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Quintessence – Looking for the 5th — A concept film trailer… 

The scene begins in reverse motion at the Parisian café at dusk, vibrant with life as four friends sit together, laughter and connection tangible. The scenes fades backward into a flashback sequence, unraveling across time and space. Brief flashes rewind through their lives:

• Lucien, the artist, sketching furiously in his studio, charcoal dust flying as he creates a labyrinth of faces.
• Darius, a traveler, striding through sunlit banana trees in Guadeloupe, the dappled light casting moving patterns on his determined face.
• Amei, the fabric artist, flipping through a stack of vibrant postcards at her cluttered desk, her fingers brushing over familiar textures.
• Elara, the rebel scientist, chalking spiraling equations and shapes on a blackboard, her eyes alight with discovery.

The threads coil faster, converging in reverse at a vibrant field in the verdant South of France. The sun streams across open land dotted with wildflowers, a faint outline of a shared dream—a co-housing project—lingering in the golden light. The scene ends on an empty but inviting promise, the land glowing with warmth and possibility.

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.

Amei switched on the TV for background noise as she tackled another pile of books. The usual mid-morning chatter filled the room—updates on the weather, a cooking segment, and finally, the news. She was only half-listening until the anchor’s voice caught her attention.

“In the race against climate change, scientists at Harvard are turning to an unexpected solution: chalk. The ambitious project involves launching a balloon into the stratosphere, carrying 600 kilograms of calcium carbonate, which would be sprayed 12 miles above the Earth’s surface. The idea? To reflect sunlight and slow global warming.”

Amei looked up. The screen showed an animated demonstration of the project—a balloon rising into the atmosphere, spraying fine particles into the air. The narration continued, but her focus drifted, caught on a single word: chalk.

Elara loved chalk. Amei smiled faintly, remembering how passionately she used to talk about it—the way she could turn something so mundane into a story of structure, history, and beauty. “It’s not just a rock,” Elara had said once, gesturing dramatically, “it’s a record of time.”

She wasn’t even sure where Elara was these days. The last time they’d spoken was during lockdown. Amei had called to check in, awkward but well-meaning, only to be met with curt responses and a tone that made it clear Elara wanted the conversation over.

She hadn’t tried again after that. It hurt more than she’d expected. Elara could be all or nothing when it came to friendships—brilliant and intense one moment, distant and impenetrable the next. Amei had always known that about her, but knowing didn’t make it any easier.

The news droned on in the background, but Amei reached for the remote and switched off the TV. Her mind was elsewhere, tangled in memories.

She’d first met Elara in a gallery on Southbank, a tiny exhibition tucked away in a brutalist building. It was near Amei’s shared flat, and with her flatmates out for the evening, she had gone alone, more out of boredom than genuine interest. The display wasn’t large—just a few photographs and abstract sculptures, their descriptions dense with scientific jargon.

Amei stood in front of a piece labelled The Geometry of Chaos—a spiraling wire structure that cast intricate, shifting shadows on the wall. She tilted her head, trying to look engaged, though her thoughts were already drifting towards home and her comfy bed.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?”

The voice startled her. She turned to see a dark-haired woman, arms crossed, studying the piece with an intensity that made Amei feel as though she must have missed something obvious. The woman wore a long, flowing skirt, layered necklaces, and a cardigan that looked hand-knitted. Her dark hair was piled into a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face.

“It’s quite interesting,” Amei said. “But I’m not sure I get it.”

“It’s not about getting it. It’s about recognizing the pattern,” the woman replied, stepping closer. She pointed to the shadows on the wall. “See? The curve repeats itself. Infinite, but contained.”

“You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” she said. “Do you?”

Amei laughed, caught off guard. “Not very often. I think I’m more into… messy patterns.”

The woman’s sharp expression softened slightly. “Messy patterns are still patterns.” She smiled. “I’m Elara.”

“Amei,” she replied, returning the smile.

Elara’s gaze dropped, and she nodded toward Amei’s skirt. “I’ve been admiring your skirt. Gorgeous fabric. Where did you get it?”

“Oh, I made it, actually,” Amei felt proud.

Elara raised her eyebrows. “You made it? I’m impressed.”

And that was how it began. A chance meeting that turned into decades of close friendship. They’d left the gallery together, talking all the way to a nearby café.

Exploring further potential backstory for the characters – to be explored further…

This thread beautifully connects to the lingering themes of fractured ideals, missed opportunities, and the pull of reconnection. Here’s an expanded exploration of the “habitats participatifs” (co-housing communities) and how they tie the characters together while weaving in subtle links to their estrangement and Matteo’s role as the fifth element.

