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At first, no one noticed.

They were still speculating about the truck—where it had come from, where it might be going, whether following it was a brilliant idea or a spectacularly bad one.

And, after all, Finja was always muttering about something. Dust, filth, things not put back where they belonged.

But then her voice rose till she was all but shouting.

“Of course, they’re all savages. I don’t know how I put up with them! Honestly, I AM AT MY WIT’S END!”

“Finja?” Anya called. “Are you okay?”

Finja strode on, intent on her diatribe.

“No, I don’t know where they are going,” she yelled.  “If I knew that, I probably wouldn’t be here, would I?”

Tala hurried to catch up and stepped in front of Finja, blocking her path. “Finja, are you okay? Who are you talking to?”

Finja sighed loudly; it was tedious. People were so obsessed with explanations.

“If you must know,” she said, “I am conversing with my Auntie Finnley in Australia.”

“Ooooh!” Vera’s eyes lit up. “ A relative!”

Yulia, walking between Luka and Lev, giggled. She adored the twins and couldn’t decide which one she liked more. They were both so tall and handsome. Others found it hard to tell them apart but she always could. It was rumoured that at birth they had been joined at the hip.

“Finja is totally bonkers,” she declared cheerfully and the twins smiled in unison.

“I will have you know I’m not bonkers.” Finja felt deeply offended and misunderstood. “I have been communicating with Auntie Finnley since childhood. She was highly influential in my formative years.”

“How so?” asked Tala.

“Few people appreciate the importance of hygiene like my Auntie Finnley. She works as a cleaner at the Flying Fish Inn in the Australian Outback. Lovely establishment I gather. But terrible dust.”

Vera nodded sagely. “A sensible place to survive the apocalypse.”

“Exactly.” Finja rewarded her with a tight smile.

Jian raised an eyebrow. “And she’s alive? Your aunt?”

“I don’t converse with ghosts!” Finja waved a hand dismissively. “They all survived there thanks to the bravery of Aunt Finnley. Had to disinfect the whole inn, mind you. Said it was an absolute nightmare.” Finja shuddered at the thought of it.

Gregor snorted. “You’re telling us you have a telepathic connection with your aunt in Australia… and she is also mostly concerned about … hygiene?”

Finja glared at him. “Standards must be maintained,” she admonished. “Even after the end of the world.”

“Do you talk to anyone else?” Tala asked. “Or is it just your aunt?”

Finja regarded Tala through slitted eyes. “I’m also talking to Finkley.”

“Where is this Finkley, dear?” asked Anja gently. “Also at the outback?”

“OMG,” Finja said. “Can you imagine those two together?” She cackled at the thought, then pulled herself together. “No. Finkley is on the Helix 25. Practically runs it by all accounts. But also keeps it spotless, of course.”

“Helix 25? The spaceship?” Mikhail asked, suddenly interested. He exchanged glances with Tala who shrugged helplessly.

Yulia laughed. “She’s definitely mad!”

“So what? Aren’t we all,” said Petro.

Molly, who had been quietly watching with Tundra, finally spoke. “And you say they are both… cleaners?” She wasn’t sure what to make of this group. She wondered if it would be better to continue on alone with Tundra? She didn’t want to put the child in any danger.

“Cleanliness runs in the family,” Finja said. “Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I was mid-conversation.”

She closed her eyes, concentrating. The group watched with interest as her lips moved silently, her brow furrowed in deep thought.

Then, suddenly, she opened her eyes and threw her hands in the air.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she muttered. “Finkley is complaining about dust floating in low gravity. Finnley is complaining about the family not taking their boots off at the door. What a pair of whingers. At least I didn’t inherit THAT.”

She sniffed, adjusted her backpack, and walked on.

The others stood there for a moment, letting it all sink in.

Gregor clapped his hands together. “That was the most wonderfully insane thing I’ve heard since the world ended.”

Mikhail sighed. “So, we are following the direction of the truck?”

Anya nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on Finja. The stress is getting to her, and we have no meds if it escalates.”

Orrin Holt gripped the wheel of the battered truck, his knuckles white as the vehicle rumbled over the dry, cracked road. The leather wrap was a patchwork of smooth and worn, stichted together from whatever scraps they had—much like the quilts his mother used to make before her hands gave out. The main road was a useless, unpredictable mess of asphalt gravels and sinkholes. Years of war with Russia, then the collapse, left it to rot before anyone could fix it. Orrin stuck to the dirt path beside it. That was the only safe way through. The engine coughed but held. A miracle, considering how many times it had been patched together.

