Search Results for 'mystery'

It was still raining the morning after the impromptu postcard party at the Golden Trowel in the Hungarian village, and for most of the morning nobody was awake to notice.  Molly had spent a sleepless night and was the only one awake listening to the pounding rain. Untroubled by the idea of lack of sleep, her confidence bolstered by the new company and not being solely responsible for the child,  Molly luxuriated in the leisure to indulge a mental re run of the previous evening.

Finjas bombshell revelation after the postcard game suddenly changed everything.  It was not what Molly had expected to hear. In their advanced state of inebriation by that time it was impossible for anyone to consider the ramifications in any sensible manner.   A wild and raucous exuberance ensued of the kind that was all but forgotten to all of them, and unknown to Tundra.   It was a joy that brought tears to Mollys eyes to see the wonderful time the child was having.

Molly didn’t want to think about it yet. She wasn’t so sure she wanted to have anything to do with it, the ship coming back.  Communication with it, yes. The ship coming back? There was so much to consider, so many ways of looking at it. And there was Tundra to think about, she was so innocent of so many things. Was it better that way?  Molly wasn’t going to think about that yet.  She wanted to make sure she remembered all the postcard stories.

There is no rush.

The postcard Finja had chosen hadn’t struck Molly as the most interesting, not at the time, but later she wondered if there was any connection with her later role as centre stage overly dramatic prophet. What an extraordinary scene that was! The unexpected party was quite enough excitement without all that as well.

Finja’s card was addressed to Miss FP Finly, c/o The Flying Fish Inn somewhere in the outback of Australia, Molly couldn’t recall the name of the town.  The handwriting had been hard to decipher, but it appeared to be a message from “forever your obedient servant xxx” informing her of a Dustsceawung convention in Tasmania.  As nobody had any idea what a Dustsceawung conference was,  and Finja declined to elaborate with a story or anecdote, the attention moved on to the next card.   Molly remembered the time many years ago when everyone would have picked up their gadgets to  find out what it meant. As it was now, it remained an unimportant and trifling mystery, perhaps something to wonder about later.

Why did Finja choose that card, and then decline to explain why she chose it? Who was Finly? Why did The Flying Fish Inn seem vaguely familiar to Molly?

I’m sure I’ve seen a postcard from there before.  Maybe Ellis had one in his collection.

Yes, that must be it.

Mikhail’s story had been interesting. Molly was struggling to remember all the names. He’d mentioned his Uncle Grishenka, and a cousin Zhana, and a couple called Boris and Elvira with a mushroom farm. The best part was about the snow that the reindeer peed on. Molly had read about that many years ago, but was never entirely sure if it was true or not.  Mickhail assured them all that it was indeed true, and many a wild party they’d had in the cold dark winters, and proceeded to share numerous funny anecdotes.

“We all had such strange ideas about Russia back then,” Molly had said. Many of the others murmured agreement, but Jian, a man of few words, merely looked up, raised an eyebrow, and looked down at his postcard again.  “Russia was the big bad bogeyman for most of our lives. And in the end, we were our own worst enemies.”

“And by the time we realised, it was too late,” added Petro.

In an effort to revive the party spirit from the descent into depressing memories,  Tala suggested they move on to the next postcard, which was Vera’s.

“I know the Tower of London better than any of you would believe,” Vera announced with a smug grin. Mikhail rolled his eyes and downed a large swig of vodka. “My 12th great grandfather was  employed in the household of Thomas Cromwell himself.  He was the man in charge of postcards to the future.” She paused for greater effect.  In the absence of the excited interest she had expected, she continued.  “So you can see how exciting it is for me to have a postcard as a prompt.”  This further explanation was met with blank stares.  Recklessly, Vera added, “I bet you didn’t know that Thomas Cromwell was a time traveller, did you? Oh yes!” she continued, although nobody had responded, “He became involved with a coven of witches in Ireland. Would you believe it!”

“No,” said Mikhail. “I probably wouldn’t.”

“I believe you, Vera,” piped up Tundra, entranced, “Will you tell me all about that later?”

Tundra’s interjection gave Tala the excuse she needed to move on to the next postcard.  Mikhail and Vera has always been at loggerheads, and fueled with the unaccustomed alcohol, it was in danger of escalating quickly.  “Next postcard!” she announced.

Everyone started banging on the tables shouting, “Next postcard! Next postcard!”  Luka and Lev topped up everyone’s glasses.

Molly’s postcard was next.

Helix 25 – Murder Board – Evie’s apartment

The ship had gone mad.

Riven Holt stood in what should have been a secured crime scene, staring at the makeshift banner that had replaced his official security tape. “ENTER FREELY AND OF YOUR OWN WILL,” it read, in bold, uneven letters. The edges were charred. Someone had burned it, for reasons he would never understand.

Behind him, the faint sounds of mass lunacy echoed through the corridors. People chanting, people sobbing, someone loudly trying to bargain with gravity.

“Sir, the floors are not real! We’ve all been walking on a lie!” someone had screamed earlier, right before diving headfirst into a pile of chairs left there by someone trying to create a portal.

Riven did his best to ignore the chaos, gripping his tablet like it was the last anchor to reality. He had two dead bodies. He had one ship full of increasingly unhinged people. And he had forty hours without sleep. His brain felt like a dried-out husk, working purely on stubbornness and caffeine fumes.

