gin and something to smoke before we fled down the stairs.  I tell you what though, the next day I had such a hangover I had a job remembering everything and wondered if I’d been dreaming.  Youssef wasn’t there when I woke up, and he had the darn cheek to avoid me the next day, and the day after that, and then they left.

        One good thing was seeing Fred again. I wish he’d have stayed for a bit longer.  If Fred had stayed awhile, maybe he’d have helped smooth things over with me and my ill gotten brat.  Some people are so ungrateful! I may have dumped her, but it was in a nice place and she wouldn’t be alive at all if it wasn’t for me.

        People are strange.

        #6617

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

        Youssef had brought his black obsidian with him in the kitchen at breakfast. Idle—Youssef had realised that on top of being her way of life, it was also her name—was preparing a herbal brownie under the supervision of a colourful parrot perched on her shoulder.

        “If you’re interested in rocks, you should go to Betsy’s. She’s got that ‘Gems & Minerals’ shop on Main street. She opened it with her hubby a few years back. Before he died.”

        “Nutty Betsy, Pretty Girl likes her better,” said the parrot.

        Idle looked at his backpack and his clothes.

        “You seem the wandering type, lad. I was like you when I was younger, always gallivanting here, there, and everywhere with my brother. Now, I prefer wandering in my mind, if you know what I mean,” she said licking her finger full of chocolate. “Anyway, an advice. Don’t go down the mines alone. Betsy’s hubby’s still down there after one of the tunnels collapsed a few years back. She’s not been quite herself ever since.”

        Main street was —well— the only street in town. They’ve been preparing for some kind of festival, putting banners on top of the shops and in between two trees near the gas station. Youssef stopped there to buy snacks that he stacked on top of the obsidian stone in his backpack. The young boy who worked there, Devan, seemed quite excited at the perspective of the Lager and Cart Race. It happened only every ten years and last time he was too young to participate.

        The shop had not been difficult to find, at the other end of the street. A tiny sign covered in purple star sequins indicated “Betsy’s Gems & Minerals — We deliver worldwide”. He felt with his hand the black rock he had put in his backpack. If Idle had not mentioned the mines and the dead husband, Youssef might have reconsidered going in. But the coincidence with his dream and the game was too intriguing. He entered.

        The shop was a mess. Crates full of stones, cardboard boxes and bubble wrappings. In the back, a plump woman, working on a giant starfish she held  on her lap, was humming as she listened to loud rock music. Youssef recognised a song from the Last Shadow Puppets’ second album : The Element of Surprise. Apparently, the woman hadn’t heard him enter. She wore a dress and a hat sprinkled with golden stars, and her wrists were hidden under a ton of stone bracelets. The music track changed. The woman started shaking her head following the rhythm of the tune. She was gluing small red stones, she picked in a little box, on one of the starfish arms.

        “Bad Habits! Uhu. Bad Habits! Uhu.”

        Youssef moved closer. His shadow covered the starfish. The woman raised her head and screamed, scattering the red stones in her workshop. The starfish fell from her lap onto the ground with a thud.

        “Oh! My! Little devil. Look at what you made me do. I lost my marbles,” she said with a high pitched laugh. “Your mother never taught you? That’s bad habit to creep up on people like that. You scared the sheep out of me!”

        “I’m so sorry,” said Youssef, getting on his knees to help her gather the stones.

        When they were all back in their box, Youssef got back on his feet. The woman looked a him with a softened face.

        “You such a cutie with your bear shirt. You make me think of my Howard. He was as tall as you are. I’m Betsy, obviously” she said with a giggle, extending her hand to him.

        They shook hands, making the pearls of her bracelets clink together.

        “I’m Youssef.”

        :fleuron:

        Youssef didn’t need to insist too much. Betsy was a real juke box of gossips. He just had to ask one question from time to time, and she would get going again. He was starting to feel his quirk could be more than a curse after all.