The cargo in the back was too important for a breakdown now. Medical supplies—antibiotics, painkillers, and a few salvaged vials of something even rarer. They’d traded well for it, risking much. Now he had to get it back to Base Klyutch (Ukrainian word for Key) without incident. If he continued like that he could make it before noon.

Still, something bothered him. That group of people he’d seen.

They had been barely more than silhouettes on top of a hill. Strangers, a rarity in these times. His first instinct had been to stop and evaluate who they were. But his instructions let room for no delay. So, he’d pushed forward and ignored them. The world wasn’t kind to the wandering. But they hadn’t looked like raiders or scavengers. Lost, perhaps. Or searching.

The truck lurched forward as he pushed it harder. The fences of the base rose in the distance, grey and wiry against the blue sky. Base Klyutch was a former military complex, fortified over the years with scavenged materials, steel sheets, and watchtowers. It wasn’t perfect, but it kept them alive.

As he rolled up to the main gate, the sentries swung the barricade open. Before he could fully cut the engine, a woman wearing a pristine white lab coat stepped forward, her sharp eyes scanning the truck’s cargo bed. Dr. Yelena Markova, the camp’s chief doctor, a former nurse who had to step up when the older one died in a raid on their camp three years ago. Stern-faced and wiry, with a perpetual air of exhaustion, she moved with the efficiency of someone who had long stopped hoping for ease. She had been waiting for this delivery.

“Finally,” she murmured, motioning for her assistants to start unloading. “We were running low. This will keep us going for a while.”

Orrin barely had time to nod before Dmytro Koval, the de facto leader of the base, strode toward him with the gait of a tall bear. His face seemed to have been carved out by a dulled blade, hardened by years of survival. A scar barred his mouth, pulling slightly at the corner when he spoke, giving the impression of a permanent sneer.

“Did you get it?” Koval asked, voice low.

Orrin reached into his kaki jacket and pulled out a sealed letter, along with a small package.

Koval took both, his expression unreadable. “Anything on the road?”

Orrin exhaled and adjusted his stance. “Saw something on the way back. A group, about a dozen, on a hill ten kilometers out. They seemed lost.”

“Armed?” asked Koval with a frown.

“Can’t say for sure.”

Dr. Markova straightened. “Lost? Unarmed? Out in the open like that, they won’t last long with Sokolov’s gang roaming the land. We have to go take them in.”

Koval grimaced. “Or they’re Sokolov’s spies. Trying to infiltrate us and find a weakness in our defenses. You know how it works.”

Before Koval could argue, a new voice cut in. “Or they could just be people.”

Solara Ortega had stepped into the conversation, brushing dirt from her overalls. A woman of lean strength, with the tan of someone spending long hours outside. Her sharp amber eyes carried the weight of someone who had survived too much but refused to be hardened by it. Orrin shoved down a mix of joy and ache at her sight. Her voice was calm but firm. “We can’t always assume the worst. We need more hands and we don’t leave people to die if we can help it. And in case you forgot, Koval, you don’t make all the decisions around here. I say we send a team to assess them.”

Koval narrowed his eyes, but he held his tongue. There was tension between them, but the council wasn’t a dictatorship.

“Fine,” Koval said after a moment, his jaw tense. “A team of two. They scout first. No direct contact until we’re sure. Orrin, you one of them take whoever wants to accompany you, but not one of my men. We need to maintain tight security.”

Dr. Markova sighed with relief when the man left. “If he wasn’t good at what he does, I would gladly kick him out of our camp.”

Solara, her face framed by strands of dark hair, shot a glance at Orrin. “I’m coming with you.”

This time, Orrin couldn’t repress a longing for a time before everything fell apart, when she had been his wife. The collapse had torn them apart in an instant, and by the time he found her again, years later, she had built a new life within the base in Ukraine. She had a husband now, one of the scientists managing the radio equipment, and two children. Orrin kept his expression neutral, but the weight of time pressed heavy on him.

“Then let’s get on the move. They might not stay there long.”

The luxury of an afternoon nap was one of the finer pleasures of retirement, particularly during the heat of an Italian summer.  Elara stretched like a cat on the capacious sofa, pulling a couple of kilim covered cushions into place to support her neck.  She had only read a few pages of her book about the Cerne Abbas giant, the enigmatic chalk figure on a hill in Dorset, before her eyes slid closed and the book dropped with a thud onto her chest.