Evie was crouched over Mandrake’s remains, muttering to herself as she sorted through digital records. TP stood nearby, his holographic form flickering as if he, too, were being affected by the ship’s collective insanity.

“Well,” TP mused, rubbing his nonexistent chin. “This is quite the predicament.”

Riven pinched the bridge of his nose. “TP, if you say anything remotely poetic about the human condition, I will unplug your entire database.”

TP looked delighted. “Ah, my dear lieutenant, a threat worthy of true desperation!”

Evie ignored them both, then suddenly stiffened. “Riven, I… you need to see this.”

He braced himself. “What now?”

She turned the screen toward him. Two names appeared side by side:

ETHAN MARLOWE

MANDRAKE

Both M.

The sound that came out of Riven was not quite a word. More like a dying engine trying to restart.

TP gasped dramatically. “My stars. The letter M! The implications are—”

“No.” Riven put up a hand, one tremor away from screaming. “We are NOT doing this. I am not letting my brain spiral into a letter-based conspiracy theory while people outside are rolling in protein paste and reciting odes to Jupiter’s moons.”

Evie, far too calm for his liking, just tapped the screen again. “It’s a pattern. We have to consider it.”

TP nodded sagely. “Indeed. The letter M—known throughout history as a mark of mystery, malice, and… wait, let me check… ah, macaroni.”

Riven was going to have an aneurysm.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, like a man trying to keep the last shreds of his soul from unraveling.

“That means the Lexicans are involved.”

Evie paled. “Oh no.”

TP beamed. “Oh yes!”

The Lexicans had been especially unpredictable lately. One had been caught trying to record the “song of the walls” because “they hum with forgotten words.” Another had attempted to marry the ship’s AI. A third had been detained for throwing their own clothing into the air vents because “the whispers demanded tribute.”

Riven leaned against the console, feeling his mind slipping. He needed a reality check. A hard, cold, undeniable fact.

Only one person could give him that.

“You know what? Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s just ask the one person who might actually be able to tell me if this is a coincidence or some ancient space cult.”

Evie frowned. “Who?”

Riven was already walking. “My grandfather.”

Evie practically choked. “Wait, WHAT?!”

TP clapped his hands. “Ah, the classic ‘Wake the Old Man to Solve the Crimes’ maneuver. Love it.”

The corridors were worse than before. As they made their way toward cryo-storage, the lunacy had escalated:

A crowd was parading down the halls with helium balloons, chanting, “Gravity is a Lie!”
A group of engineers had dismantled a security door, claiming “it whispered to them about betrayal.”
And a bunch of Lexicans, led by Kio’ath, had smeared stinking protein paste onto the Atrium walls, drawing spirals and claiming the prophecy was upon them all.
Riven’s grip on reality was thin.

Evie grabbed his arm. “Think about this. What if your grandfather wakes up and he’s just as insane as everyone else?”

Riven didn’t even break stride. “Then at least we’ll be insane with more context.”

TP sighed happily. “Ah, reckless decision-making. The very heart of detective work.”

Helix 25 — Victor Holt’s Awakening

They reached the cryo-chamber. The pod loomed before them, controls locked down under layers of security.

Riven cracked his knuckles, eyes burning with the desperation of a man who had officially run out of better options.

Evie stared. “You’re actually doing this.”

He was already punching in override codes. “Damn right I am.”

The door opened. A low hum filled the room. The first thing Riven noticed was the frost still clinging to the edges of an already open cryopod. Cold vapor curled around its base, its occupant nowhere to be seen.

His stomach clenched. Someone had beaten them here. Another pod’s systems activated. The glass began to fog as temperature levels shifted.

TP leaned in. “Oh, this is going to be deliciously catastrophic.”

Before the pod could fully engage, a flicker of movement in the dim light caught Riven’s eye. Near the terminal, hunched over the access panel like a gang of thieves cracking a vault, stood Zoya Kade and Anuí Naskó—and, a baby wrapped in what could only be described as an aggressively overdesigned Lexican tapestry, layers of embroidered symbols and unreadable glyphs woven in mismatched patterns. It was sucking desperately the lexican’s sleeve.

Riven’s exhaustion turned into a slow, rising fury. For a brief moment, his mind was distracted by something he had never actually considered before—he had always assumed Anuí was a woman. The flowing robes, the mannerisms, the way they carried themselves. But now, cradling the notorious Lexican baby in ceremonial cloth, could they possibly be…

Anuí caught his look and smiled faintly, unreadable as ever. “This has nothing to do with gender,” they said smoothly, shifting the baby with practiced ease. “I merely am the second father of the child.”

“Oh, for f***—What in the hell are you two doing here?”

Anuí barely glanced up, shifting the baby to their other arm as though hacking into a classified cryo-storage facility while holding an infant was a perfectly normal occurrence. “Unlocking the axis of the spiral,” they said smoothly. “It was prophesied. The Speaker’s name has been revealed.”

Zoya, still pressing at the panel, didn’t even look at him. “We need to wake Victor Holt.”

Riven threw his hands in the air. “Great! Fantastic! So do we! The difference is that I actually have a reason.”