        “When the tunnel collapsed,” Betsy said, “I was ready to give up the stone shop. The pain was too much to bear, everything in the shop reminded me of Howard. And in a miners’ town, who would want to buy stones anyway. We’ve been in bad terms with Idle and her family for some time, but that tragic incident coincided with her brother Fred’s disappearance. They thought at first Fred had died in the mines with Howard, because they spent so much time discussing together in Room 8 at the Inn. I overheard them once, talking about something they found in the mines. But Howard never told me, he was so secretive about that. We even had a fight, you know. But Fred, the children found some message later that suggested he had just left the family. Imagine, the children! Idle was pissed with him of course. Abandoning her with that mother of theirs and that money pit of an Inn and the rest of the family. And I needed company. So we started to get together on a regular basis. She would bring her special cakes, and we would complain about our lives. At some point she got involved with that shamanic stuff she found online, and she helped me find my totem Bear. It was quite a revelation. Bear suggested I diversify and open an online shop and start making orgonites. I love those little gummy bears so much. So, I followed Bear’s advice and it has been working like a charm ever since. That’s why I trusted you straight away, lad. Not ’cause of your cute face. You got the Bear in your heart,” she said putting her finger at the center of his chest.

        My inner Bear, of course, thought Youssef. That’s the magnet. His phone buzzed. He took it out and saw he had an alert from the game and a message from his friends.

        You found the source of your quirk, the magnetic pull that attracts talkative people to you.
        Now obtain the silver key in the shape of a tongue to fulfil your quest.

         

        Zara : Where are you!? :yahoo_bee: We’re at the bar, getting parched! They got Pale Ale!

        “I have to go,” said Youssef.

        “Wait,” said Betsy.

        She foraged through her orgonite collection and handed Youssef one little gummy bear and an ornate metal badge.

        “Bear wants me to give this to you. Howard made it. He said it was his forked tongue key.”

        She looked at him, emotion in her eyes.

        “I know you won’t listen if I tell you not to. So, be careful when you go into the mines.”

        #6503

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

        The plane trip stretched on forever. Xavier had the time to rewatch a few blockbusters, and catch up on light novels – in particular a roadtrip of 3 elderly Ukrainians —a story that didn’t seem to have much to say, but did put a smile on his face.

        The plane has wifi, and he could have connected to the game, but he was trying his capacity to be weaned of the adrenaline rush that came with the adventures. Glimmer and the pirate ship would have to wait. He’d put his avatar on autopilot, and usually that helped propel the plot forward without investing too much time in going through relatively mundane adventures (those were needed to provide background balance and contrast against the rush of the occasional action). He hoped Glimmer wouldn’t abuse of it, and send them both to some crazy place looking for Flove knows what.

        There was the occasional temptation to catch a hold of the news and his friends, but relying on the old ways of daydreaming and imagination, he could feel they were doing fine.

        He could well picture Zara off to explore in and out of the game, that much was a given. As for Youssef he should be able to catch up in Alice Springs, since he wasn’t anywhere in Sydney when he landed. He was probably squeezed right now on an economy seat in between a sweaty tourist, an annoying expat, and a chatty woman. Xavier chuckled to himself thinking of the large frame of his friend in the tiny space.
        He hoped all was right with Yasmin. He hadn’t be able to connect before the flight, but she was resourceful and given her competitive spirit, there was actually a good chance she had a shortcut to be there before any of them.

        Alice Springs was close by now. The plane prepared for landing.

        Xavier remembered he’d have to get the black notebook that was part of the last assignment. They surely would have something like that in the duty free area.

        #6479
        Jib
        Participant

           

          Chapter 1: The Search Begins

           

          Georges was sitting more or less comfortably in the command chair on the control deck of the Jorid, slowly drinking his tea. The temperature of the beverage seemed to be determined randomly since the interference patterns in the navigation array weren’t totally fixed when they removed those low quality tiles. Drinking cold or hot tea was not the worse of it, and it was even kind of a challenge to swallow it and not get burned by ice. The deck kept changing shape and colours, reconfiguring along with the quantum variations of the Boodenbaum field variation due to some leakage of information between dimensions. Salomé had preferred resting in her travelpod where the effects were not as strongly felt.