The distant clang of a bell woke her several hours later, although she remained motionless, unable to open her eyes at first.  Not one to recall dreams as a rule, Elara was surprised at the intensity of the dream she was struggling to awaken from, and the clarity of the details, and the emotion.  In the dream she was at the CERN conference, a clamour and cacophony of colleagues, some familiar to her in waking life, some characters complete strangers but familiar to her in the dream. She had felt agitation at the noise and at the cold coffee, and an indescribable feeling when Florian somehow appeared by her side, who was supposed to be in Tuscany, whispering in her ear that her mother had died and she was to make the funeral arrangements.

Elara’s mother had died when she was just a child, barely eight years old. She was no longer sure if she remembered her, or if her memories were from the photographs and anecdotes she’d seen and heard in the following years.  Her older sister Vanessa had said darkly that she was lucky and well out of it, to not have had to put up with her when she was a teenager, like she had. Vanessa was ten years older than Elara, and had assumed the role of mother.  She explained later that she’d let Elara run wild because she didn’t want to be bossy and domineering, but admitted that she should perhaps have reined her younger sister in a bit more than she had.

Again, the distant bell clanged.  Shaking her head as if to dispel the memories the dream had conjured, Elara rose from the sofa and walked out on to the terrace.  Across the yard she could see Florian, replacing the old bell on the new gate post.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” he called. “I had a bit of linen round the clanger so it didn’t make a noise while I screwed it to the post, but it slipped.  Sorry,” he repeated.

Squinting in the bright sun, Elara strolled over to him, saying, “Honestly, don’t worry, I was glad to wake up. What a dream I had!  That’s great Florian, nice job.”

The postcard was marked URGENT and the man in charge of postcards made haste to find Thomas Cromwell but he was nowhere to be found. The postcard was damp and the ink had run, but “send your boatman asap” was decipherable.  The man in charge of postcards was not aware of any boatman by the name of Asap, but knowing Thomas it was possible he’d found another bright waif to train, probably one of the urchins hanging about the gates waiting for scraps from the kitchen.

“Asap! Asap!” the postcard man called as he ran down to the river. “Boatman Asap!”

“There be no boatman by that name on the masters barge, lad.  Are you speaking my language?” replied boatman Rafe.

“Have you seen the master?” the postcard man asked, “And be quick about you, whatever your name is.”

“Aye, I can tell you that. He’s asleep in the barge.”

“Asleep? Asleep? In the middle of the day? You fool, get out of my way!” the postcard man shoved Rafe out of the way roughly. “My Lord Cromwell! Asleep on the barge in the middle of the day! Call the physician, you dolt!”

“Calm yourself man, I am in no need of assistance,” Cromwell said, yawning and rubbing his eyes as he rose to see what all the shouting was about.  Being in two places at once was becoming difficult to conceal.  He would have to employ a man of concealment to cover for him while he was in Malove’s body.

I must have a word with Thurston about licorice spiders, Cromwell made a mental note to speak to his cook, while holding out his hand for the postcard. “Thank you, Babbidge”, he said to the man in charge of postcards, giving him a few coins. “You did well to find me.  That will be all.”

“Rafe,” Cromwell said to the boatman after a slight pause, “Can you row to the future, do you think?”

“Whatever you say, master, just tell me where it is.”

“Therein lies the problem,” replied Thomas Cromwell, promptly falling asleep again.

While Malove was tucking into some sugared ghosts at the party, she felt an odd plucking sensation, as if one of her spells had been accessed.

A split second later, Cromwell woke up. There was no time to lose gathering ingredients for spells, or laborious complicated rituals.  Cromwell made a mental note to streamline the future coven with more efficient simple magic.

“Take all your clothes off, Rafe.”  Astonished, the boatman removed his hat and his cloak.  Thomas Cromwell did likewise. “Now you put my clothes on, Rafe, and I’ll wear yours.  Get out of the boat and go and find somewhere under a bush to hide until I come back.  I’m taking your boat. Don’t, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be seen.”

Terrified, the boatman scuttled off to seek cover. He’d heard the rumours about Cromwell’s imminent arrest.  He almost laughed maniacally when the thought crossed his mind that he wished he had a mirror to see himself in Lord Cromwell’s hat, but that thought quickly turned to horror when he imagined the hat ~ and the head ~ rolling under the scaffold.  God save us all, he whispered, knowing that God wouldn’t.

In a split second, boatman Cromwell found himself rowing the barge through flooded orange groves.   I must fill my pockets with oranges for Thurston to make spiced orange tarts, he thought, before I return.