Anuí, eyes glinting with something between mischief and intellect, gave an elegant nod. “So do we, Lieutenant. Yours is a crime scene. Ours is history itself.”

Riven felt his headache spike. “Oh good. You’ve been licking the walls again.”

TP, absolutely delighted, interjected, “Oh, I like them. Their madness is methodical!”

Riven narrowed his eyes, pointing at the empty pod. “Who the hell did you wake up?”

Zoya didn’t flinch. “We don’t know.”

He barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “Oh, you don’t know? You cracked into a classified cryo-storage facility, activated a pod, and just—what? Didn’t bother to check who was inside?”

Anuí adjusted the baby, watching him with that same unsettling, too-knowing expression. “It was not part of the prophecy. We were guided here for Victor Holt.”

“And yet someone else woke up first!” Riven gestured wildly to the empty pod. “So, unless the prophecy also mentioned mystery corpses walking out of deep freeze, I suggest you start making sense.”

Before Riven could launch into a proper interrogation, the cryo-system let out a deep hiss.

Steam coiled up from Victor Holt’s pod as the seals finally unlocked, fog spilling over the edges like something out of an ancient myth. A figure was stirring within, movements sluggish, muscles regaining function after years in suspension.

And then, from the doorway, another voice rang out, sharp, almost panicked.

Ellis Marlowe stood at the threshold, looking at the two open pods, his eyes wide with something between shock and horror.

“What have you done?”

Riven braced himself.

Evie muttered, “Oh, this is gonna be bad.”

Sharon, Gloria & Mavis

The 3 elderly ladies are ready to investigate that murder mystery onboard Helix 25

HELIX 25: THE JARDENERY

Finkley pressed herself against the smooth metal doorway of the Jardenery, her small wiry frame unnoticeable in the dim light filtering through the tangle of vines. The sterile scent of Helix 25’s corridors had faded behind her, replaced by the aroma of damp earth. A place of dirt and disorder. She shuddered.

A familiar voice burst through her thoughts.

What’s going on?

Finja’s tone was strident and clear. The ancient telepathic link that connected the cleaner family through many generations was strong, even in space. All the FinFamily (FF) had the gift to some extent, occasionally even with strangers. It just wasn’t nearly as accurate.

Shush. They’re talking about blood. And Herbert.

She felt Finja’s presence surge in response, her horrified thoughts crackling through their link. Blood!

Riven’s skeptical voice: “You’re saying someone on Helix 25 might have… transformed into a medieval Crusader?”

Finkley sniggered. Was that even possible?

It’s not particularly funny, responded Finja. It means someone on the ship is carrying distorted DNA. Her presence pulsed with irritation; it all sounded so complicated and grubby. And god knows what else. Bacteria? Ancestral grime? Generational filth? Honestly Finkley, as if I haven’t got enough to worry about with this group of wandering savages …

Finkley inhaled sharply as Romualdo stepped into view. She held her breath, pressing even closer to the doorway. He was so cute. Unclean, of course, but so adorable.

She pondered whether she could overlook the hygiene. Maybe … if he bathed first?

Get a grip. Finja’s snarl crashed through her musings, complete with eye-roll.

Finkley reddened. She had momentarily forgotten that Finja was there.

So Herbert was looking for something. But what?

I bet they didn’t disinfect properly. Finja’s response was immediate. See what you can find out later. 

Inside, Romualdo picked up a book from his workbench and waved it. Finkley barely needed to read the title before Finja’s shocked cry of recognition filled her mind.

Liz Tattler!

A feeling of nostalgia swept over Finkley.

Yes Liz Tattler. Finley’s Liz. 

Finley—another member of the family. She cleaned for Liz Tattler, the mad but famous author. It was well known—at least within the family— that Liz’s fame was largely due to Finley’s talents as a writer. Which meant, whatever this was, it had somehow tangled itself up in the FF network.

Liz’s Finley hasn’t responded for years —I assumed… Finja’s voice trailed off.

There’s still hope! You never know with that one. She was always stand-offish and mysterious. And that Liz really abused her good nature. 

Finkley swallowed hard. They were close to something big—something hidden beneath layers of time and mystery. And whatever it was, it had just become personal.

Finja, there’s no time to lose! We need to find out more. 

Some pictures selections

Evie and TP Investigating the Drying Machine Crime Scene

A cinematic sci-fi mini-scene aboard the vast and luxurious Helix 25. In the industrial depths of the ship, a futuristic drying machine hums ominously, crime scene tape lazily flickering in artificial gravity. Evie, a sharp-eyed investigator in a sleek yet practical uniform, stands with arms crossed, listening intently. Beside her, a translucent, retro-stylized holographic detective—Trevor Pee Marshall (TP)—adjusts his tiny mustache with a flourish, pointing dramatically at the drying machine with his cane. The air is thick with mystery, the ship’s high-tech environment reflecting off Evie’s determined face while TP’s flickering presence adds an almost comedic contrast. A perfect blend of noir and high-tech detective intrigue.

