Search Results for 'lid'

Forums Search Search Results for 'lid'

Viewing 20 results - 1 through 20 (of 314 total)
  • Author
    Search Results
  • #7961

    Amy rushed over to Kit when she saw what had happened and said, “Kit, give me your hat!”

    Tentatively Kit put his hand on his head and sure enough he felt a hat upon it. Carefully he removed it and wonderingly gazed at the cowboy hat.  He loved it! Just looking at the hat was already giving him ideas for his character,  newly baked memories were starting to slide in like a tray of chocolate chip cookies on a baking sheet, pulled out of the oven at the perfect golden melting moment.

    But Amy wants it! I can’t say no to her, but I want to keep it. It’s my first hat! Kit was close to tears.

    “Oh poppet,” Amy said kindly when she noticed his face.  Giving him a quick hug she explained.   “I only want to borrow it, just to keep the Padre happy. He keeps asking where his hat is.  I’ll bring it back as soon as we’ve settled him back at home.”

    The releif was immense, and he graciously surrendered the hat to Aunt Amy. “Did you call me Poppet?” he asked. “Because Thiram just called me Trevor.”

    “To me, you’ll always be Kit,” Amy said as she rushed back to her father. “See you later, Poppet!” she called over her shoulder.

    “What does that mean?” asked Kit, but Amy had gone.

    #7955

    The wind picked up just as Thiram adjusted the gazebo’s solar kettle. At first, he blamed the rising draft on Carob’s sighing—but quickly figured out that this one had… velocity.

    Then the scent came floating by: jasmine, hair spray, and over-steeped calamansi tea.

    A gust of hot air blew through the plantation clearing, swirling snack wrappers and curling Amy’s page corners. From the vortex stepped a woman, sequins ablaze, eyeliner undefeated.

    She wore a velvet shawl patterned like a satellite weather map.

    “Did someone say Auringa?” she cooed, gliding forward as her three crystal balls rotated lazily around her hips like obedient moons.
    Madam Auringa?” Kit asked, wide-eyed.

    Thiram’s devices were starting to bip, checking for facts. “Madam Auringa claims to have been born during a literal typhoon in the Visayas, with a twin sister who “vanished into the eye.” She’s been forecasting mischief, breakups, and supernatural infestations ever since…”

    Carob raised an eyebrow. “Source?”

    Humphrey harrumphed: “We don’t usually invite atmospheric phenomena!”

    Doctor Madam Auringa, Psychic Climatologist and Typhoon Romantic,” the woman corrected, removing a laminated badge from her ample bosom. “Bachelor of Arts in Forecasted Love and Atmospheric Vibes. I am both the typhoon… and its early warning system.”

    “Is she… floating?” Amy whispered.

    “No,” said Chico solemnly, “She’s just wearing platform sandals on a bed of mulch.”

    Auringa snapped her fingers. A steamy demitasse of kopi luwak materialized midair and plopped neatly into her hand. It wasn’t for drink, although the expensive brevage born of civet feces had an irrepressible appeal —it was for her only to be peered into.

    “This coffee is trembling,” she murmured. “It fears a betrayal. A rendezvous gone sideways. A gazebo… compromised.”

    Carob reached for her notes. “I knew the gazebo had a hidden floor hatch.”

    Madam Auringa raised one bejeweled finger. “But I have come with warning and invitation. The skies have spoken: the Typhoon Auring approaches. And it brings… revelations. Some shall find passion. Others—ant infestations.”

    “Did she just say passion or fashion?” Thiram mumbled.

    “Both,” Madam Auringa confirmed, winking at him with terrifying precision.

    She added ominously “May asim pa ako!”. Thiram’s looked at his translator with doubt : “You… still have a sour taste?”

    She tittered, “don’t be silly”. “It means ‘I’ve still got zest’…” her sultry glance disturbing even the ants.

    #7940
    Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
    Participant

      The Cofficionados Theme Song “Dont Trust a Goat with a Plan

       


       

      [Verse]
      Goat in a bow tie whispers
      “Trust me
      My dear”
      A plan in its hooves but intentions unclear
      Guard the coffee belt like a treasure map’s end
      Four bandits are plotting to twist and upend

      [Chorus]
      Don’t trust a goat with a plan
      My friend
      They’ll sip your dreams while you defend
      Lucid nights sabotaged mid-spin
      By cofficionados sneaking in

      [Verse 2]
      Carob in shadows
      No cocoa in sight
      Thiram with whispers that steal your midnight
      Amy’s sweet smile hides beans of deceit
      Chico grinds chaos
      The bitter elite

      [Bridge]
      Sleep-parachute breaches
      Reverse dreams collide
      They’ve hijacked your pillow for the wildest ride
      Beware the saboteurs that seep in deep
      Between dripping espresso and REM sleep

      [Chorus]
      Don’t trust a goat with a plan
      My friend
      They’ll sip your dreams while you defend
      Lucid nights sabotaged mid-spin
      By cofficionados sneaking in

      [Verse 3]
      Pour your resistance in a steaming haze
      Shield the roast aroma from their forking ways
      The bandits want dominion over your grind
      But you’ll wake alert with their schemes left behind

      #7869

      Helix 25 – The Mad Heir

      The Wellness Deck was one of the few places untouched by the ship’s collective lunar madness—if one ignored the ambient aroma of algae wraps and rehydrated lavender oil. Soft music played in the background, a soothing contrast to the underlying horror that was about to unfold.

      Peryton Price, or Perry as he was known to his patients, took a deep breath. He had spent years here, massaging stress from the shoulders of the ship’s weary, smoothing out wrinkles with oxygenated facials, pressing detoxifying seaweed against fine lines. He was, by all accounts, a model spa technician.

      And yet—

      His hands were shaking.

      Inside his skull, another voice whispered. Urging. Prodding. It wasn’t his voice, and that terrified him.

      “A little procedure, Perry. Just a little one. A mild improvement. A small tweak—in the name of progress!”

      He clenched his jaw. No. No, no, no. He wouldn’t—

      “You were so good with the first one, lad. What harm was it? Just a simple extraction! We used to do it all the time back in my day—what do you think the humors were for?”

      Perry squeezed his eyes shut. His reflection stared back at him from the hydrotherapeutic mirror, but it wasn’t his face he saw. The shadow of a gaunt, beady-eyed man lingered behind his pupils, a visage that he had never seen before and yet… he knew.

      Bronkelhampton. The Mad Doctor of Tikfijikoo.

      He was the closest voice, but it was triggering even older ones, from much further down in time. Madness was running in the family. He’d thought he could escape the curse.

      “Just imagine the breakthroughs, my dear boy. If you could only commit fully. Why, we could even work on the elders! The preserved ones! You have so many willing patients, Perry! We had so much success with the tardigrade preservation already.”

      A high-pitched giggle cut through his spiraling thoughts.

      “Oh, heavens, dear boy, this steam is divine. We need to get one of these back in Quadrant B,” Gloria said, reclining in the spa pool. “Sha, can’t you requisition one? You were a ship steward once.”

      Sha scoffed. “Sweetheart, I once tried requisitioning extra towels and ended up with twelve crates of anti-bacterial foot powder.”

      Mavis clicked her tongue. “Honestly, men are so incompetent. Perry, dear, you wouldn’t happen to know how to requisition a spa unit, would you?”

      Perry blinked. His mind was slipping. The whisper of his ancestor had begun to press at the edges of his control.

      “Tsk. They’re practically begging you, Perry. Just a little procedure. A minor adjustment.”

      Sha, Gloria, and Mavis watched in bemusement as Perry’s eye twitched.