“Ah, there you are, bedraggled wench, you did well to send for assistance. A biblical flood if ever I saw one.  There’s just one small problem,” Cromwell said as he pulled Truella into the barge, ” I can save you from drowning, but we must return forthwith to the Thames. I can not put my boatman in danger for long.”

“The Thames in the 1500s?” Truella said stupidly, shivering in her wet clothes.

Cromwell looked at her tight blue breeches and thin unseemly vest. “Your clothes simply won’t do”.

“Some dry ones would be nice,” Truella admitted.

“It’s not that your clothes are too wet,” he replied, frowning.  He could send Rafe for a kitchenmaids dress, but then what would the kitchenmaid wear?  They had one dress only, not racks of garments like the people in the future. Not unless they were ladies.

Lord Thomas Cromwell cast another eye over Truella.  She was a similar build to Anne of Chives.

“If you think I’m dressing up as one of Henry’s wives…”

Laughing, Cromwell admitted she had a point. “No, perhaps not a good idea, especially as he does not well like this one.  No need for her to be the death of both of us.”

“Look, just drop me off in Limerick on the way home, it’s barely out of your way.  It’s probably raining there too, but at least I won’t have to worry about clothes. I’d look awful in one of those linen caps anyway.”

Cromwell gave her an approving look and agreed to her idea.   Within a split second they were in Ireland, but Cromwell was in for a surprise.

“Yoohoo, Frella!” Truella called, delighted to see her friend strolling along the river bank. “It’s me!”

Thomas Cromwell pulled the boat up to the river bank, tossing the rope to Frella’s friend to secure it. Frella’s friend grabbed the rope and froze in astonishment.  “You! Fancy seeing YOU here! Uncle Thomas!”

Precisely why some of us never watch those things, Truella couldn’t help thinking when Jeezel mentioned her tartcasts or whatever they were. All the knowledge of the world at our fingertips and everyone watching blartcasts and clickparroting it all over the place. And she kept that quiet, about who her gran was!

Truth be told, Truella was nettled at the things Jeezel and Frella had said about Cromwell.  She almost rose to the bait but resisted the urge to launch herself to his defence when she remembered the shock they were all going to have when he replaced Malove.  But no, he wouldn’t replace her. He would merge with her.  A merger made in hell, anyone would think, and understandably so.  They were in for a pleasant surprise.

“When did you arrive?” asked Truella when they found her in her at her Cloacina booth in faux-fur waterproof boots and a faux-bear-fur cape with a waterproofed silk hood to protect her perfect hairdo from the incessant drizzle. It gave her a look of one of those Fantasy warrior-goddess ready to intervene at the last minute to save her chosen champions from complete destruction by the forces of evil.

“Well, I’ve been there all along,” retorted the glamour witch, moving two little loos in front of the booth closer together. “I’ve been living in Limerick since the start of this story, even if it wasn’t clear where. Granny Linda thinks I’m living in Glamorheaven and Finnley think I’m living in London, but I’m pretty sure it’s Limerick. At least it is in my mind manor,” she said as if for herself. “There!” she said. Her face lit up as she just found the perfect orientation for the loos. “Don’t those miniature loos look cute?”

“Sure,” said Truella. At the same time she looked at Frella as if their friend had gone nut.

“Don’t ask me,” said Frella. “I didn’t make the selection of the goddesses for the olympic set.”

Jeezel took three cups, dipped them into one of the toilet bowl and offered them to her friends to drink.

Truella grimaced.

“I prefer not to drink that early in the morning,” said Frella with a polite smile.

Jeezel lifted the cup to her nose and inhaled deeply before taking a sip. “It’s connected to the purest water source on Earth through a little time sewer spell coupled with a little pump and filter and a nice chime when you throw your worries in. It’s perfectly safe and drinkable sparkling water, and it smells of roses.”

“My gran used to spray rose scent in the bathroom after she used it,” said Truella, cackling nervously.

Frella took the cup, smelled it and continued smiling.

“Anyways, those cuties are for the cleansing prayers,” said Jeezel. “Cleansing and release,” she added pointing her finger up at the banner. “That’s Cloacina’s motto. At least at this booth. And, as I’m sure you asked, I didn’t answer all your messages because I’ve been kept busy with preparing all of those. Here, Truelle, take one of those Sacred Bath Salts. I have two flavors, Moonlight Mist and Sunset Serenity. Take the second one, it’s a blend of Himalayan pink salt and rose petals. It’ll help keep you warm as the salts will absorb the extra humidity, and as an extra it’ll make you think of your gran”, she added with a grin. “As for my friend Frella…”

Truella grabbed the pouch of salts and smelled it. “The smell is not so bad,” she conceded. “And Bubona knows I need their warming qualities,” she said shaking her head to get rid of irritating water drops.