 

Riven Holt and Zoya Kade Confronting Each Other in a Dimly Lit Corridor

A dramatic, cinematic sci-fi scene aboard the vast and luxurious Helix 25. Riven Holt, a disciplined young officer with sharp features, stands in a high-tech corridor, his arms crossed, jaw tense—exuding authority and restraint. Opposite him, Zoya Kade, a sharp-eyed, wiry 83-year-old scientist-prophet, leans slightly forward, her mismatched layered robes adorned with tiny artifacts—beads, old circuits, and a fragment of a key. Her silver-white braid gleams under the soft emergency lighting, her piercing gaze challenging him. The corridor hums with unseen energy, a subtle red glow from a “restricted access” sign casting elongated shadows. Their confrontation is palpable—a struggle between order and untamed knowledge, hierarchy and rebellion. In the background, the walls of Helix 25 curve sleekly, high-tech yet strangely claustrophobic, reinforcing the ship’s ever-present watchfulness.

 

Romualdo, the Gardener, Among the Bioluminescent Plants

A richly detailed sci-fi portrait of Romualdo, the ship’s gardener, standing amidst the vibrant greenery of the Jardenery. He is a rugged yet gentle figure, dressed in a simple work jumpsuit with soil-streaked hands, a leaf-tipped stem tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. His eyes scan an old, well-worn book—one of Liz Tattler’s novels—that Dr. Amara Voss gave him for his collection. The glowing plants cast an ethereal blue-green light over him, creating an atmosphere both peaceful and mysterious. In the background, the towering vines and suspended hydroponic trays hint at the ship’s careful balance between survival and serenity.

 

Finja and Finkley – A Telepathic Parallel Across Space

A surreal, cinematic sci-fi composition split into two mirrored halves, reflecting a mysterious connection across vast distances. On one side, Finja, a wiry, intense woman with an almost obsessive neatness, walks through the overgrown ruins of post-apocalyptic Earth, her expression distant as she “listens” to unseen voices. Dust lingers in the air, catching the golden morning light, and she mutters to herself about cleanliness. In her reflection, on the other side of the image, is Finkley, a no-nonsense crew member aboard the gleaming, futuristic halls of Helix 25. She stands with hands on her hips, barking orders at small cleaning bots as they maintain the ship’s pristine corridors. The lighting is cold and artificial, sterile in contrast to the dust-filled Earth. Yet, both women share a strange symmetry—gesturing in unison as if unknowingly mirroring one another across time and space. A faint, ghostly thread of light suggests their telepathic bond, making the impossible feel eerily real.

Leaving the Asylum

They argued about whether to close the heavy gates behind them. In the end, they left them open. The metal groaned as it sat ajar, rust flaking from its hinges.

“Are we all here?” Anya asked. Now that they were leaving, she felt in charge again—or at least, she needed to be. If morale slipped, things would unravel fast. She scanned the group, counting them off.

“Mikhail,” she started, pointing. “Tala. Vera, our esteemed historian.”

Vera sniffed. “I prefer genealogist, thank you very much.”

“Petro,” Anya continued, “probably about to grumble.”

Petro scowled. “I was thinking.”

“Jian, our mystery man.”

Jian raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment.

Anya turned to the next two. “Ah, the twins. Even though you two have never spoken, I’ve always assumed you understood me. Don’t prove me wrong now.”

The twins—Luka and Lev—nodded and grinned at exactly the same time.

“Then we have Yulia… no, we don’t have Yulia. Where in God’s name is Yulia?”

“Here I am!” Yulia’s voice rang out as she jogged back toward them, breathless. “I just went to say goodbye to the cat.” She sighed dramatically. “I wish we could take him. Please, can we take him?”

Yulia was short and quick-moving, her restless hands always in motion, her thoughts spilling out just as fast.

“We can’t,” Mikhail said firmly. “And he can look after himself.”

She huffed. “Well, I expect we could if we tried.”

“And finally, old Gregor, who I gather would rather be taking a nap.”

Gregor, who was well past eighty, rubbed his face and yawned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Anya frowned, scanning the group again. “Wait. We’re missing Finja.”

A small scraping sound came from behind them.

Finja stood near the gate, furiously scrubbing the rusted metal with a rag she had pulled from her sleeve. “This place is disgusting,” she muttered. “Filth everywhere. The world may have ended, but that’s no excuse for grime.”

Anya sighed. “Finja, leave the gate alone.”

Finja gave it one last wipe before tucking the rag away with a huff. “Fine.”

Anya shook her head. “That’s eleven. No one’s run off or died yet. A promising start.”

They formed a motley crew, each carrying as much as they could manage. Mikhail pushed a battered cart, loaded with scavenged supplies—blankets, tools, whatever food they had left.

The road beneath their feet was cracked and uneven, roots breaking through in places. They followed it in silence for the most part. Even Yulia remained quiet. Some glanced back, but no one turned around.

The nearest village was more than fifty kilometers away. In all directions, there was only wilderness—fields long overtaken by weeds, trees pushing through cracks in forgotten roads. A skeletal signpost leaned at an odd angle, its lettering long since faded.

“It’s going to be dark soon,” Mikhail said. “And the old ones are tired. Aren’t you, Vera?”

“That’s enough of the old business,” puffed Vera, pulling her shoulders back.

Tala laughed. “Well, I must be an old one. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. And there’s a clearing over there.” She pointed.

The evening was cool, but they managed to build a small fire and scrape together a meal of vegetables they’d brought from their garden.