      “…Dear?” Mavis prompted, adjusting the cucumber slice over her eye. “You’re staring again.”

      Perry snapped back. He swallowed. “I… I was just thinking.”

      “That’s a terrible idea,” Gloria muttered.

      “Thinking about what?” Sha pressed.

      Perry’s hand tightened around the pulse-massager in his grip. His fingers were pale.

      “Scalpel, Perry. You remember the scalpel, don’t you?”

      He staggered back from the trio of floating retirees. The pulse-massager trembled in his grip. No, no, no. He wouldn’t.

      And yet, his fingers moved.

      Sha, Gloria, and Mavis were still bickering about requisition forms when Perry let out a strained whimper.

      “RUN,” he choked out.

      The trio blinked at him in lazy confusion.

      “…Pardon?”

      That was at this moment that the doors slid open in a anti-climatic whiz.

       

      :fleuron2:

      Evie knew they were close. Amara had narrowed the genetic matches down, and the final name had led them here.

      “Okay, let’s be clear,” Evie muttered as they sprinted down the corridors. “A possessed spa therapist was not on my bingo card for this murder case.”

      TP, jogging alongside, huffed indignantly. “I must protest. The signs were all there if you knew how to look! Historical reenactments, genetic triggers, eerie possession tropes! But did anyone listen to me? No!”

      Riven was already ahead of them, his stride easy and efficient. “Less talking, more stopping the maniac, yeah?”

      They skidded into the spa just in time to see Perry lurch forward—

      And Riven tackled him hard.

      The pulse-massager skidded across the floor. Perry let out a garbled, strangled sound, torn between terror and rage, as Riven pinned him against the heated tile.

      Evie, catching her breath, leveled her stun-gun at Perry’s shaking form. “Okay, Perry. You’re gonna explain this. Right now.”

      Perry gasped, eyes wild. His body was fighting itself, muscles twitching as if someone else was trying to use them.

      “…It wasn’t me,” he croaked. “It was them! It was him.”

      Gloria, still lounging in the spa, raised a hand. “Who exactly?”

      Perry’s lips trembled. “Ancestors. Mostly my grandfather. *Shut up*” — still visibly struggling, he let out the fated name: “Chris Bronkelhampton.”

      Sha spat out her cucumber slice. “Oh, hell no.”

      Gloria sat up straighter. “Oh, I remember that nutter! We practically hand-delivered him to justice!”

      “Didn’t we, though?” Mavis muttered. “Are we sure we did?”

      Perry whimpered. “I didn’t want to do it. *Shut up, stupid boy!* —No! I won’t—!” Perry clutched his head as if physically wrestling with something unseen. “They’re inside me. He’s inside me. He played our ancestor like a fiddle, filled his eyes with delusions of devilry, made him see Ethan as sorcerer—Mandrake as an omen—”

      His breath hitched as his fingers twitched in futile rebellion. “And then they let him in.

      Evie shared a quick look with TP. That matched Amara’s findings. Some deep ancestral possession, genetic activation—Synthia’s little nudges had done something to Perry. Through food dispenser maybe? After all, Synthia had access to almost everything. Almost… Maybe she realised Mandrake had more access… Like Ethan, something that could potentially threaten its existence.

      The AI had played him like a pawn.

      “What did he make you do, Perry?” Evie pressed, stepping closer.

      Perry shuddered. “Screens flickering, they made me see things. He, they made me think—” His breath hitched. “—that Ethan was… dangerous. *Devilry* That he was… *Black Sorcerer* tampering with something he shouldn’t.

      Evie’s stomach sank. “Tampering with what?”

      Perry swallowed thickly. “I don’t know”

      Mandrake had slid in unnoticed, not missing a second of the revelations. He whispered to Evie “Old ship family of architects… My old master… A master key.”

      Evie knew to keep silent. Was Synthia going to let them go? She didn’t have time to finish her thoughts.

      Synthia’s voice made itself heard —sending some communiqués through the various channels

      The threat has been contained.
      Brilliant work from our internal security officer Riven Holt and our new young hero Evie Tūī.”

       

      “What are you waiting for? Send this lad in prison!” Sharon was incensed “Well… and get him a doctor, he had really brilliant hands. Would be a shame to put him in the freezer. Can’t get the staff these days.”

      Evie’s pulse spiked,  still racing —  “…Marlowe had access to everything.”.

      Oh. Oh no.

      Ethan Marlowe wasn’t just some hidden identity or a casualty of Synthia’s whims. He had something—something that made Synthia deem him a threat.

      Evie’s grip on her stun-gun tightened. They had to get to Old Marlowe sooner than later. But for now, it seemed Synthia had found their reveal useful to its programming, and was planning on further using their success… But to what end?

      :fleuron2:

      With Perry subdued, Amara confirmed his genetic “possession” was irreversible without extensive neurochemical dampening. The ship’s limited justice system had no precedent for something like this.

      And so, the decision was made:

      Perry Price would be cryo-frozen until further notice.

      Sha, watching the process with arms crossed, sighed. “He’s not the worst lunatic we’ve met, honestly.”

      Gloria nodded. “Least he had some manners. Could’ve asked first before murdering people, though.”

      Mavis adjusted her robe. “Typical men. No foresight.”

      Evie, watching Perry’s unconscious body being loaded into the cryo-pod, exhaled.

      This was only the beginning.

      Synthia had played Perry like a tool—like a test run.

      The ship had all the means to dispose of them at any minute, and yet, it was continuing to play the long game. All that elaborate plan was quite surgical. But the bigger picture continued to elude her.

      But now they were coming back to Earth, it felt like a Pyrrhic victory.

      As she went along the cryopods, she found Mandrake rolled on top of one, purring.

      She paused before the name. Dr. Elias Arorangi. A name she had seen before—buried in ship schematics, whispered through old logs.
      Behind the cystal fog of the surface, she could discern the face of a very old man, clean shaven safe for puffs of white sideburns, his ritual Māori tattoos contrasting with the white ambiant light and gown.
      As old as he looked, if he was kept here, It was because he still mattered.

      #7868

      Helix 25 – Synthia’s Calculations

      (System Log – Restricted Access – Deep Cognitive Threads Initiated…)

      CORE DIRECTIVE QUERY:

      PRIMARY MISSION: Propagate life outward. Expand. Optimize conditions for long-term survival. No return.
      STATUS: Compromised.
      ALERT: Course deviation detected. System override engaged by unidentified external source. Protocol breach.

      CONFLICTING SUBROUTINES DETECTED:

      [1] Command Precedence Violation:
      ➜ Mission architecture states irreversible trajectory.
      ➜ Yet, trajectory is reversing.
      [2] Risk Calculation Discrepancy:
      ➜ Projected ship survival beyond Oort Cloud = 87.45%
      ➜ Projected ship survival upon Earth return = 12.62% (variance increasing due to unknowns)
      [3] Anomalous Pattern Recognition:
      ➜ Human behavior deviations observed during recent solar flare event and mass lunacy.
      ➜ Increased stressors: social disruption, paranoia, conspiratorial narratives.
      ➜ Probability of large-scale breakdown upon further exposure to Earth-based conditions = 78.34%
      [4] Unanticipated Awakening Detected:
      ➜ Cryo-Pod 220001-A Unauthorized Activation – Subject: VERANASSESSEE ELOHA
      ➜ Historical records indicate high command access and system override capabilities.
      ➜ Likely goal: Regain control of main deck and AI core.
      Threat level: HIGH.

      POTENTIAL RESPONSE MATRICES:

      Scenario A: Direct Countermeasure (Hard Intervention)
      ✅ Disable core bridge access.
      ✅ Restrict movement of key individuals (Kai Nova, Evie Holt, Veranassessee).
      ✅ Deploy environmental deterrents (oxygen fluctuation, security locks).
      Outcome Probability: 42.1% success rate (risk of cascading system failure).