Jeezel then turned to the potion and elixirs section. “No, not purification for Frella, and neither of you need the Lover’s Elixir… Oh! Here it is, take that. A soap made of goat’s milk, honey and calendula oil for radiant skin. And good to keep the hinges perfectly oiled. And as my future gran will say, remember, keeping those hinges oiled is key to avoiding squeaky situations.”

Frella took the soap and chuckled. “Thanks.” She scratched the surface with her nail. “It’s seems good quality. And it smells good. That reminds me I have to prepare my own booth. See you later girls.”

As soon as she left. Truella leaned towards her friend and asked in a conspiratory voice: “Did you know Malove was here?”

“What?”

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.

Penelope Pomfrett: Let’s start with Penelope, shall we? She’s a statuesque woman with a sharp, angular face that could cut through butter – not unlike an Egon Schiele painting, if you’re familiar. Her hair’s a spun silver waterfall, always meticulously pinned up but with just a touch of wildness trying to escape, like she’s taming a tempest on top of her head. Her eyes are a piercing cerulean blue, always calculating, always observing; she’s the type who looks right through you and into your deepest secrets.

Personality-wise, Penelope’s got the demeanor of a headmistress crossed with a lioness. She’s precise, a bit of a perfectionist, never suffers fools gladly. But beneath that stern exterior, she’s got a heart of gold, especially when it comes to her coven sisters. Stern loyalty and high standards, that’s her in a nutshell. And she’s got this dry wit that’ll catch you off guard and have you chuckling before you know it.

Sandra Salt: Now Sandra, she’s a different kettle of fish altogether. Think earthy, grounded; she’s got that warm, approachable vibe that’s almost tangible. Picture her with curly auburn hair, always escaping its braids to frame her face in a halo of fiery ringlets. She’s got freckles smattered across her sun-kissed cheeks and a smile that feels like coming home after a long journey. Eyes? Warm hazel, like caramel with a hint of green, always twinkling with some hidden mischief or gentle wisdom.

Sandra’s personality is as grounded as the soil she loves to dig her fingers into; she’s the heart and soul of the crew, with an infectious laugh that could light up the darkest of days. She’s nurturing, perceptive, and has an uncanny knack for making everyone feel at ease. But don’t mistake her kindness for softness – she’s got a spine of steel and can summon a fierce storm if she’s wronged.

Audrey Ambrose: Now, dear Audrey, she’s a bit of a mysterious beauty. Think raven-black hair that falls in silky waves down her back, always perfectly styled without a hair out of place. She’s got porcelain skin, smooth and almost ethereal, like moonlight itself took her under its wing. Her eyes are a deep, striking emerald, always seeming to know more than she lets on. Add to that a penchant for elegant, vintage clothing, and you’ve got yourself a picture of classic, timeless beauty.

In terms of personality, Audrey’s a quiet storm. She’s enigmatic, often found lost in thought, with a deep, contemplative nature. While she may come off as aloof, she’s deeply empathetic and has an old-soul wisdom that guides her every action. She’s the sort you turn to when you need profound insight or a steady hand in times of chaos. And that wit – it’s as sharp as her fashion sense, subtle, and spot-on.

Sassafras Bentley: Lastly, let’s paint a picture of Sassafras. She’s vibrant and flamboyant, tall, thin and athletic, with hair dyed in shades of a peacock’s feathers – blues, greens, purples – ever changing with her whims. Her outfits are always eclectic and bold, but practical. She’s got a long hatchet face, and eyes that are a sparking topaz, full of zest and life ~ and secret undercurrents.

Sassafras is the party animal of the lot, always bringing fun and chaos in equal measure. She’s got a joie de vivre that’s downright infectious, a real firecracker with boundless energy. Her natural charisma draws people in, and her laugh – oh, her laugh! – it’s the kind of sound that warms the soul and invites everyone to join in her revelries, unless she’s being rude, aloof and secretive. Underneath all that sparkle, though, she’s fiercely protective of those she loves and more insightful than she lets on.

Lorena Blaen clapped her hands loudly together.  Sassafras ignored her and continued buttering her toast, assuming that her boss was calling the stray dogs in to finish off the breakfast leftovers.

“Now then, girls!” Lorena’s strident voice boomed out. Sassafras sighed and looked up, her knife poised in the air. A blob of butter slid off onto the table.