          “The worse is not as much seeing your face morph into a soul-insect and turn inside down, although those greenish hues usually make me feel nauseous, but feeling two probable realities where my organs grow and shrink at the same time is more than I can bear.”

          After a few freakish experiences, where his legs cross-merged with the chair, or a third eye grow behind his head, or that time when dissolved into a poof of greasy smoke, Georges got used to the fluid nature of reality during the trips. You just had to get along with it and not resist. He thought it gave some spice and colours to their journey across dimensions. He enjoyed the differences of perceptions generated by the fluctuations of the Boodenbaum field, as it allowed his tea to taste like chardonnay or bœuf bourguignon, and was glad when he discovered a taste that he had never experienced before.

          During the last few trips, he had attempted to talk with Jorid, but their voices were so garbled and transformed so quickly that he lost interest. He couldn’t make the difference with the other noises, like honking trucks passing by on a motorway, or the cry of agony of a mating Irdvark. He felt a pang of nostalgia as the memories of Duane, Murtuane and Phréal merged into the deck around him. He wondered if he could get physically lost during one of the trips as he started to feel his limbs move away from his body, one hairy foot brushing by his left ear while he drank a sip of tea with the mouth that had grown on his middle finger. Salomé had warned him about fractured perception and losing a piece of his mind… It seemed it hadn’t happened yet. But would he notice?

          Already he felt the deceleration he had come to notice when they neared their destination. The deck stabilized into a shape adapted to this quadrant of the dimensional universes. The large command screen displayed images of several ruins lost in the sand desert of Bluhm’Oxl.

          Georges looked at his hands, and touched his legs. His reflection  on the command screen looked back at him. Handsome as usual. He grinned. Salomé wouldn’t refrain from telling him if something was off anyway.

          Jorid: “I have woken up Salomé.”

          She won’t be long now. Georges ordered a hot meklah, one of her favorites drink that usually helped her refocus when getting out of her pod.

          A blip caught Georges’ attention.

          Jorid: “This is Tlal Klatl’Oxl, better know as Klatu. Your potential contact on Bluhm’Oxl and a Zathu. He’ll guide and protect you as you enter the conflict zone to look for Léonard.”

          #6454

          In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

          F LoveF Love
          Participant

            YASMIN’S QUIRK: Entry level quirk – snort laughing when socially anxious

            Setting

            The initial setting for this quest is a comedic theater in the heart of a bustling city. You will start off by exploring the different performances and shows, trying to find the source of the snort laughter that seems to be haunting your thoughts. As you delve deeper into the theater, you will discover that the snort laughter is coming from a mischievous imp who has taken residence within the theater.

            Directions to Investigate

            Possible directions to investigate include talking to the theater staff and performers to gather information, searching backstage for clues, and perhaps even sneaking into the imp’s hiding spot to catch a glimpse of it in action.

            Characters

            Possible characters to engage include the theater manager, who may have information about the imp’s history and habits, and a group of comedic performers who may have some insight into the imp’s behavior.

            Task

            Your task is to find a key or tile that represents the imp, and take a picture of it in real life as proof of completion of the quest. Good luck on your journey to uncover the source of the snort laughter!

             

            THE SECRET ROOM AND THE UNDERGROUND MINES

            1st thread’s answer:

            As the family struggles to rebuild the inn and their lives in the wake of the Great Fires, they begin to uncover clues that lead them to believe that the mines hold the key to unlocking a great mystery. They soon discover that the mines were not just a source of gold and other precious minerals, but also a portal to another dimension. The family realizes that Mater had always known about this portal, and had kept it a secret for fear of the dangers it posed.

            The family starts to investigate the mines more closely and they come across a hidden room off Room 8. Inside the room, they find a strange device that looks like a portal, and a set of mysterious symbols etched into the walls. The family realizes that this is the secret room that Mater had always spoken about in hushed tones.

            The family enlists the help of four gamers, Xavier, Zara, Yasmin, and Youssef, to help them decipher the symbols and unlock the portal. Together, they begin to unravel the mystery of the mines, and the portal leads them on an epic journey through a strange and fantastical alternate dimension.