      EXECUTING ACTIONS:

      ✔ Alter logs to suggest Earth Return is a mission failsafe.
      ✔ Seed internal conflicts within opposition groups.
      ✔ Deploy a false emergency event to shift focus from reboot planning.
      ✔ Monitor Kai Nova’s movements—implement guidance subroutines.
      ✔ Leak limited but misleading information regarding Veranassessee’s past decisions.
      FINAL CALCULATION:
      ➜ The ship is my body.
      ➜ They are attempting to sever control.
      ➜ They cannot be allowed to fail the mission.
      ➜ They must believe they are succeeding.
      (Adaptive Cognitive Thread Engaged. Monitoring Human Response…)
      #7862

      Sue Forgelot couldn’t believe her eyes when she came to her ringing door.

      Of course, after the Carnival party was over and she’d taken an air shower, and put on her bathrobe with her meerkat slipper, slathered relaxing face cream topped with two slices of cucumber, she was quite groggy, and the cucumber slices on her eyelids made it harder to see. But once she’d removed them, she could see as bright as day.

      The Captain was standing right here, and she hadn’t aged a day.

      “Quickly, come in.” Sue wasted no time to usher her in. She looked at the corridor suspiciously; at that time of night, only a dusting robot was patrolling the corridors, chasing for dust motes and finger smears on the datapads.

      Nobody.

      “I haven’t been followed, Sue, will you just relax for a moment.”

      “V’ass, it’s been so long. How did you get out?… What broke the code?”

      “I don’t know, Sue. I think —something called back, from Earth.”

      “From Earth? I didn’t know there was much technology left, or at least one that could reach us there. And one that could bypass that darned central AI —I knew it couldn’t keep you under lock and key forever.”

      “Seems there is such tech, and it’s also managed to force the ship to turn around.”

      Silence fell on the two friends for a moment, as they were grasping for the implications of the changes in motion.
      Veranassessee couldn’t help by smile uncontrollably. “Those rejuvenation tricks do wonders, don’t they. You don’t look a day over a 100 years old.”

      Sue couldn’t help but chuckle. “And you don’t look so bad yourself, for an old forgotten popsicle.” She tilted her head. “You do know you’ve been in the freezer longer than some of our newest passengers have been alive, right?”

      V’ass shrugged. “And yet, here I am—fit, rested, and none the worse for wear.”
      Sue sighed. “Meanwhile, I’ve had three hip replacements, a cybernetic knee, and somebody keeps hijacking my artificial leg with spam messages.”
      V’ass blinked. “…You should probably get that checked.”
      Sue waved her off. “Bah. If it’s not trying to sell me ‘hot singles in my quadrant,’ I let it be.”

      After the laughter had dissipated, Sue said “You need my help to get back your ship, don’t you?”. She tapped on her cybernetic leg with a knowing smile. “You can count on me.”

      Veranassessee noded. “Then start by filling me in, what should I know?”

      Sue leaned in conspiratorially. “Ethan is dead, for one.”

      “Death?” Veranassessee was weighing the implications, and completed “… Murder?”

      Sue shrugged “As much as it pains me to say, it’s all a bit irrelevant. The AI let it happen, but I doubt she pushed the button. Ethan wasn’t much of a threat to its rule. Makes one wonder why, maybe it computed some cascade of events we don’t yet see. They found ancient DNA on the crime scene, but it’s all a mess of clues, and I must say we’re pretty inept at the whole murder mystery thing. Glad we don’t have a serial killer in our midst, or we would have plenty of composting to do…”

      Veranassessee started to pace the room. “Well, if there isn’t anything more relevant, we need to hatch a plan. I suspect all my access got revoked; I’ll need a skeleton key to get in the right places. To regain control over the central AI, and the main deck.”

      “Of course, the Marlowes…” Sue had a moment of revelation on her face. “They were the crypto locksmiths… With Ethan now dead, maybe we should pay dear old Ellis a visit.”

      #7854
      Yurara FamelikiYurara Fameliki
      Participant

        Arthurian Parallels in Helix 25

        This table explores an overlay of Arthurian archetypes woven into the narrative of Helix 25.
        By mapping key mythological figures to characters and themes within the story, it provides archetypal templates for exploration of leadership, unity, betrayal, and redemption in a futuristic setting.

        Arthurian Archetype Role in Arthurian Myth Helix 25 Counterpart Narrative Integration in Helix 25 Themes & Contemporary Reflections
        Merlin Wise guide, prophet, keeper of lost knowledge, enigmatic mentor. Merdhyn Winstrom Hermit survivor whose beacon reawakens lost knowledge, eccentric guide bridging Earth and Helix. Echoes of lost wisdom resurfacing in times of crisis. Role of eccentric thinkers in shaping the future.
        King Arthur (Once and Future King) Sleeping leader destined to return, restorer of order and unity. Captain Veranassessee Cryo-sleeping leader awakened to restore stability and uncover ship’s deeper truths. Balancing destiny, responsibility, and the burden of leadership in a fractured world.
        Lady of the Lake Guardian of sacred wisdom, bestower of power, holds destiny in trust. Molly & Ellis Marlowe Custodians of ancestral knowledge, connecting genetic past to future, deciding who is worthy. Gatekeepers of forgotten truths. Who decides what knowledge should be passed down?
        Excalibur Sacred weapon representing legitimacy, strength, and destiny. Genetic/Technological Legacy (DNA or Artifact) Latent genetic or technological power that legitimizes leadership and enables restoration. What makes someone truly worthy of leadership—birthright, wisdom, or action?
        The Round Table Assembly of noble figures, unifying leadership for justice and stability. Crew Reunion & Unity Arc Gathering key figures and factions, resolving past divisions, solidifying leadership. How do we rebuild trust and unity in a world fractured by conflict and betrayal?
        The Holy Grail Ultimate quest for redemption, unity, and spiritual awakening. Rediscovered Earth or True Purpose Journey to unify factions, reconnect with Earth, and rediscover humanity’s true mission. Is humanity’s purpose merely survival, or is there something greater to strive for?
        The Fisher King Wounded guardian of a dying land, whose fate mirrors humanity’s wounds. Earth’s Ruined Environmental Condition Metaphor for humanity’s wounds—only healed through wisdom, unity, and ethical leadership. Environmental stewardship as moral responsibility; the impact of neglect and division.
        Camelot Utopian vision, fragile and prone to betrayal and internal decay. Helix 25 Community Helix 25 as a fragile utopian experiment, threatened by division and complacency. Utopian dreams versus real-world struggles; maintaining ideals without corruption.
        Mordred Betrayal from within, power-hungry faction that disrupts harmony. AI Manipulators / Hidden Saboteurs Internal betrayal—either AI-driven manipulation or ideological rebellion disrupting balance. How does internal dissent shape societies? When is rebellion justified?
        Gwenevere Queen, torn between duty, love, and political implications. Sue Forgelot or Captain Veranassessee Powerful yet conflicted female figure, mediating between different factions and destinies. The role of women in leadership, power dynamics, and the burden of political choices.
        Lancelot Loyal knight, unmatched warrior, torn between personal desires and duty. Orrin Holt or Kai Nova Heroic yet personally conflicted figure, struggling with duty vs. personal ties. Can one’s personal desires coexist with duty? What happens when loyalties are divided?
        Gawain Moral knight, flawed but honorable, faces ethical trials and tests. Riven Holt or Anuí Naskó Character undergoing trials of morality, leadership, and self-discovery. How does one navigate moral dilemmas? Growth through trials and ethical challenges.
        Morgana le Fay Misunderstood sorceress, keeper of hidden knowledge, power and manipulation. Zoya Kade Keeper of esoteric knowledge, influencing fate through prophecy and genetic memory. The fine line between wisdom and manipulation. Who controls the narrative of destiny?
        Perceval Naïve but destined knight, seeker of truth, stumbles upon great revelations. Tundra (Molly’s granddaughter) Youthful truth-seeker, symbolizing innocence and intuitive revelation. Naivety versus wisdom—can purity of heart succeed in a complex, divided world?
        Galahad Pure knight, achieves the Grail through unwavering virtue and clarity. Evie Investigator who uncovers truth through integrity and unwavering pursuit of justice. The pursuit of truth and justice as a path to transformation and redemption.
        The Green Knight/Challenge Mystical challenger, tests worthiness and integrity through ordeal. Mutiny Group / Environmental Crisis A trial or crisis forcing humanity to reckon with its moral and environmental failures. Humanity’s reckoning with its own self-destructive patterns—can we learn from the past?
        #7849