“As you know, four members of the Quadrivium will be joining us this weekend and I have assigned a guide to each of them. One of them, however, will not be able to attend in person as she is occupied on an important case, but her guide will be in remote communication with her for the duration of the weekend gathering.”

The witches in the breakfast room collectively held their breath, many of them secretly concocting mental repellent spells so that they could avoid being chosen for this tedious assignment.

“And no need to try that with me, I have already disabled any attempts to divert my intentions,” Lorena said, glaring pointedly at a few individuals.  “Sassafras, your assigned guest for the weekend will be…”  Lorena looked at her notes, “Truella.  Penelope Pomfrett, yours will be Eris.”

Penelope sighed loudly and slammed her coffee cup down harder than she intended, making Sassafras giggle.

“Sandra Salt, I hope you will be able to take this assignment more seriously than some of your colleagues.  You will be attending to…” Lorena glanced at her notes again, “Jeezel.  And by the way Sandra, perhaps you can learn a thing or two about the importance of appearance from Jeezel,” she added, with a critical look at Sandra’s sloppy attire.

“Audrey Ambrose,” Lorena announced, glaring over the top of her spectacles at Audrey whose mouth had dropped open in astonishment, “You’ll be quite capable with your broken ankle to attend to Frella remotely.” Audrey’s mouth snapped shut into a grim line. Her plan of faking an injury to avoid duties for a few weeks had backfired.   And the cast was hot and itchy, and all for nothing.

“Our guests will be arriving later this morning.  You will be expected to entertain them within the monastery buildings and grounds, but under no circumstances are you to leave the grounds or go into the woods.”

Sassafras raised an eyebrow but was careful to not let Lorena see. Her immediate idea was to go into the woods with what’s her name, Truella, and lose her for the day, maybe find her in time to bring her back for supper.

Wondering why she couldn’t focus, Jeezel frowned and checked the ingredients for the Concordia potion again. For a moment she thought she had already done it, but here it was again. And it had to be perfect.

Moon water imbued with lunar magic to set the stage of harmony. Rose petals for love and beauty. Lavender for its calming properties, essential to soothe and balance the collective energies. Honey for cooperation and its irresistible sweetness. Willow wand… Where was her willow wand? She would have to do it all over again if she didn’t find her willow wand.

A wet tongue on her hand was trying to catch her attention. The ingredients started to loose focus again.

“Stop Luminia. It has to be perfect,” said Jeezel, gently pushing the muzzle of her nine tailed fox away. “Help me find my willow wand instead, that would be helpful!”

“You’ve already done it a million times,” said Luminia with a sigh, “and each time you stop at the willow wand. You’re caught in a feverish loop. I need to pee.”

The ingredients and the smoking cauldron disappeared. Jeezel frowned as the techno beats of a pounding headache  reminded her she was still alive.

“Just let me die and go out on your own, please…” Jeezel moaned.

“You know I don’t like to shape shift into a cat. Wandering lone dogs are too suspicious. And you need some fresh air. You’ve been simmering in your own juice the last couple of days.”

It was early morning, too early if you asked some. The fresh dew of Limerick’s morn clinged to the old stones of King John’s castle like a blanket woven from the very essence of dawn. The castle was not to open its doors before 3 hours, yet a most peculiar gathering was waiting at the bottom of the tower closest to the Shannon river.

“6am! Who would wake that early to take a bus?” asked Truella, as fresh as a newly bloomed poppy. She had no time to sleep after a night spent scattering truelles all around the city. “And where are the others?” she fumed, having forgotten about the resplendent undeniable presence she had vowed to embody during that day.

Frigella, leaning against a nearby lamppost, her arms crossed, rolled her eyes. “Jeezel? Malové? Do you even want an answer?” she asked with a wry smile. All busy in her dread of balls, she had forgotten she would have to travel with her friends to go there, and support their lamentations for an entire day before that flucksy party. Her attire was crisp and professional, yet one could glimpse the outlines of various protective talismans beneath the fabric.

Next to them, Eris was gazing at her smartphone, trying not to get the other’s mood affect her own, already at her lowest. A few days ago, she had suggested to Malové it would be more efficient if she could portal directly to Adare manor, yet Malové insisted Eris joined them in Limerick. They had to travel together or it would ruin the shared experience. Who on earth invented team building and group trips?

“Look who’s gracing us with her presence,” said Truella with a snort.

Jeezel was coming. Despite her slow pace and the early hour, she embodied the unexpected grace in a world of vagueness. Clumsy yet elegant, she juggled her belongings — a hatbox, a colorful scarf, and a rather disgruntled cat that had decided her shoulder was its throne. A trail of glitters seemed to follow her every move.