Backstory: The Co-Housing Dream

Habitat Participatif: A Shared Vision

The group’s initial bond, forged through shared values and late-night conversations, had coalesced around a dream: buying land in the Drôme region of France to create a co-housing community. The French term habitat participatif—intergenerational, eco-conscious, and collaborative living—perfectly encapsulated their ideals.

What Drew Them In:

• Amei: Longing for a sense of rootedness and community after years of drifting.
• Elara: Intrigued by the participatory aspect, where decisions were made collectively, blending science and sustainability.
• Darius: Enchanted by the idea of shared creative spaces and a slower, more intentional way of living.
• Lucien: Inspired by the communal energy, imagining workshops where art could flourish outside the constraints of traditional galleries.

The Land in Drôme

They had narrowed their options to a specific site near the village of Crest, not far from Lyon. The land, sprawling and sun-drenched, had an old farmhouse that could serve as a communal hub, surrounded by fields and woods. A nearby river threaded through the valley, and the faint outline of mountains painted the horizon.

The traboules of Lyon, labyrinthine passageways, had captivated Amei during an earlier visit, leaving her wondering if their metaphorical weaving through life could mirror the paths their group sought to create.

The Role of Monsieur Renard

When it came to financing, the group faced challenges. None of them were particularly wealthy, and pooling their resources fell short. Enter Monsieur Renard, whose interest in supporting “projects with potential” brought him into their orbit through Éloïse.

Initial Promise:

• Renard presented himself as a patron of innovation, sustainability, and community projects, offering seed funding in exchange for a minor share in the enterprise.
• His charisma and Éloïse’s insistence made him seem like the perfect ally—until his controlling tendencies emerged.

The Split: Fractured Trust

Renard’s involvement—and Éloïse’s increasing influence on Darius—created fault lines in the group.

1. Darius’s Drift:
   • Darius became entranced by Renard and Éloïse’s vision of community as something deeper, bordering on spiritual. Renard spoke of “energetic alignment” and the importance of a guiding vision, which resonated with Darius’s creative side.
   • He began advocating for Renard’s deeper involvement, insisting the project couldn’t succeed without external backing.
2. Elara’s Resistance:
   • Elara, ever the pragmatist, saw Renard as manipulative, his promises too vague and his influence too broad. Her resistance created tension with Darius, whom she accused of being naive.
   • “This isn’t about community for him,” she had said. “It’s about control.”
3. Lucien’s Hesitation:
   • Lucien, torn between loyalty to his friends and his own fascination with Éloïse, wavered. Her talk of labyrinths and collective energy intrigued him, but he grew wary of her sway over Darius.
   • When Renard offered to fund Lucien’s art, he hesitated, sensing a price he couldn’t articulate.
4. Amei’s Silence:
   • Amei, haunted by her own experiences with manipulation in past relationships, withdrew. She saw the dream slipping away but couldn’t bring herself to fight for it.

Matteo’s Unseen Role

Unbeknownst to the others, Matteo had been invited to join as a fifth partner—a practical addition to balance their idealism. His background in construction and agriculture, coupled with his easygoing nature, made him a perfect fit.

The Missed Connection:

• Matteo had visited the Drôme site briefly, a stranger to the group but intrigued by their vision. His presence was meant to ground their plans, to bring practicality to their shared dream.
• By the time he arrived, however, the group’s fractures were deepening. Renard’s shadow loomed too large, and the guru-like influence of Éloïse had soured the collaborative energy. Matteo left quietly, sensing the dream unraveling before it could take root.

The Fallout: A Fractured Dream

The group dissolved after a final argument about Renard’s involvement:

• Elara refused to move forward with his funding. “I’m not selling my future to him,” she said bluntly.
• Darius, feeling betrayed, accused her of sabotaging the dream out of stubbornness.
• Lucien, caught in the middle, tried to mediate but ultimately sided with Elara.
• Amei, already pulling away, suggested they put the project on hold.

The land was never purchased. The group scattered soon after, their estrangement compounded by the pandemic. Matteo drifted in a different direction, their connection lost before it could form.

Amei’s Perspective: Post-Split Reflection

In the scene where Amei buys candles :

• The shopkeeper’s comments about “seeking something greater” resonate with Amei’s memory of the co-housing dream and how it became entangled with Éloïse and Renard’s influence.
• Her sharper-than-usual reply reflects her lingering bitterness over the way “seeking” led to manipulation and betrayal.

Reunion at the Café: A New Beginning

When the group reunites, the dream of the co-housing project lingers as a symbol of what was lost—but also of what could still be reclaimed. Matteo’s presence at the café bridges the gap between their fractured past and a potential new path.