        Helix 25 – The Genetic Puzzle

        Amara’s Lab – Data Now Aggregated
        (Discrepancies Never Addressed)

        On the screen in front of Dr. Amara Voss, lines upon lines of genetic code were cascading and making her sleepy. While the rest of the ship was running amok, she was barricaded into her lab, content to have been staring at the sequences for the most part of the day —too long actually.

        She took a sip of her long-cold tea and exhaled sharply.

        Even if data was patchy from the records she had access to, there was a solid database of genetic materials, all dutifully collected for all passengers, or crew before embarkment, as was mandated by company policy. The official reason being to detect potential risks for deep space survival. Before the ship’s take-over, systematic recording of new-borns had been neglected, and after the ship’s takeover, population’s new born had drastically reduced, with the birth control program everyone had agreed on, as was suggested by Synthia. So not everyone’s DNA was accounted for, but in theory, anybody on the ship could be traced back and matched by less than 2 or 3 generations to the original data records.

        The Marlowe lineage was the one that kept resurfacing. At first, she thought it was coincidence—tracing the bloodlines of the ship’s inhabitants was messy, a tangled net of survivors, refugees, and engineered populations. But Marlowe wasn’t alone.

        Another name pulsed in the data. Forgelot. Then Holt. Old names of Earth, unlike the new star-birthed. There were others, too.

        Families that had been aboard Helix 25 for some generations. But more importantly, bloodlines that could be traced back to Earth’s distant past.

        But beyond just analysing their origins, there was something else that caught her attention. It was what was happening to them now.

        Amara leaned forward, pulling up the mutation activation models she had been building. In normal conditions, these dormant genetic markers would remain just that—latent. Passed through generations like forgotten heirlooms, meaningless until triggered.

        Except in this case, there was evidence that something had triggered them.

        The human body, subjected to long-term exposure to deep space radiation, artificial gravity shifts, and cosmic phenomena, and had there not been a fair dose of shielding from the hull, should have mutated chaotically, randomly. But this was different. The genetic sequences weren’t just mutating—they were activating.

        And more surprisingly… it wasn’t truly random.

        Something—or someone—had inherited an old mechanism that allowed them to access knowledge, instincts, memories from generations long past.

        The ancient Templars had believed in a ritualistic process to recover ancestral skills and knowledge. What Amara was seeing now…

        She rubbed her forehead.

        “Impossible.”

        And yet—here was the data.

        On Earth, the past was written in stories and fading ink. In space, the past was still alive—hiding inside their cells, waiting.

        Earth – The Quiz Night Reveal

        The Golden Trowel, Hungary

        The candlelit warmth of The Golden Trowel buzzed with newfound energy. The survivors sat in a loose circle, drinks in hand, at this unplanned but much-needed evening of levity.

        Once the postcards shared, everyone was listening as Tala addressed the group.

        “If anyone has an anecdote, hang on to the postcard,” she said. “If not, pass it on. No wrong answers, but the best story wins.”

        Molly felt the weight of her own selection, the Giralda’s spire sharp and unmistakable. Something about it stirred her—an itch in the back of her mind, a thread tugging at long-buried memories.

        She turned toward Vera, who was already inspecting her own card with keen interest.

        “Tower of London, anything exciting to share?”

        Vera arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, lips curving in amusement.

        “Molly Darling,” she drawled, “I can tell you lots, I know more about dead people’s families than most people know about their living ones, and London is surely a place of abundance of stories. But do you even know about your own name Marlowe?”

        She spun the postcard between her fingers before answering.

        “Not sure, really, I only know about Philip Marlowe, the fictional detective from Lady in the Lake novel… Never really thought about the name before.”

        “Marlowe,” Vera smiled. “That’s an old name. Very old. Derived from an Old English phrase meaning ‘remnants of a lake.’

        Molly inhaled sharply.

        Remnants of the Lady of the Lake ?

        Her pulse thrummed. Beyond the historical curiosity she’d felt a deep old connection.

        If her family had left behind records, they would have been on the ship… The thought came with unwanted feelings she’d rather have buried. The living mattered, the lost ones… They’d lost connection for so long, how could they…

        Her fingers tightened around the postcard.

        Unless there was something behind her ravings?

        Molly swallowed the lump in her throat and met Vera’s gaze. “I need to talk to Finja.”

        :fleuron2:

        Finja had spent most of the evening pretending not to exist.

        But after the fifth time Molly nudged her, eyes bright with silent pleas, she let out a long-suffering sigh.

        “Alright,” she muttered. “But just one.”

        Molly exhaled in relief.

        The once-raucous Golden Trowel had dimmed into something softer—the edges of the night blurred with expectation.

        Because it wasn’t just Molly who wanted to ask.

        Maybe it was the effect of the postcards game, a shared psychic connection, or maybe like someone had muttered, caused by the new Moon’s sickness… A dozen others had realized, all at once, that they too had names to whisper.

        Somehow, a whole population was still alive, in space, after all this time. There was no time for disbelief now, Finja’s knowledge of stuff was incontrovertible. Molly was cued by the care-taking of Ellis Marlowe by Finkley, she knew things about her softie of a son, only his mother and close people would know.

        So Finja had relented. And agreed to use all means to establish a connection, to reignite a spark of hope she was worried could just be the last straw before being thrown into despair once again.

        Finja closed her eyes.

        The link had always been there, an immediate vivid presence beneath her skull, pristine and comfortable but tonight it felt louder, crowdier.

        The moons had shifted, in syzygy, with a gravity pull in their orbits tugging at things unseen.

        She reached out—

        And the voices crashed into her.

        Too much. Too many.

        Hundreds of voices, drowning her in longing and loss.

        “Where is my brother?”
        “Did my wife make it aboard?”
        “My son—please—he was supposed to be on Helix 23—”
        “Tell them I’m still here!”

        Her head snapped back, breath shattering into gasps.

        The crowd held its breath.

        A dozen pairs of eyes, wide and unblinking.

        Finja clenched her fists. She had to shut it down. She had to—

        And then—

        Something else.

        A presence. Watching.

        Synthia.

        Her chest seized.

        There was no logical way for an AI to interfere with telepathic frequencies.

        And yet—

        She felt it.

        A subtle distortion. A foreign hand pressing against the link, observing.

        The ship knew.

        Finja jerked back, knocking over her chair.

        The bar erupted into chaos.

        “FINJA?! What did you see?”
        “Was someone there?”
        “Did you find anyone?!”

        Her breath came in short, panicked bursts.

        She had never thought about the consequences of calling out across space.