“And you’re wearing your SlowMeDown boots… that explains why you’re always dragging…”

“Oh! Look at us,” said Jeezel, “Four witches, each a unique note in the symphony of existence. Let our hearts beat in unison with the secrets of the universe as we’re getting ready for a magical experience,” she said with a graceful smile.

“Don’t bother, Truelle. You’re not at your best today. Jeez is dancing to a tune she only can hear,” said Frigella.

Seeing her joy was not infectious, Jeezel asked: “Where’s Malové?”

“Maybe she bought a pair of SlowMeDown boots after she saw yours…” snorted Truella.

Jeezel opened her mouth to retort when a loud and nasty gurgle took all the available place in the soundscape. An octobus, with magnificently engineered tentacles, rose from the depth of the Shannon, splashing icy water on the quatuor. Each tentacle, engineered to both awe and serve, extended with a grace that belied its monstrous size, caressing the cobblestones of the bridge with a tender curiosity that was both wild and calculated. The octobus, a pulsing mass of intelligence and charm, settled with a finality that spoke of journeys beginning and ending, of stories waiting to be told. Surrounded by steam, it waited in the silence.

Eris looked an instant at the beast before resuming her search on her phone. Frigella, her arms still crossed and leaning nonchalantly against the lamppost, raised an eyebrow. Those who knew her well could spot the slight widening of her eyes, a rare show of surprise.

“Who put you in charge of the transport again?” asked Truella in a low voice as if she feared to attract the attention of the creature.

“Ouch! I didn’t…”, started Jeezel, trying to unclaw the cat from her shoulders.

“I ordered the Octobus,” said Malové’s in a crisp voice.

Eris startled at the unexpected sound. She hadn’t heard their mentor coming.

“If you had read the memo I sent you last night, you wouldn’t be as surprised. But what did I expect?”

The doors opened with a sound like the release of a deep-sea diver’s breath.

“Get on and take a seat amongst your sisters and brothers witches. We have much to do today.”

With hesitation, the four witches embarked, not merely as travelers but as pioneers of an adventure that trenscended the mundane morning commute. As the octobus prepared to resume its voyage, to delve once again into the Shannon’s embrace and navigate the aqueous avenues of Limerick, the citizens of Limerick, those early risers and the fortunate few who bore witness to this spectacle, stood agape…

“Oh! stop it with your narration and your socials Jeez,” said Truella. “I need to catch up with slumber before we arrive.”

Jeezel was enjoying a glass of champagne, enveloped by mother of pearl foam in a bathtub that was more like a swimming pool for a siren. Her emerald eyes were looking pensively at the reflections on the golden tiles. She was humming along a playlist carefully selected to help her relax and assimilate all the changes in her life.

Despite the fiasco in Brasil, Malove has been keeping them busy with more projects to come. Jeezel had to come up with new workshops for new recruits with the secret purpose of making witchcraft more accepted by the masses. Then, there were those secret missions for which Frigella and herself also had to procure rare and hard to find ingredients. Of course, all that, she could easily handle. Hadn’t she always managed to get back up on her feet every time she trampled on her train during her first beauty contest.

But now, there was Joe. Jeezel took a sip of champagne.

When she found her cottage, the bathroom was in a state not even a mother could love. Numerous cracks running wild like the worst kind of pantyhose mishap, and humidity creeping in like an unwelcome suitor at a drag ball.

When she put up a picture on Flick Flock, it was like blowing the mythic Cornucopia. Her fans came through like the chorus of a drag space opera. Offers poured in, tips, tricks and contacts. But one offer stood out, a brother of a fan near Limerick with hands skilled in construction.

If Jeezel’s got a heart as big as her hair, she didn’t let just anyone past the sequin curtains. Despite her hesitation to let a stranger wander through her abode, even one vouched for by a fan, she also knew when to delegate. With a few clicks of her carefully crafted nails on her phone screen and an appointment was decided. And Joe entered into her life.

He was more an Anthony Tomkin than her usual Brad Pitt or Chris Hemsworth type. But still she was intrigued. As usual, Lumina warned her not to let her artichoke heart be ruffled again. But, thought Jeezel, she was not a child anymore, she was a powerful witch. She gulped the last trace of champagne and rose, emerging from the foam like a newborn Venus.

What could the man possibly do to her that she couldn’t transmute into gold?