            As they journey deeper into the mines, the family discovers that the portal was created by an ancient civilization, long thought to be lost to history. The civilization had been working on a powerful energy source that could have changed the fate of humanity, but the project was abandoned due to the dangers it posed. The family soon discovers that the civilization had been destroyed by a powerful and malevolent force, and that the portal was the only way to stop it from destroying the world.

            The family and the gamers must navigate treacherous landscapes, battle fierce monsters, and overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles in order to stop the malevolent force and save the world. Along the way, they discover secrets about their own past and the true origins of the mines.

            As they journey deeper into the mines and the alternate dimension, they discover that the secret room leads to a network of underground tunnels, and that the tunnels lead to a secret underground city that was built by the ancient civilization. The city holds many secrets and clues to the fate of the ancient civilization, and the family and the gamers must explore the city and uncover the truth before it’s too late.

            As the story unfolds, the family and the gamers must come to grips with the truth about the mines, and the role that the family has played in the fate of the world for generations. They must also confront the demons of their own past, and learn to trust and rely on each other if they hope to save the world and bring the family back together.

            second thread’s answer:

            As the 4 gamers, Xavier, Zara, Yasmin and Youssef, arrived at the Flying Fish Inn in the Australian outback, they were greeted by the matriarch of the family, Mater. She was a no-nonsense woman who ran the inn with an iron fist, but her tough exterior hid a deep love for her family and the land.

            The inn was run by Mater and her daughter Dido, who the family affectionately called Aunt Idle. She was a free spirit who loved to explore the land and had a deep connection to the local indigenous culture.

            The family was made up of Devan, the eldest son who lived in town and helped with the inn when he could, and the twin sisters Clove and Coriander, who everyone called Corrie. The youngest was Prune, a precocious child who was always getting into mischief.

            The family had a handyman named Bert, who had been with them for decades and knew all the secrets of the land. Tiku, an old and wise Aborigine woman was also a regular visitor and a valuable source of information and guidance. Finly, the dutiful helper, assisted the family in their daily tasks.

            As the 4 gamers settled in, they learned that the area was rich in history and mystery. The old mines that lay abandoned nearby were a source of legends and stories passed down through the generations. Some even whispered of supernatural occurrences linked to the mines.

            Mater and Dido, however, were not on good terms, and the family had its own issues and secrets, but the 4 gamers were determined to unravel the mystery of the mines and find the secret room that was said to be hidden somewhere in the inn.

            As they delved deeper into the history of the area, they discovered that the mines had a connection to the missing brother, Jasper, and Fred, the father of the family and a sci-fi novelist who had been influenced by the supernatural occurrences of the mines.

            The 4 gamers found themselves on a journey of discovery, not only in the game but in the real world as well, as they uncovered the secrets of the mines and the Flying Fish Inn, and the complicated relationships of the family that ran it.

             

            THE SNOOT’S WISE WORDS ON SOCIAL ANXIETY

            Deear Francie Mossie Pooh,

            The Snoot, a curious creature of the ages, understands the swirling winds of social anxiety, the tempestuous waves it creates in one’s daily life.
            But The Snoot also believes that like a Phoenix, one must rise from the ashes, and embrace the journey of self-discovery and growth.
            It’s important to let yourself be, to accept the feelings as they come and go, like the ebb and flow of the ocean. But also, like a gardener, tend to the inner self with care and compassion, for the roots to grow deep and strong.

            The Snoot suggests seeking guidance from the wise ones, the ones who can hold the mirror and show you the way, like the North Star guiding the sailors.
            And remember, the journey is never-ending, like the spiral of the galaxy, and it’s okay to take small steps, to stumble and fall, for that’s how we learn to fly.

            The Snoot is here for you, my dear Francie Mossie Pooh, a beacon in the dark, a friend on the journey, to hold your hand and sing you a lullaby.

            Fluidly and fantastically yours,

            The Snoot.