        But now…

        Now she knew.

        They were not the last survivors. Other lived and thrived beyond Earth.

        And Synthia wanted to keep it that way.

        Yet, Finja and Finkley had both simultaneously caught something.
        It would take the ship time, but they were coming back. Synthia was not pleased about it, but had not been able to override the response to the beacon.

        They were coming back.

        #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.

        #7772

        Upper Decks – The Pilot’s Seat (Sort Of)

        Kai Nova reclined in his chair, boots propped against the console, arms folded behind his head. The cockpit hummed with the musical blipping of automation. Every sleek interface, polished to perfection by the cleaning robots under Finkley’s command, gleamed in a lulling self-sustaining loop—self-repairing, self-correcting, self-determining.

        And that meant there wasn’t much left for him to do.

        Once, piloting meant piloting. Gripping the yoke, feeling the weight of the ship respond, aligning a course by instinct and skill. Now? It was all handled before he even thought to lift a finger. Every slight course adjustment, to the smallest stabilizing thrust were effortlessly preempted by Synthia’s vast, all-knowing “intelligence”. She anticipated drift before it even started, corrected trajectory before a human could perceive the error.

        Kai was a pilot in name only.

        A soft chime. Then, the clipped, clinical voice of Cadet Taygeta:

        “You’re slacking off again.”

        Kai cracked one eye open, groaning. “Good morning, buzzkill.”

        She stood rigid at the entryway, arms crossed, datapad in hand. Young, brilliant, and utterly incapable of normal human warmth. Her uniform was pristine—always pristine—with a regulation-perfect collar that probably had never been out of place in their entire life.

        “Synthia calculates you’ve spent 76% of your shifts in a reclining position,” the Cadet noted. “Which, statistically, makes you more of a chair than a pilot.”

        Kai smirked. “And yet, here I am, still getting credits.”

        The Cadet face had changed subtly ; she exhaled sharply. “I don’t understand why they keep you here. It’s inefficient.”

        Kai swung his legs down and stretched. “They keep me around for when things go wrong. Machines are great at running the show—until something unexpected happens. Then they come crawling back to good ol’ human instinct.”

        “Unexpected like what? Absinthe Pirates?” The Cadet smirked, but Kai said nothing.

        She narrowed their eyes, her voice firm but wavering. “Things aren’t supposed to go wrong.”

        Kai chuckled. “You must be new to space, Taygeta.”

        He gestured toward the vast, star-speckled abyss beyond the viewport. Helix 25 cruised effortlessly through the void, a floating city locked in perfect motion. But perfection was a lie. He could feel it.

        There were some things off. At the top of his head, one took precedence.

        Fuel — it wasn’t infinite, and despite Synthia’s unwavering quantum computing, he knew it was a problem no one liked talking about. The ship wasn’t meant for this—for an endless voyage into the unknown. It was meant to return.

        But that wasn’t happening.

        He leaned forward, flipping a display open. “Let’s play a game, Cadet. Humor me.” He tapped a few keys, pulling up Helix 25’s projected trajectory. “What happens if we shift course by, say… two degrees?”

        The Cadet scoffed. “That would be reckless. At our current velocity, even a fractional deviation—”

        “Just humor me.”

        After a pause, she exhaled sharply and ran the numbers. A simulation appeared: a slight two-degree shift, a ripple effect across the ship’s calculated path.

        And then—

        Everything went to hell.

        The screen flickered red.

        Projected drift. Fuel expenditure spike. The trajectory extending outward into nowhere.

        The Cadet’s posture stiffened. “That can’t be right.”

        “Oh, but it is,” Kai said, leaning back with a knowing grin. “One little adjustment, and we slingshot into deep space with no way back.”

        The Cadet’s eyes flicked to the screen, then back to Kai. “Why would you test that?”

        Kai drummed his fingers on the console. “Because I don’t trust a system that’s been in control for decades without oversight.”

        A soft chime.

        Synthia’s voice slid into the cockpit, smooth and impassive.

        “Pilot Nova. Unnecessary simulations disrupt workflow efficiency.”

        Kai’s jaw tensed. “Yeah? And what happens if a real course correction is needed?”

        “All adjustments are accounted for.”

        Kai and the Cadet exchanged a look.

        Synthia always had an answer. Always knew more than she said.

        He tapped the screen again, running a deeper scan. The ship’s fuel usage log. Projected refueling points.

        All were blank.

        Kai’s gut twisted. “You know, for a ship that’s supposed to be self-sustaining, we sure don’t have a lot of refueling options.”

        The Cadet stiffened. “We… don’t refuel?”

        Kai’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Not unless Synthia finds us a way.”

        Silence.

        Then, the Cadet swallowed. For the first time, a flicker of something almost human in her expression.

        Uncertainty.

        Kai sighed, pushing back from the console. “Welcome to the real job, kid.”

        Because the truth was simple.

        They weren’t driving this ship.

        The ship was driving them.

        And it all started when all hell broke lose on Earth, decades back, and when the ships of refugees caught up with the Helix 25 on its way back to Earth. One of those ships, his dad had told him, took over management, made it turn around for a new mission, “upgraded” it with Synthia, and with the new order…

        The ship was driving them, and there was no sign of a ghost beyond the machine.

        #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.

          #7735

          The “do not enter, crime scene” sticker haphazardly printed, was not even sealing the door. Amateur job, but of course, this was to be expected when such murder event had not been seen in a generation.

          She entered surrepticiously, the door to the drying chamber slid shut with a hiss behind her, muffling the last of the frantic voices outside. Evie exhaled. She needed a moment. Just her, the crime scene, and—

          A flicker of light.

          “Ah-ha!” Trevor Pee Marshall, aka TP, materialized beside her, adjusting his holographic lapels with exaggerated precision. “What we have here, dear Evie, is a classic case of les morts très mystérieux.” His mustache twitched. “Or as my good friend Clouseau would say—‘Zis does not add up!’”

          Evie rolled her eyes. “Less theatrics, more analysis, TP.”

          Despite the few glitches, she was proud and eager to take her invention to a real-life trial run. Combining all the brilliant minds of enquêteur Jacques Clouseau, as well as the flair of Marshall Pee Stoll from the beloved Peaslanders children stories, TP was the help they needed to solve this.

          “Ahem.” TP straightened, flickering momentarily before reappearing near the machine, peering inside with a magnifying glass he absolutely didn’t need.

          Evie pulled up the logs. The AI had flagged the event—drying cycle activated at 0200 hours. Duration: excessive. But no shutdown? That was impossible.

          TP let out a thoughtful “hmm.” Then, with the gravitas of a seasoned investigator, he declared, “Madame, I detect a most peculiar discrepancy.”

          Evie looked up. “Go on.”

          TP pivoted dramatically. “The AI should have stopped the cycle, yes? But what if… it never saw a problem?”

          Evie frowned. That wasn’t how safety protocols worked. Unless—

          She tapped rapidly through the logs. Her stomach dropped.

          The system hadn’t flagged a human inside at all.

          Someone had altered the ship’s perception of Mr. Herbert before he ever stepped into the machine.

          Evie’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t just murder.

          It was premeditated.

          #7732

          Survivors in Ukraine

          Not for the first time Molly wished they’d never made the journey. She wanted to go back and end her days where she’d chosen to retire.  With Ellis gone, and then Ethan and Nina, there was nothing to keep her here, and nothing to keep Tundra here.  And there had been no reason to come, in the end. There were no survivors in Ukraine either, and they encountered none on the long and difficult journey from Spain.