After their meal, they sat around the fire while Finja busied herself tidying up. “Dirty savages,” she muttered under her breath. Then, more loudly, “We should keep watch tonight.”

Vera, perched on a log, pulled her shawl tightly around her. The glow from the fire cast long shadows across her face.

“Vera, you look like a witch,” Yulia declared. “We should have brought the cat for you to ride on a broomstick together.”

“I’ll have you know I’m descended from witches,” Vera replied. “I know none of you think you’re related to me, but just imagine what your great-grandparents would say if they saw us now. Running into the wilderness like a band of exiled aristocrats.”

Jian, seated nearby, smirked slightly. “My great-grandparents were rice farmers.”

Vera brightened—Jian never talked about his past. She leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you know your full lineage? Because I do. I know mine back fourteen generations. You’d be amazed how many bloodlines cross without people realizing.”

Tala shook her head but smiled. Like Petro and Gregor, Vera had been at the asylum for many decades, a relic of another time. She claimed to have been a private investigator and genealogist in her former life.

Petro, hunched over and rubbing his hands by the fire, muttered, “We’re all ghosts now. Doesn’t matter where we came from.”

“Oh, stop that, Petro,” Anya admonished. “Remember our plan?”

“We go to the city,” Jian said. He rarely spoke unless he had something worth saying. “There will be things left behind. Maybe tech, maybe supplies. If I can get into an old server, I might even find something useful.”

“And if there’s nothing?” Petro moaned. “We should never have left.” He clasped his hands over his head.

Jian shrugged. “The world doesn’t erase itself overnight.”

Mikhail nodded. “We rest tonight. Tomorrow, we head for the city. And Finja’s right—tonight we take turns keeping watch.”

They sat in silence, watching the fire burn low. The evening stretched long and uneasy.

After leaving the clamour of her fellow witches behind, Frella took a moment to ground herself after the whirlwind of ideas and plans discussed during their meeting.

As she walked home, her thoughts drifted back to Herma’s cottage. The treasure trove of curiosities in the camphor chest had captivated her imagination, but the trips had grown tiresome, each journey stretching her time and energy. Instead, she gathered a few items to keep at her own cottage—an ever growing collection of mysterious postcards, a brass spyglass, some aged papers hinting at forgotten histories, and of course, the mirror. Each object hummed with potential, calling to her in quiet moments, urging her to dig deeper.

The treasures from Herma’s chest were scattered across her kitchen table; each object felt like a piece of a larger puzzle, and she was determined to fit them together.

As Frella settled into a chair, she felt a sudden urge to inspect the mirror; the thought of its secrets sent a thrill through her, albeit tinged with trepidation.

It was exquisite, its opalescent sheen casting soft reflections across the room. She held it up to the light, watching colours shift within the glass, swirling like a living entity.

“What do you wish to show me this time?” she whispered.

As she gazed into the mirror, her reflection blurred, and she felt a pull—a connection to the past. Images began to form, and Frella found herself once more staring at the same elderly woman, her silver hair wild and glistening.

As the vision settled around her, Frella felt the air shimmer with energy, and the scene began to shift again. She focused intently, eager to grasp every detail.

Oliver Cromwell sat at a grand wooden desk piled high with scrolls and papers, his quill poised in his hand and brow furrowed in concentration. The room bustled with activity—servants hurried to and fro, and shrill laughter floated in from outside, where a gathering seemed to be taking place.

“By the King’s beard, where is the ink?” Cromwell muttered, his voice a deep rumble. With a flourish, he dipped the quill into a small inkwell that looked suspiciously like it had been made from a goat’s hoof.

With great care, he began to write on a piece of parchment. The ornate script flowed from his quill, remarkably elegant despite the chaos around him.

“To my dearest friend,” he wrote, brow twitching with the effort of being both eloquent and succinct. “I trust this missive finds you well, though your ears may be ringing from the ruckus outside. We’ve recently triumphed over the King, and while my duties as Lord Protector keep me occupied, I have stolen a moment to compose this note.”

He paused, casting a wary glance around the room as if expecting eavesdroppers. “I must admit, I have developed a curious fondness for a young lady who claims she can commune with spirits. I suspect she may know a thing or two about the secret lives of witches. If you find yourself in town, perhaps we could investigate together? Bring wine. And if you can manage it, a decent snack. One can hardly strategise on an empty stomach.”

Cromwell’s mouth twitched into a wry smile as he added, “P.S. If you happen to encounter Seraphina, do inform her that I’ll return her mirror just as soon as I’m done with my… experiments. I fear she may not appreciate the ‘creative applications’ I’ve discovered for it.”

With a sigh of resignation, he sealed the parchment with an ornate wax stamp shaped like a owl. “Now, where did I see that errant messenger?” he grumbled, scanning the room irritably.

Frella placed the mirror gently back on the table, her heart pounding. She needed to unravel the mysteries linking her to Seraphina and Cromwell. The time for discovery was upon her, and with each passing moment, she felt the call of her ancestors echoing through the very fabric of her being.

But could she untangle the mystery before her fellow witches set off on yet another ill-fated adventure? She would have to make haste.

In a dream that night, Jeezel connected to one of her Neanderthal ancestry who lived and died in Gibraltar. While that Gibraltar Woman, as affectionately named by archaeologists grunted her name with prehistoric fabulousness, Jeezel thought that nowadays her ancestor would deserve a name like Chantelle.