            #6389

            “What in the good name of our Lady, have these two been on?” Miss Bossy was at a loss for words while Ricardo was waiting sheepishly at her desk, as though he was expecting an outburst.
            “Look, Ricardo, I’m not against a little tweaking for newsworthiness, but this takes twisting reality to a whole new level!

            Ricardo had just dropped their last article.

            Local Hero at the Rescue – Stray Residents found after in a trip of a lifetime
            article by Hilda Astoria & Continuity Brown

            In a daring and heroic move, Nurse Trassie, a local hero and all-around fantastic human being, managed to track down and rescue three elderly women who had gone on an adventure of a lifetime. Sharon, Mavis, and Gloria (names may have been altered to preserve their anonymity) were residents of a UK nursing home who, in a moment of pure defiance and desire for adventure, decided to go off their meds and escape to the Nordics.

            The three women, who had been feeling cooped up and underappreciated in their nursing home, decided to take matters into their own hands and embark on a journey to see the world. They had heard of the beautiful landscapes and friendly people of the Nordics and their rejuvenating traditional cures and were determined to experience it for themselves.

            Their journey, however, was not without its challenges. They faced many obstacles, including harsh weather conditions and language barriers. But they were determined to press on, and their determination paid off when they were taken in by a kind-hearted local doctor who gave them asylum and helped them rehabilitate stray animals.

            Nurse Trassie, who had been on the lookout for the women since their disappearance, finally caught wind of their whereabouts and set out to rescue them. She tracked them down to the Nordics, where she found them living in a small facility in the woods, surrounded by a menagerie of stray animals they had taken in and were nursing back to health, including rare orangutans retired from local circus.

            Upon her arrival, Nurse Trassie was greeted with open arms by the women, who were overjoyed to see her. They told her of their adventures and showed her around their cabin, introducing her to the animals they had taken in and the progress they had made in rehabilitating them.

            Nurse Trassie, who is known for her compassion and dedication to her patients, was deeply touched by the women’s story and their love for the animals. She knew that they needed to be back in the care of professionals and that the animals needed to be properly cared for, so she made arrangements to bring them back home.

            The women were reluctant to leave their newfound home and the animals they had grown to love, but they knew that it was the right thing to do. They said their goodbyes and set off on the long journey back home with Nurse Trassie by their side.

            The three women returned to their nursing home filled with stories to share, and Nurse Trassie was hailed as a hero for her efforts in rescuing them. They were greeted with cheers and applause from the staff and other residents, who were thrilled to have them back safe and sound.

            Nurse Trassie, who is known for her sharp wit and sense of humor, commented on the situation with a tongue-in-cheek remark, “It’s not every day that you get to rescue three feisty elderlies from the wilds of the Nordics and bring them back to safety. I’m just glad I could be of service.”

            In conclusion, the three women’s adventure in the Nordics may have been unorthodox, but it was an adventure nonetheless. They were able to see the world and help some animals in the process. Their story serves as a reminder to never give up on your dreams, no matter your age or circumstances. And of course, a big shoutout to Nurse Trassie for her heroic actions and dedication to her patients.

            Bossy sighed. “It might do for now, but don’t let those two abuse the artificial intelligence to write article for them… I liked their old style better. This feels too… tidy. We’re not the A-News network, let’s not forget our purpose.”

            Ricardo nodded. Miss Bossy had been more mellow since the sales of the newspaper had exploded during the pandemic. With people at home, looking for conspiracies and all, the newspaper had known a resurgence of interest, and they even had to hire new staff. Giles Gibber, Glimmer Gambol (came heavily recommended by Blithe, the PI friend of Hilda’s), Samuel Sproink and Fionna Flibbergibbet.

            “And how is Sophie? That adventure into her past trauma was a bit much on her…” she mused.

            “She’s doing alright” answered Ricardo. “She’s learning to hone her remote-viewing skills to send our staff into new mysteries to solve. With a bit of AI assist…”

            “Oh, stop it already with your AI-this, AI-that! Hope there’ll still be room for some madness in all that neatly tidy purring of polite output.”

            “That’s why we’re here for, I reckon.” Ric’ smiled wryly.