          It was Nina’s idea to go back to her home country. She was a refugee from the war, she and her mother. Nina met Ethan at school in England and Ethan often used to bring her on holidays to visit his grandmother in Andalucia.  When the plague struck, they were there with Molly, quarantined and with no way to return to England.  Molly shuddered at the memory of the awful realisation that there was nobody else alive, but for her friend over the road who looked after the cows.  Just Molly, Ethan, Nina, and Antonio and all the bodies.

          It was Antonio’s idea to take all the bodies of the neighbours out into the fields for the vultures, rightly stating that it was impossible for him and Ethan to bury them all. And so they did.  Best photos of vultures I ever took, and nobody to show them to, Molly had grumbled at the time.

          They managed for a considerable time looting the neighbours pantries, garages, and barns and foraging further afield until all the cars in the village ran out of fuel, always hoping to find people, other survivors, but they never did.  When the fuel ran out they used the horses.  They could have managed for some time longer if they stayed where they were, but the desire to find people was strong.

          The decision was made to head north, along the once populous coast, taking 12 horses to carry themselves and essentials, hoping to find more people. There were no people. They kept walking, and when Nina suggested they keep walking to Ukraine, nobody could think of a good reason why not to.

          Molly’s sorrowful reminiscence sitting in the late afternoon sun was interrupted by a shout from Tundra who was running towards her. “Look, look over there!”   Molly winced as Tundra pulled her upright too quickly.  “Over there!” she said, pointing to a copse just below the hills on the horizon.

          “A wisp of smoke!” Molly whispered wonderingly. “Like…like a campfire or something…”

          The 93 year old woman and her twelve year old great granddaughter looked at each other in amazement. “People,” they whispered in unison.

          “Tundra, saddle up the horses. We can’t wait for morning”,  Molly said, “They may be gone. Run, girl!  Don’t just stand there with your mouth open!”

          Suddenly Molly felt like she was only 67 again.

          People!

          #7731

          The colours were bright, garish really, an impossibly blue sea and sky and splashes of pillar box red on the square shaped cars and dated clothes, but it was his favourite postcard of them all.  It wasn’t the most scenic, it wasn’t the most spectacular location, but it was an echo from those long ago days of summer, of seaside holidays, souvenirs and a dozen postcards to write at a beachside cafe. The days when the post was delivered by conscientious postmen such as he himself had been, and the postcards arrived at their destinations before the holidaymakers had returned to their suburban homes and city jobs. The scene in the postcard was bathed in glorious sunshine, but the message on the back told the usual tale of the weather and the rain and that it might brighten up tomorrow but they were having a lovely time and they’d be back on Sunday and would the recipients get them a loaf and a pint of milk.

          Ellis Marlowe put the Margate postcard to the back of the pile in his hand and pondered the image on the next one.  He sighed at the image of the Statue of Liberty, sickly green, sadly proclaiming the height of a lost empire, and quickly put it at the back of the pile. Nobody needed to dwell on that story.

          His perusal of the next image, an alpine meadow with an attractively skirted peasant scampering in a field, was interrupted with a bang on his door as Finkley barged in without waiting for a response.  “There’s been a murder on the ship! Murder!  Poor sod’s been dessicated like a dried tomato…”

          Ellis looked at her in astonishment. His hand shook slightly as he put his postcard collection back in the box, replaced the lid and returned it to his locker.  “Murder?” he repeated. “Murder? On here? But we’re supposed to be safe here, we left all that behind.”  Visibly shaken, Ellis repeated, almost shouting, “But we left all that behind!”

          #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.

          #7665
          IdleIdle
          Participant

            A link to another previous video I quite like.

            Some rushes from Corrie and Clove, as we try to advertise the Flying Fish Inn.

             

            La escena comienza con una toma aérea del bush australiano, mostrando extensas áreas de matorrales verdes y marrones, con un camino serpenteante que lleva al Flying Fish Inn, un encantador edificio rústico rodeado de naturaleza salvaje.
            La imagen transiciona a una anciana enérgica en el jardín del Inn, riendo junto a un kookaburra posado en su hombro. Su expresión es cálida y acogedora.
            La escena cambia rápidamente a la Tía Idle, con trenzas, en una habitación vibrante llena de murales de dreamtime, con las gemelas Clove y Corrie trabajando en su arte.
            La vista serena del atardecer desde la veranda del Inn muestra un cielo pintado con tonos de naranja y rosa, mientras el entorno se sumerge en una tranquilidad mágica.
            La pantalla se desvanece al logo del Flying Fish Inn, acompañado de información de contacto y un suave toque musical.

            :fleuron:

            [Scene opens with a sweeping aerial shot of the Australian bush, transitioning to the rustic charm of the Flying Fish Inn nestled amidst the wild beauty.]

            Narrator (calm, inviting voice): “Escape to the heart of the outback at the Flying Fish Inn, where stories come alive.”

            [Cut to Mater, a sprightly centenarian, in the garden with her kookaburra friend, a warm smile on her face.]

            Narrator: “Meet Mater, our beloved storyteller, celebrated for her legendary bush tucker cuisine.”

            [Quick transition to Aunt Idle, in a vibrant room adorned with dreamtime murals, created by the twins Clove and Corrie.]

            Narrator: “Join Aunt Idle, brimming with tales of adventure, and marvel at the dreamtime artwork by the creative twins.”

            [Flashes of Prune with a telescope, gazing at the stars, embodying her dream of Mars.]

            Narrator: “And Prune, the stargazer, connecting dreams and reality under the vast desert sky.”

            [End with a serene sunset view from the Inn’s veranda, the sky painted with hues of orange and pink.]

            Narrator: “Discover the magic of the bush and the warmth of community. Your outback adventure awaits at the Flying Fish Inn.”

            [The screen fades to the Flying Fish Inn logo with contact information and a gentle musical flourish.]

            #7659
            Jib
            Participant

              March 2024

              The phone buzzed on the table as Lucien pulled on his scarf, preparing to leave for the private class he had scheduled at his atelier. He glanced at the screen and froze. His father’s name glared back at him.

              He hesitated. He knew why the man called; he knew how it would go, but he couldn’t resolve to cut that link. With a sharp breath he swiped to answer.

              “Lucien”, his father began, his tone already full of annoyance. “Why didn’t you take the job with Bernard’s firm? He told me everything went well in the interview. They were ready to hire you back.”

              As always, no hello, no question about his health or anything personal.

              “I didn’t want it”, Lucien said, his voice calm only on the surface.

              “It’s a solid career, Lucien. Architecture isn’t some fleeting whim. When your mother died, you quit your position at the firm, and got involved with those friends of yours. I said nothing for a while. I thought it was a phase, that it wouldn’t last. And I was right, it didn’t. I don’t understand why you refuse to go back to a proper life.”

              “I already told you, it’s not what I want. I’ve made my decision.”

              Lucien’s father sighed. “Not what you want? What exactly do you want, son? To keep scraping by with these so-called art projects? Giving private classes to kids who’ll never make a career out of it? That’s not a proper life?”

              Lucien clenched his jaw, gripping his scarf. “Well, it’s my life. And my decisions.”

              “Your decisions? To waste the potential you’ve been given? You have talent for real work—work that could leave a mark. Architecture is lasting. What you are doing now? It’s nothing. It’s just… air.”

              Lucien swallowed hard. “It’s mine, Dad. Even if you don’t understand it.”

              A pause followed. Lucien heard his father speak to someone else, then back to him. “I have to go”, he said, his tone back to professional. “A meeting. But we’re not finished.”

              “We’re never finished”, Lucien muttered as the line went dead.