Chantelle de Gibraltar, a name with flair, mystery and a touch of French elegance.

Jeezel giggled and her ancestor grunted with satisfaction in recognition of their eternal bond.

The chill drizzle felt cold to Truella, and she wondered not for the first time if her overheated drought stricken summer longing for cold and rain would quickly change to a desire for bone warming dry heat as soon as the weather properly changed to autumn.

“Lend me a sweater and a raincoat will you, Frella? I always forget to change before teleporting over here.”

Frella gave her a look that could only be described as nonplussed. Murmuring a short incantation, with a snap of her fingers and an indescribable gesture, the requested garments appeared on Truella’s lap, as if thrown forcefully from the other side of the room.

“Steady on, Frel!”  Gratefully Truella slipped the sweater on and said, “But thanks.  You know what? I forget I’m a witch, that’s the trouble. I keep forgetting I can just magic things up. Honestly, you have no idea…”

“Oh, trust me, I have an idea.”

“..the trouble I go to, doing things I could do in an instant with a spell…”

“Have you only just realised?” Frella smirked.

“Hell no, I remember all the time that I always forget.   How the hell did I end up in a witches coven?”

“That fake resume you concocted when you were dazzled by the allure and the mystery, and jealous that I was in it and not you?”

“Well yes, I know, but I mean, why did Malove hire me? Why am I still here?”

“I can tell you the answer to that!” announced Eris, entering the room with a wide toothy grin.

Mouth agape, Truella leaned forward to hear what Eris had to say next, but at that moment Jeezel spun round the door frame and skidded to a halt in front of the girls, clutching her forehead dramatically.

“Who is sending all the postcards! Every morning this week I’ve had dozens of old postcards in my mailbox, there were so many stuffed in there today one was poking out! No, I can’t read who sent it, I can’t decipher any of the writing on any of them.”

“Where are they sent from? What are the pictures of?” asked Truella, her curiosity aroused.

“Pictures, who cares about the pictures, I want to know who’s sending them!”

“Steady on, Jez.  The pictures might provide clues to the sender and purpose of the card,” Truella said  mildly, raising an eyebrow at Jezeel’s agitated state.  “What’s ruffled your feathers so much about a few postcards?”

“I received a postcard too,” Frella chimed in, causing Jeezel to gasp and clutch her heart. “I wasn’t all melodramatic about it as you though, I thought it was magical and I dunno, had a nice story to it.”

Before Truella had a chance to ask Eris to expound on the previous question, and indeed before anyone got to the bottom of Jeezel’s outburst, Malove strode in with her usual menacing demeanor.   Truella braced herself for tedious profit mongering coercive diatribes to inch their way along the slimy walls of time.

The rose coloured spectacle lens.

 

Aunt Idle:

“Well, crikey, finding one pink sunglass lens on the road is quite the curiosity, isn’t it? Let’s delve into the symbolic undertones of such an odd discovery. Pink lens, no less—a splash of color with quite the story to tell.

1. Seeing the World through Rose-Tinted Glasses: Finding a pink sunglass lens can symbolize optimism and seeing the world in a positive light. But here’s the kicker—it’s just one lens. This suggests a duality; perhaps you’re being asked to blend optimism with realism. Life isn’t always about sunshine and rainbows, but choosing to see the bright side can balance out the darker shades.

2. Fragmented Perspectives: A single lens means you don’t have the full picture. You’re seeing things partially, which can indicate missing information or a need to look at situations from multiple angles. It’s a nudge to take off those blinders and open your other eye, figuratively speaking. You might be clinging to a half-truth or ignoring an important aspect of your life.

3. Lost and Found: In practical terms, a lone lens on the road means someone has lost it. It’s a signifier of separation, maybe something in your life has split or broken apart. It can be a gentle reminder to look into areas where you might have lost connection—be it with loved ones, a project, or even a part of yourself.

4. Symbol of Love and Compassion: Pink is often associated with love, compassion, and femininity. The lens could be a reminder to look at things with kindness and empathy. Perhaps there’s a situation in your life that requires a softer, more loving approach.

5. Hindsight and Insight: The road is a metaphor for your life’s journey. Finding the lens there might hint at reflecting on past experiences (hindsight) while gaining new understanding or clarity (insight). Maybe there’s an opportunity to learn from what’s happened and apply it moving forward, seeing things with fresh, yet incomplete, clarity.

Putting it in Truella’s Context: If Truella found this lens, it could be a sign she needs to reassess her current path or research direction. Her overwhelming stack of books and discovery of the ancient manuscript hint at a bigger picture she might not be seeing clearly yet. Perhaps she’s overly focused on one aspect and neglecting others.

Personal Symbolism for Aunt Idle: For you, Aunt Idle, this lens could be a cheeky nudge to reassess some of your adventurous antics and half-remembered tales. Maybe there’s an old mystery or a relationship needing a fresh perspective. Or it’s just life’s way of saying, “Look closer, love—you might be missing out!”

In any case, a single pink sunglass lens is a quirky, delightful piece of life’s puzzle, inviting you to ponder, reflect, and adjust your view. So, next time you’re journeying on the dusty roads of life and stumble upon such oddities, take a moment—there just might be a zinger of wisdom waiting for you. Cheers!”