Matteo’s Role:

• His unspoken connection to the co-housing plan becomes a point of quiet irony: he was meant to be part of their story all along but arrived too late. Now, at the café, he steps into the role he missed years ago—the one who helps them see the threads that still bind them.

It was the chalkapocalypse, which in actual fact occurred so close to Elara’s coming retirement that it hardly need have bothered her in the slightest, that had sparked her interest. She, like many of her colleagues, had quickly stockpiled the Japanese chalk, and she had more than enough to see out the remaining term of her employment at the university.  Not that she wanted to stay at Warwick, she’d had enough of university politics and funding cuts, not to mention the dreary midlands weather.

When at last the day had come, she’d sold her mediocre semi detached suburban house with its, more often than not, dripping shrubbery and rarely if ever used white metal patio table and chairs, and made the move, with the intention of pursuing her research at her leisure. In the warmth of a Tuscan sun.

Often the words of her friend and colleague Tom came to her, as she settled into the farmhouse and familiarised herself with the land and the locals.

Physics is a process of getting stuck. Blackboards are the best tool for getting unstuck. You do most of your calculations on paper. Then, when you reach a dead end, you go to the blackboard and share the problem with a colleague. But here’s the funny thing. You often solve the problem yourself in the process of writing it out.  You don’t imagine something first and then write it down. It’s through the act of writing that ideas make themselves known. Scientists at blackboards have thoughts that wouldn’t come if they just stood there, with their arms folded.

It was entirely down to Tom’s words that Elara had painted the walls of the barn with blackboard paint, and stocked it with the remains of her Hagoromo chalk hoard, as well as samples of every other available chalk.  She had also purchased a number of books on the history of chalk. She’d had no intention of rushing, and retirement provided a relaxed environment for going at her own pace, unfettered by the relentless demands of students and classes.  It was a project to savour, luxuriate in, amuse herself with.

When Florian had arrived, she was occupied with showing him around, and before long setting him to tasks that needed doing, and her chalk project had remained on a back burner. He’d asked her about the blackboards in the barn, and wondered if she was planning on giving lectures.

Laughing, Elara said no, that was the last thing she ever wanted to do again. She shared with him what Tom had said, about the ideas flowing during the process of writing.

“And while that makes perfect sense in any medium, not just chalk, it’s the chalk itself ….” Elara smiled. “Well, you don’t want to hear all the technical details. And I wouldn’t want to spill the beans before I’m sure.”

“It does make sense,” Florian replied, “To just write and then the ideas will flow. I’ve been wanting to write a book, but I never know how to start, and I’m not even sure what I want to write about. But perhaps I should just start writing.” Grinning, he added, “Probably not with chalk, though.”

“That’s the spirit, just make a start. You never know what may come of it. And it can be fun, you know, and illuminating in ways you didn’t expect. I used to write stories with a few friends….” Elara’s voice trailed off uncomfortably, as if a cloud had obscured the sun.

Florian noticed her unexpected discomfiture, and tactfully changed the subject.  We all have pasts we don’t want to talk about.  “Is the sun sufficiently past the yard arm for a glass of wine?” he asked.  “What is a yard arm, anyway?”

“A yard is a spar on a mast from which sails are set. It may be constructed of timber or steel or from more modern materials such as aluminium or carbon fibre. Although some types of fore and aft rigs have yards, the term is usually used to describe the horizontal spars used on square rigged sails…”

“Once a lecturer, always a lecturer, eh?” Florian teased.

“Sorry!” Elara said with a rueful look. ” I’d love a glass of wine.”

It was cold in Kent, much colder than Elara was used to at home in the Tuscan olive groves, but Mrs Lovejoy kept the guest house warm enough. On site at Samphire Hoe was another matter, the wind off the sea biting into her despite the many layers of clothing.  It had been Florian’s idea to take the Mongolian hat with her.  Laughing, she’d replied that it might come in handy if there was a costume party. Trust me, you’re going to need it, he’d said, and he was right.  It had been a present from Amei, many years ago, but Elara had barely worn it.  It wasn’t often that she found herself in a place cold enough to warrant it.

In a fortuitous twist of fate, Florian had asked if he could come and stay with her for awhile to find his feet after the tumultuous end of a disastrous relationship.  It came at a time when Elara was starting to realise that there was too much work for her alone keeping the old farmhouse in order.  Everyone wants to retire to the country but nobody thinks of all the work involved, at an age when one prefers to potter about, read books, and take naps.

Florian was a long lost (or more correctly never known) distant relative, a seventh cousin four times removed on her paternal side.  They had come into contact while researching the family, comparing notes and photographs and family anecdotes.  They became friends, finding they had much in common, and Elara was pleased to have him come to stay with her. Likewise, Florian was more than willing to help around the beautiful old place, and found it conducive to his writing.  He spent the mornings gardening, decorating or running errands, and the afternoons tapping away at the novel he’d been inspired to start, sitting at the old desk in front of the French windows.