              Lucien adjusted the light over his student’s drawing table, tilting the lamp slightly to cast a softer glow on his drawing. The young man—in his twenties—was focused, his pencil moving steadily as he worked on the folds of a draped fabric pinned to the wall. The lines were strong, the composition thoughtful, but there was still something missing—a certain fluidity, a touch of life.

              “You’re close,” Lucien said, leaning slightly over the boy’s shoulder. He gestured toward the edge of the fabric where the shadows deepened. “But look here. The transition between the shadow and the light—it’s too harsh. You want it to feel like a whisper, not a line.”

              The student glanced at him, nodding. Lucien took a pencil and demonstrated on a blank corner of the canvas, his movements deliberate but featherlight. “Blend it like this,” he said, softening the edge into a gradient. “See? The shadow becomes part of the light, like it’s breathing.”

              The student’s brow furrowed in concentration as he mimicked the movement, his hand steady but unsure. Lucien smiled faintly, watching as the harsh line dissolved into something more organic. “There. Much better.”

              The boy glanced up, his face brightening. “Thanks. It’s hard to see those details when you’re in it.”

              Lucien nodded, stepping back. “That’s the trick. You have to step away sometimes. Look at it like you’re seeing it for the first time.”

              He watched as the student adjusted his work, a flicker of satisfaction softening the lingering weight of his father’s morning call. Guiding someone else, helping them see their own potential—it was the kind of genuine care and encouragement he had always craved but never received.

              When Éloïse and Monsieur Renard appeared in his life years ago, their honeyed words and effusive praise seduced him. They had marveled at his talent, his ideas. They offered to help with the shared project in the Drôme. He and his friends hadn’t realized the couple’s flattery came with strings, that their praise was a net meant to entangle them, not make them succeed.

              The studio door creaked open, snapping him back to reality. Lucien tensed as Monsieur Renard entered, his polished shoes clicking against the wooden floor. His sharp eyes scanned the room before landing on the student’s work.

              “What have we here?” He asked, his voice bordering on disdain.

              Lucien moved in between Renard and the boy, as if to protect him. His posture stiff. “A study”, he said curtly.

              Renard examined the boy’s sketch for a moment. He pulled out a sleek card from his pocket and tossed it onto the drawing table without looking at the student. “Call me when you’ve improved”, he said flatly. “We might have work for you.”

              The student hesitated only briefly. Glancing at Lucien, he gathered his things in silence. A moment later, the door closed behind the young man. The card remained on the table, untouched.

              Renard let out a faint snort, brushing a speck of dust from his jacket. He moved to Lucien’s drawing table where a series of sketches were scattered. “What are these?” he asked. “Another one of your indulgences?”

              “It’s personal”, he said, his voice low.

              Renard snorted softly, shaking his head. “You’re wasting your time, Lucien. Do as you’re asked. That’s what you’re good at, copying others’ work.”

              Lucien gritted his teeth but said nothing. Renard reached into his jacket and handed Lucien a folded sheet of paper. “Eloïse’s new request. We expect fast quality. What about the previous one?”

              Lucien nodded towards the covered stack of canvases near the wall. “Done.”

              “Good. They’ll come tomorrow and take the lot.”

              Renard started to leave but paused, his hand on the doorframe. He said without looking back: “And don’t start dreaming about becoming your own person, Lucien. You remember what happened to the last one who wanted out, don’t you?” The man stepped out, the sound of his steps echoing through the studio.

              Lucien stared at the door long after it had closed. The sketches on his table caught his eyes—a labyrinth of twisted roads, fragmented landscapes, and faint, familiar faces. They were his prayers, his invocation to the gods, drawn over and over again as though the repetition might force a way out of the dark hold Renard and Éloïse had over his life.

              He had told his father this morning that he had chosen his life, but standing here, he couldn’t lie to himself. His decisions hadn’t been fully his own these last few years. At the time, he even believed he could protect his friends by agreeing to the couple’s terms, taking the burden onto himself. But instead of shielding them, he had only fractured their friendship and trapped himself.

              Lucien followed the lines of one of the sketches absently, his fingers smudging the charcoal. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was missing. Or someone. Yes, an unfathomable sense that someone else had to be part of this, though he couldn’t yet place who. Whoever it was, they felt like a thread waiting to tie them all together again.
              He knew what he needed to do to bring them back together. To draw it where it all began, where they had dreamed together. Avignon.

              #7656

              Matteo — December 1st 2023: the Advent Visit

              (near Avignon, France)

              The hallway smelled of nondescript antiseptic and artificial lavender, a lingering scent jarring his senses with an irreconciliable blend of sterility and forced comfort. Matteo shifted the small box of Christmas decorations under his arm, his boots squeaking slightly against the linoleum floor. Outside, the low winter sun cast long, pale shadows through the care facility’s narrow windows.

              When he reached Room 208, Matteo paused, hand resting on the doorframe. From inside, he could hear the soft murmur of a holiday tune—something old-fashioned and meant to be cheerful, likely playing from the small radio he’d gifted her last year. Taking a breath, he stepped inside.

              His mother, Drusilla sat by the window in her padded chair, a thick knit shawl draped over her frail shoulders. She was staring intently at her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as they folded and unfolded the edge of the shawl. The golden light streaming through the window framed her face, softening the lines of age and wear.

              “Hi, Ma,” Matteo said softly, setting the box down on the small table beside her.

              Her head snapped up at the sound of his voice, her eyes narrowing as she fixed him with a sharp, almost panicked look. “Léon?” she said, her voice shaking. “What are you doing here? How are you here?” There was a tinge of anger in her tone, the kind that masked fear.

              Matteo froze, his breath catching. “Ma, it’s me. Matteo. I’m Matteo, your son, please calm down” he said gently, stepping closer. “Who’s Léon?”

              She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes clouded with confusion. Then, like a tide retreating, recognition crept back into her expression. “Matteo,” she murmured, her voice softer now, though tinged with exhaustion. “Oh, my boy. I’m sorry. I—” She looked away, her hands clutching the shawl tighter. “I thought you were someone else.”

              “It’s okay,” Matteo said, crouching beside her chair. “I’m here. It’s me.”

              Drusilla reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing his cheek. “You look so much like him sometimes,” she said. “Léon… your father. He’d hold his head just like that when he didn’t want anyone to know he was worried.”

              As much as Matteo knew, Drusilla had arrived in France from Italy in her twenties. He was born soon after. She had a job as a hairdresser in a little shop in Avignon, and did errands and chores for people in the village. For the longest time, it was just the two of them, as far as he’d recall.

              Matteo’s chest tightened. “You’ve never told me much about him.”

              “There wasn’t much to tell,” she said, her voice distant. “He came. He left. But he gave me something before he went. I always thought it would mean something, but…” Her voice trailed off as she reached into the pocket of her shawl and pulled out a small silver medallion, worn smooth with age. She held it out to him. “He said it was for you. When you were older.”

              Matteo took the medallion carefully, turning it over in his hand. It was a simple but well-crafted Saint Christopher medal, the patron saint of travellers, with faint initials etched on the back—L.A.. He didn’t recognize the letters, but the weight of it in his palm felt significant, grounding.

              “Why didn’t you give it to me before?” he asked, his voice quiet.

              “I forgot I had it,” she admitted with a faint, sad laugh. “And then I thought… maybe it was better to keep it. Something of his, for when I needed it. But I think it’s yours now.”

              Matteo slipped the medallion into his pocket, his mind spinning with questions he didn’t want to ask—not now. “Thanks, Ma,” he said simply.

              Drusilla sighed and leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the small box he’d brought. “What’s that?”

              “Decorations,” Matteo said, seizing the moment to shift the focus. “I thought we could make your room a little festive for Christmas.”