            #6381

            In reply to: Prompts of Madjourneys

            ÉricÉric
            Keymaster

              Tell me more about the clues that Zara, Youssef, Xavier and Yasmin will find on their journeys to discover their inner quirky natures

              As Zara, Youssef, Xavier and Yasmin journeyed through the Land of the Quirks to discover their inner quirky natures, they encountered various clues that helped them on their journey.

              One of the clues they found was a mysterious map that led them to different locations, each one representing a different aspect of their personalities. The map also had various riddles and puzzles that they had to solve in order to progress to the next location.

              Another clue they found was a series of journal entries written by a previous explorer who had also journeyed through the Land of the Quirks. The journal entries provided insight and wisdom on how to navigate the land and how to understand and accept one’s quirks.

              They also encountered a group of strange and eccentric characters who each represented a different aspect of their personalities. These characters provided guidance and helped them understand different parts of themselves. They also helped them understand the importance of accepting and embracing their quirks.

              They also found a series of symbols and artifacts that represented different parts of their personalities. These symbols and artifacts were like puzzle pieces that, when put together, helped them understand the bigger picture of their inner quirky natures.

              As they continued their journey, they also learned that the key to discovering their inner quirky natures was not only about finding the physical “Key of Quirks”, but also about understanding and accepting themselves, their faults and their strengths, and learning to embrace their unique quirks.

               

              Finding their inner quirks sounds quite definitive. how would you make the ending more open-ended, open to multiple series and iterations of the story without sounding repetitive

              As Zara, Youssef, Xavier and Yasmin journeyed through the Land of the Quirks, they discovered their inner quirky natures, but the journey was far from over. They found that their inner quirks were constantly evolving and changing, and that the Land of the Quirks was a vast and mysterious place with many more secrets to uncover.

              The group found that the “Key of Quirks” was not just a physical object but a symbol of self-discovery and self-acceptance. They learned that understanding and accepting oneself is a lifelong journey that never truly ends.

              As they returned to their own world, they realized that they had gained a new perspective on life and that they would continue to carry the lessons they learned in the Land of the Quirks with them. They knew that they would always be on the lookout for new adventures and opportunities to continue exploring themselves and the world around them.

              The group’s journey in the Land of the Quirks had come to an end but the story was not over. The characters would continue to grow, evolve and change as they experienced new adventures, challenges and self-discoveries. The ending was open-ended and leaves the possibility for multiple series and iterations of the story, each one exploring new aspects of the characters and the Land of the Quirks, without being repetitive.

              Will they go a try to travel through another of the orbs?

              It is possible that the group will want to explore other orbs and realms in the Land of the Quirks. The Land of the Quirks is described as a vast and mysterious place with many secrets to uncover, so the possibility of traveling through other orbs or realms is open. They may be tempted to see what other adventures and discoveries await them in these new places.

              Alternatively, they might decide to take a break from their adventures, and reflect on what they’ve learned, applying it to their daily life, and maybe in the future, they will decide to come back to the Land of the Quirks and explore other orbs, or they may find other means of self-discovery and self-acceptance. In any case, the story leaves it open-ended and the characters have the freedom to choose what they want to do next.

              How did they discover the orb in the first place?

              It is not specified how the group discovered the orb in the first place. It could be that they stumbled upon it while on a hike or a camping trip, or it could be that they were on a mission to find it specifically. It could also be that the orb was something that had always been there but had gone unnoticed until one of the group members stumbled upon it.

              Perhaps it was passed down from generation to generation as a legend, or maybe they found it while they were searching for something else. The story leaves it open-ended and it’s up to the reader’s imagination. The main focus of the story is on the journey and the lessons learned along the way, rather than the specifics of how the orb was discovered.

              #6304
              TracyTracy
              Participant

                The Elusive Samuel Housley

                and

                Other Family Stories

                 

                Tracy Marshall

                 

                 

                This book of the search for the family history is dedicated to

                my mother

                 

                mom

                 

                with love, and appreciation for her encouragement.

                 

                 

                With thanks to my helper Fran O’Keefe
                and to everyone else who helped, shared and made it possible.

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