If it hadn’t been for Florian, Elara wouldn’t have accepted the invitation to join the chalk project. He had settled in so well, already had a working grasp of Italian, and got on well with her neighbours. She could leave him to look after everything and not worry about a thing.

Pulling the hat down over her ears, Elara ventured out into the early November chill.  Mrs Lovejoy was coming up the path to the guesthouse, having been out to the corner shop. “I say, that’s a fine hat you have there, that’ll keep your cockles warm!”  Mrs Lovejoy was bareheaded, wearing only a cardigan.

“It was a gift,” Elara told her, “I haven’t worn it much.  A friend bought it for me years ago when we were in Mongolia.”

“Very nice, I’m sure,” replied the landlady, trying to remember where Mongolia was.

“Yes, she was nice,” Elara said wistfully. “We lost contact somehow.”

“Ah yes, well these things happen,” Mrs Lovejoy said. “People come into your life and then they go.  Like my Bert…”

“Must go or I’ll be late!” Elara had already heard all about Bert a number of times.

It was a wonder that the letter had reached her at the guest house, the post being so slow and unreliable these days. It didn’t give Elara much time to plan the trip, but it was enough ~ just. If it hadn’t been so easy to get to Paris from Dover she’d probably have said she couldn’t make it.  The study could wait while she took a few days off, progress had been made on the project, more than expected. The additional properties of the chalk at Samphire Hoe were exciting, but would need much more work.

I’m supposed to be retired, Elara reminded herself, wondering how she’d allowed herself to get roped in to another field trip. A few weeks back in England, all expense paid, had swayed her, but the weeks were turning into months.

Looking at the envelope again, Elara wondered what the stain was.  It didn’t look like paint. Tempted to run it through some tests at the lab, she realised she didn’t have time. She had to book tickets and pack a few things, and send a message to Florian to thank him for forwarding the letter. I wonder why he didn’t just tell me about the letter in a message? she wondered. I’d have suggested he open it and tell me what it said. And how unusual to send an actual paper letter!  It was partly this intriguing point that was making her determined to go and see what it was all about.

But you know what Lucien is like, she reminded herself, wondering if he was still the same. Five years wasn’t long, but it was relative. The past five years had flown by, but a lot had happened. But have I changed?   A few more wrinkles, grey hairs more prolific, arthritic hips a little more troublesome…. and my interests have changed…

Elara wasn’t sure if she had changed more than she had stayed fundamentally the same. Mutatur autem idem, vel in diversum…..

Amei found the letter waiting on the narrow hallway table; her flatmate, Felix, must have left it there. They rarely crossed paths these days as he was working long shifts at the hospital. His absence suited her—mostly.

It was a novelty to get a letter! She turned it over in her hands, noting the faint coffee stain on one corner and the Paris postmark. The handwriting was sharp and angular, unmistakably Lucien’s. It felt like a relic from another life, a self she’d long ago left behind in favour of the safe existence she had built in London.

She slipped a finger under the flap and opened the envelope. It contained a single piece of paper—she read the words and Lucien’s familiar insistence leapt off the page.

Amei set the letter on the kitchen counter and stood for a moment, staring out the window. The view was of the neighbouring building—a dreary brick wall streaked with stains, its monotony interrupted only by a single trailing vine struggling to cling to life.

The flat was small but tidy, shaped by two lives that rarely intersected. Felix’s presence was minimal: a mug left on the counter, a jacket draped over a chair. The rest was hers—books stacked on shelves, notebooks brimming with half-formed ideas, and an easel by the window holding an unfinished canvas. She freelanced as a textile designer. On the desk lay fabric swatches and sketches for her latest project—a clean, modern design for a boutique client. The work was steady and paid the bills but left little room for the creative freedom she once craved.

It certainly wasn’t the life she’d envisioned for herself at twenty, or even thirty, but it was functional. Yet there was an emptiness to it all; she was good at what she did, but the passion she’d once felt for her work had dulled.

There were no children at home to fill the silence, no pets to demand her attention. Relationships had come and gone, but none had felt like forever. Felix offered a semblance of company, though their conversations had dwindled to polite exchanges or the odd humorous anecdote. Her days had settled into a rhythm of predictability, punctuated only by deadlines and occasional dinners with colleagues she liked but never truly connected with.

Amei sank into the armchair by the window. Should she go? She had to admit she was curious. It must be nearly five years since they had last been together and the events of that last occasion still haunted her.

She leaned back, her gaze trailing to the vine outside the window, and let the question linger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frella blinked. “What just happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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.