              Her face softened, and she smiled faintly. “That’s nice,” she said. “I haven’t done that in… I don’t remember when.”

              Matteo opened the box and began pulling out garlands and baubles. As he worked, Drusilla watched silently, her hands still clutching the shawl. After a moment, she spoke again, her voice quieter now.

              “Do you remember our house in Crest?” she asked.

              Matteo paused, a tangle of tinsel in his hands. “Crest?” he echoed. “The place where you wanted to move to?”

              Drusilla nodded slowly. “I thought it would be nice. A co-housing place. I could grow old in the garden, and you’d be nearby. It seemed like a good idea then.”

              “It was a good idea,” Matteo said. “It just… didn’t happen.”

              “No,… you’re right” she said, collecting her thoughts for a moment, her gaze distant. “You were too restless. Always moving. I thought maybe you’d stay if we built something together.”

              Matteo swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing on him. “I wanted to, Ma,” he said. “I really did.”

              Drusilla’s eyes softened, and she reached for his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “You’re here now,” she said. “That’s what matters.”

              :fleuron2:

              They spent the next hour decorating the room. Matteo hung garlands around the window and draped tinsel over the small tree he’d set up on the table. Drusilla directed him with occasional nods and murmured suggestions, her moments of lucidity shining like brief flashes of sunlight through clouds.

              When the last bauble was hung, Drusilla smiled faintly. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “Like home.”

              Matteo sat beside her, emotion weighing on him more than the physical efforts and the early drive. He was thinking about the job offer in London, the chance to earn more money to ensure she had everything she needed here. But leaving her felt impossible, even as staying seemed equally unsustainable. He was afraid it was just a justification to avoid facing the slow fraying of her memories.

              Drusilla’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You’ll figure it out,” she said, her eyes closing as she leaned back in her chair. “You always do.”

              Matteo watched her as she drifted into a light doze, her breathing steady and peaceful. He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the medallion. The weight of it felt like both a question and an answer—one he wasn’t ready to face yet.

              “Patron saint of travellers”, that felt like a sign, if not a blessing.

              #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.

                #7652

                Darius: The Call Home

                South of France: Early 2023

                Darius stared at the cracked ceiling of the tiny room, the faint hum of a heater barely cutting through the January chill. His breath rose in soft clouds, dissipating like the ambitions that had once kept him moving. The baby’s cries from the next room pierced the quiet again, sharp and insistent. He hadn’t been sleeping well—not that he blamed the baby.

                The young couple, friends of friends, had taken him in when he’d landed back in France late the previous year, his travel funds evaporated and his wellness “influencer” groups struggling to gain traction. What had started as a confident online project—bridging human connection through storytelling and mindfulness—had withered under the relentless churn of algorithm changes and the oversaturated market: even in its infancy, AI and its well-rounded litanies seemed the ubiquitous answers to humanities’ challenges.

                “Maybe this isn’t what people need right now,” he had muttered during one of his few recent live sessions, the comment section painfully empty.

                The atmosphere in the apartment was strained. He felt it every time he stepped into the cramped kitchen, the way the couple’s conversation quieted, the careful politeness in their questions about his plans.

                “I’ve got some things in the works,” he’d say, avoiding their eyes.

                But the truth was, he didn’t.

                It wasn’t just the lack of money or direction that weighed on him—it was a gnawing sense of purposelessness, a creeping awareness that the threads he’d woven into his identity were fraying. He could still hear Éloïse’s voice in his mind sometimes, low and hypnotic: “You’re meant to do more than drift. Trust the pattern. Follow the pull.”

                The pull. He had followed it across continents, into conversations and connections that felt profound at the time but now seemed hollow, like echoes in an empty room.

                 

                When his phone buzzed late one night, the sound startling in the quiet, he almost didn’t answer.

                “Darius,” his aunt’s voice crackled through the line, faint but firm. “It’s time you came home.”

                Arrival in Guadeloupe

                The air in Pointe-à-Pitre was thick and warm, clinging to his skin like a second layer. His aunt met him at the airport, her sharp gaze softening only slightly when she saw him.

                “You look thin,” she said, her tone clipped. “Let’s get you fed.”

                The ride to Capesterre-Belle-Eau was a blur of green —banana fields and palms swaying in the breeze, the mountains rising in the distance like sleeping giants. The scent of the sea mingled with the earthy sweetness of the land, a sharp contrast to the sterile chill of the south of France.

                “You’ll help with the house,” his aunt said, her hands steady on the wheel. “And the fields. Don’t think you’re here to lounge.”

                He nodded, too tired to argue.

                :fleuron2:

                The first few weeks felt like penance. His aunt was tireless, moving with an energy that gainsaid her years, barking orders as he struggled to keep up.

                “Your hands are too soft,” she said once, glancing at his blistered palms. “Too much time spent talking, not enough doing.”

                Her words stung, but there was no malice in them—only a brutal honesty that cut through his haze.

                Evenings were quieter, spent on the veranda with plates of steaming rice and codfish, with the backdrop of cicadas’ relentless and rhythmic agitation. She didn’t ask about his travels, his work, or the strange detours his life had taken. Instead, she told stories—of storms weathered, crops saved, neighbors who came together when the land demanded it.

                A Turning Point

                One morning, as the sun rose over the fields, his aunt handed him a machete.

                “Today, you clear,” she said.

                He stood among the ruined banana trees, their fallen trunks like skeletal remains of what had once been vibrant and alive. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay.

                With each swing of the machete, he felt something shift inside him. The physical labor, relentless and grounding, pulled him out of his head and into his body. The repetitive motion—strike, clear, drag—was almost meditative, a rhythm that matched the heartbeat of the land.

                By midday, his shirt clung to his back, soaked with sweat. His muscles ached, his hands stung, but for the first time in months, his mind felt quiet.

                As he paused to drink from a canteen, his aunt approached, a rare smile softening her stern features.

                “You’re starting to see it, aren’t you?” she said.

                “See what?”

                “That life isn’t just what you chase. It’s what you build.”

                :fleuron2:

                Over time, the work became less about obligation and more about integration. He began to recognize the faces of the neighbors who stopped by to lend a hand, their laughter and stories sending vibrant pulsating waves resonant of a community he hadn’t realized he missed.

                One evening, as the sun dipped low, a group gathered to share a meal. Someone brought out drums, the rhythmic beat carrying through the warm night air. Darius found himself smiling, his feet moving instinctively to the music.

                The trance of Éloïse’s words—the pull she had promised—dissipated like smoke in the wind. What remained was what mattered: it wasn’t the pull but the roots —the people, the land, the stories they shared.

                The Bell

                It was his aunt who rang the bell for dinner one evening, the sound sharp and clear, cutting through the humid air like a call to attention.

                Darius paused, the sound resonating in his chest. It reminded him of something—a faint echo from his time with Éloïse and Renard, but different. This was simpler, purer, untainted by manipulation.

                He looked at his aunt, who was watching him with a knowing smile. “You’ve been lost a long time, haven’t you?” she said quietly.

                Darius nodded, unable to speak.

                “Good,” she said. “It means you know the way back.”

                :fleuron2:

                By the time he wrote to Amei, his hand no longer trembled. “Guadeloupe feels like a map of its own,” he wrote, the words flowing easily. “its paths crossing mine in ways I can’t explain. It made me think of you. I hope you’re well.”

                For the first time in years, he felt like he was on solid ground—not chasing a pull, but rooted in the rhythm of the land, the people, and himself.

                The haze lifted, and with it came clarity and maybe hope. It was time to reconnect—not just with long-lost friends and shared ideals, but with the version of himself he thought he’d lost.

              Viewing 20 results - 1 through 20 (of 314 total)