“A lone pink lens paves the road to the unseen clarity of kaleidoscopic sunrise.”
~Journey of Reflections, Enrich P. Lwellman.

The Snoot:

“Ahhh, a single pink lens, lost and found amidst the stone and dust! Sings of mysteries and tales untold! Perhaps a sprite misplaced their vision or a pixie left a clue.

Lean close! Such a find whispers soft secrets:

Balance Broken, Yet Bright    Like seeing life with a tint of whimsy! One eye tinted pink, the other clear. A call to mix reality with dreams, maybe?
Half Truth, Half Fantasy   A hint that stories blend truths and imaginations. Seek both sides to find whole pictures.
Lost and Waiting    Could be a sign someone’s journey is incomplete, needing you as a puzzle piece. Maybe the other lens waits for your path?

Snootly wisdom: Use the lens not to see, but to imagine.Peer through the pink and let dreams color your heart. Could be you’re on the cusp of a grand adventure; just follow the allure of the pink!

Liz:

Oh, darling, how positively intriguing! A single pink sunglass lens left upon the road—why, it’s like a snippet from one of my novels, fraught with symbolism and brimming with untold stories.

Let’s unravel this little mystery together, shall we? First, the color pink itself is rich with meaning. It speaks of love, compassion, and a certain kind of whimsicality. It’s a hue that embodies the gentle side of passion, the tender whispers of the heart. Now, to find just one lens, separated from its twin, adds a layer of poignancy. It’s a fragment of something once whole, a poignant reminder of loss or incompletion.

One might surmise that this lens represents a part of oneself that has been misplaced or overlooked. Perhaps it’s a call to rediscover a piece of your own heart, the softer, more romantic side that life’s hustle and bustle may have sidelined. Or it could symbolize a different perspective—after all, sunglasses shield us from the sun’s glare, making things clearer in their own shaded way. This lone lens might be urging you to look at a situation with fresh eyes, to find beauty in the fragmented and the unexpected.

Imagine, if you will, a character in one of my novels stumbling upon this very lens. They’d be on the cusp of a grand adventure, naturally. The pink lens would become their talisman, a clue leading them to unforeseen revelations and untold treasures. It would be both a physical object and a metaphorical guide, urging them to view the world—and their place within it—through a lens of love and compassion.

Perhaps it is also a nod to the impermanence of things, a gentle reminder that beauty and meaning can be found even in life’s fleeting moments. Much like the single pink lens, our journeys are filled with fragments of experiences that, when pieced together, create a mosaic of our existence.

So, my dear, take this as a sign to embrace the whimsical, to seek out the overlooked pieces of your own story, and to cherish the beauty of the incomplete. After all, it’s the mysteries and the musings that make life a narrative worth living.

Mater:

Ah, a single pink sunglass lens on the road, you say? Now that’s a curious find. Objects like that can be teeming with symbolic meaning if you’ve got the eyes to see it. Let’s break it down a bit, shall we?

Firstly, the color pink. Traditionally, pink is associated with love, compassion, and nurturing. It’s a color that often brings to mind warmth and affection, something tender and gentle. But finding just one lens suggests something is missing or incomplete—a piece of a larger whole.

A sunglass lens, on the other hand, is meant to protect the eyes from harsh light, allowing you to see the world more clearly without being blinded. Seeing through a pink lens, metaphorically speaking, can mean looking at life with an optimistic or compassionate perspective. It’s like seeing the world through rose-colored glasses, as they say.

Now, finding just one lens on the road—well, roads are pathways, journeys, the direction we take in life. A single lens could indicate a moment of clarity or a shift in perspective on your journey. But it could also symbolize a need to find balance or the missing piece of your outlook to see the full picture clearly.

Maybe it’s a nudge from the universe to take a closer look at how you view your current path. Are you seeing things in the best light possible? Or perhaps it’s a reminder that while optimism and compassion are vital, you might be missing another crucial aspect—realism or practicality, perhaps?

Or, it could be as simple as a reminder to lighten up and find joy and playfulness in your journey.

Like a pink flamingo standing on one leg, sometimes life’s oddities are just there to make you smile and wonder.

Whatever the meaning, love, take it as a sign to reflect and consider. The road ahead is always full of mystery and wonder, and sometimes the smallest things can carry the biggest messages.

Finnley:

Pink sunglass lens on the road, you say? Well, ain’t that a curious bit of rubbish. If we’re dabbling in symbolism, it could mean a variety of things depending on how fanciful you want to get. Pink is often associated with love, compassion, and care. So, finding a lens could mean you’re only seeing half the picture when it comes to matters of the heart. Or maybe you’re missing the rosy view on life, and you need to adjust your perspective.

Then again, it could just mean some poor sod lost their sunnies and now they’ve got a squint and a sunburnt nose. Life’s not always riddled with deep meanings, sometimes it’s just a bit of lost plastic on the tarmac.

Now, if you ask me, you ought to be more concerned about the litter. If everyone went around leaving bits and bobs all over the place, we’d be living in a right tip. So pick it up, toss it in the bin, and let’s keep things tidy, shall we?