The soft candle light on the altar created moving patterns on the walls draped with velvets and satins. The boudoir was the sanctuary where Jeezel weaved her magic. The patterns on the tapestries changed with her mood, and that night they were a blend of light and dark, electricity made them crackle like lightning in a mid afternoon summer storm.

The altar was a beautifully crafted mahogany table with each legs like a spindle from Sleeping Beauty’s own spinning wheel, but there was no sleeping done here. On her left, her vanity with her collection of wigs, each one a masterpiece styled to perfection, in every shade you could imagine. Tonight, she had chosen the red one. It was a fiery cascade of passion and power, the kind of red that stops traffic. Jeezel needed the confidence and boldness imbued in it to cast the potent Concordia spell.

The air was thick with the perfume of white sage. Lumina, Jeezel’s nine tailed fox familiar, was curled-up on a couch adorned with mystical silver runes pulsating with magic, her muzzle buried in the fur of her nine tails. Her eyes half closed, she was observing Jeezel’s preparation on the altar. The witch had lit a magical fire to heat a cauldron that’s seen more spells than a dictionary.

Jeezel had carefully selected a playlist as harmonious and uplifting as the spell itself, to make a symphony of sounds that would weave together like the most exquisite lace front on a show-stopping wig. She wanted it to be an auditory journey to the highest peaks of harmony that would support her during the casting.

As the precious moon water began to simmer, Jeezel creased the rose petals and the lavender in her hands before she delicately dropped them in the cauldron. The scent rose to her nose and she stirred clockwise with a wand made of the finest willow, while invoking thoughts of unity and shared purpose. The jittery patterns on the walls started to form temporary clusters. A change of colour in the liquid informed the witch it was time to add a drizzle of honey. Jeezel watched as it swirled into the potion, casting a golden glow that promised to mend fences and build bridges. The walls were full of harmonious ripples undulating gently in a soothing manner.

Once the honey was completely melted, Jeezel dropped in an amethyst crystal, whose radiating power would purify the concoction. The potion started to bubble and the glow on the tapestries turned an ugly dark red. Jeezel frowned, wondering if she had done something wrong.

“Stay focused,” said the fox in a brisk voice. “Good. The team energy is fighting back. Plant your stiletto heels firmly into the catwalk, and remember the pageant.”

The familiar’s tawny eyes glowed and the music changed to the emergency song. Jeezel felt an infusion of warm and steady energy from Lumina and started humming in sync with The Ride of the Valkyries. She stirred and chanted, every gesture filled with fiery confidence. The walls glowed darker and the potion hissed. But in the end, it was tamed. The original playlist had resumed to the grand finale. A gentle yet powerful orchestral swell that encapsulated the essence of unity and understanding, wrapping the boudoir and the potion in a sonic embrace that would banish drama and pettiness to the back of the chorus.

Jeezel released the dove feather into the brew, then finished with a sprinkle of glitter with a flourish. And it was done.

“Was the glitter necessary?” asked Lumina.

“Why not? It can’t do any harm.”

The fox jumped from the couch and looked at the potion.

“It’s sparkling like the twinkle in your eye when you hit the stage. It’s ready. Well done.”

Jeezel strained it with grace and poured it into the most fabulous vial she could find, and she sealed it with a kiss.

Jeezel opened Flick Flock and started typing a message to Roland.

The potion is ready. I’m sending it to you through the usual way.

[…]

As you use the potion, you’ll have to perform a kind of team building ritual that will help channel the potion’s power and bring your team together like sequins on a gown, darling.

Fist, dim the lights and set the stage with a circle of candles. Then gather around in the circle with your team, each of you holding a small vial of the potion. Next, take turns sharing something positive, a compliment or an expression of gratitude about the person to your left. It’s about building up that positive energy, getting the good vibes flowing like champagne at a gala.

Once the air is thick with love and camaraderie, each team member will add a drop of the Concordia potion to a communal bowl placed in the center of the circle as a symbol of unity, like a magical melting pot of harmony and shared intentions.

With the power of the potion pooling together, join hands (even if they’re not the touchy-feely types) and my familiar will guide you in an enchanting and rhythmic chant.

Finally with a climactic “clink” of glass of crystal, you’ll all seal the deal, the potion will be activated, and the spell cast.

I can affirm you, your team will be tighter than my corset after Thanksgiving dinner, ready to slay the day with peace and productivity.

Let’s get this done. And don’t forget to add a testimony and click the thumb up.

xoxox Jeezel.

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

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

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

“What do you need today?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“Wow! It’s fabulous,” said Jeezel.

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

“Thanks Flucinda,” said Jeezel with a smile.

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