 

Mandrake:

Ah, the solitary pink sunglass lens on the road. Delightfully poetic. A symbol of half-seen truths, perhaps? Seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses, but only partially. Could it be urging you to seek balance, to view life with both optimism and realism? Or maybe just a nudge from the universe to pick up your litter. Such profundity from a piece of plastic. Life’s a riddle, darling.

Sha: A pink sunglass lens on the road, eh? Now that’s a right peculiar find if ever I ‘eard one. Makes you wonder what it means, don’t it?

Glo: Oh, Sha, you’re always lookin’ for the hidden meanin’ in things. It’s just a bit of plastic, ain’t it? Though, come to think of it, pink’s a powerful colour. Symbolises love, compassion, and all that mushy stuff.

Mavis: I reckon it might be a sign, ladies. A pink lens… maybe it’s tellin’ you to look at the world through rose-tinted glasses, y’know? See the good in things. Or it could be a message from the universe, remindin’ you to keep an eye out for the unusual.

Sha: Right you are, Mav! And let’s not forget the conspiracies! Maybe it’s a clue from them secret societies, leavin’ hints for those sharp enough to notice. Could be part of a bigger puzzle, a breadcrumb leadin’ to somethin’ magnificent.

Glo: Or maybe someone’s just dropped their specs out the car window in a rush, and it’s nothin’ more than that. But where’s the fun in that sort of thinkin’?

Mavis: True, true. We’ll go with the idea that it’s a symbol of keepin’ an open mind and lookin’ out for the small wonders of life. Who knows what other treasures we might find if we keep our eyes peeled?

Sha: And next time we’re out and about, let’s be on the lookout for the other lens. Could be a sign that we’re missin’ half the picture.

Glo: Oh, you and your signs, Sha! But alright, we’ll keep our peepers open. Never know what the universe might be tryin’ to tell us next.

“Why has Frella gone so soon?” asked Truella, when the beastly morality prayers were finished. “She was supposed to accompany us down the cellars tonight.  I tell you what,” Truella rubbed her eyes and pushed her hair back, “This has been the longest day I’ve ever known. And it’s not over yet. Maybe we should leave the exploration of the cellars until tomorrow night.”

“Suits me,” said Zeezel, “I didn’t want to go down there anyway.  The thought of going down there would ruin my evening, and I’ve got a gorgeous little cocktail dress picked out for tonight.”

“Jeezel, ” Eris said warningly, “We’re here on business.”

“Oh, lighten up, Eris! None of us even knows what we’re really here for! One minute it’s a boring merger or even a takeover, the next minute it’s all cloak and dagger mystery, then it’s a morality play, what’s it gonna be next?”

“A Barbara Cartland novel? Or 50 shades of undertakers?” Eris said with scowl.

“You don’t want to go down the cellar either, do you, Eris?” Truella asked, knowing the answer.  “Never mind. You go and say some more prayers with Audrey. Jez, enjoy your evening to the hilt,” Truella wiggled her eyebrows.  “I’ll go on my own.”

The others looked at her open mouthed. “You can’t be serious!”

“She isn’t going on her own,” Eric said darkly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Truella pretended innocence.  Of course she wasn’t going on her own. Rufus would go with her, and she even had an idea to invite Sassafras and Sandra.  “Oh, alright then, I won’t go,” she lied. ”  I’ll wait for you and we’ll go tomorrow night.  But only if Frella comes back so she can come with us.”

Eris wasn’t stupid, she knew exactly what Truella was planning. She had to rein Truella in, but how? Suddenly, inspiration struck.

“We’d better go and get ready for dinner,” Eris said, “See you all later in the dining hall.” And with that she stalked out of the room.

As soon as she was out of the door, Eris sprinted up the hallway. She had to get to him before Truella got there.  Crashing into Brother Bartolo as she careered round a corner, she apologised hurriedly and asked if he knew where Rufus was.  Bartolo informed her that he’d seen Rufus by the fountain. Eris resisted the temptation to remark snidely about him needing to cool down.

He was still there when Eris reached the courtyard, sitting on the side of the water feature, trailing his hand in the water and looking gloweringly pensive.  Eris took a deep breath.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked pleasantly, sitting down beside him. “We’re so grateful to you guys for coming to help us out, it’s all quite a lot for us to take in, you know?” Eris smiled disarmingly. “We’d feel so much better if Frella was here with us. We did manage to get her here, but something went wrong and she didn’t stay as long as we hoped she would.  She’s on a mission in Ireland, and couldn’t come over, but Sister Audrey kindly offered to let Frella posess her for 24 hours, and then I don’t know what happened but Frella was called back abruptly to her own body.”  Eris knew she was garbling semi incoherently, which was most unlike her normally, but she thought this approach would appeal.  Rufus seemed to be the type to be a sucker for a damsel in distress.  “If only someone else would offer to let Frella possess his body for 24 hours so that she can come and join us…”

Eris’s little spell must have worked a treat, as Rufus promptly agreed. “I can help you with this. I offer my body for Frella to possess, if you think it will assist you.”

Eris beamed at him. “What a charming gentleman you are!” she gushed, surprisingly both of them as she leaned forward and impulsively kissed his cheek.  “I must go,” she said. Horrified, her face crimson, she fled back inside the cloisters.