Search Results for 'smell'

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  • #7385

    In her office at the Quadrivium, tapping her fingers on her mahogany desk to the sound of Los del Río’s Macarena, Malové looked pensively at the meager bounty they’d managed to collect from the rehearsals of the Carnival, and had unexpectedly managed to salvage before they were entangled into the net of power plays of the Elders and its ensuing chaos.

    The phial on her desk was the only part they could salvage. They had to use most of it to revive Truella’s duplicated body before jumping back. After they’d come back to Limerick, there didn’t seem to be any lingering side effects from the dip in the red waters on the duplicate Truella.
    Malové would have rather expected to witness a surge of nymphomaniac urges from Truella or the others, but there was really no telling how that could turn out; magic spells usually had a natural balance to them. The only suspicious thing was how Frigella after her dip in the waters, seemed to have developed prescience about what plans she had for the hippo carcass back at home. Magic sometimes worked in mysterious ways.
    So, just to be sure, she’d tasked Frigella to be the designated driver back home for Truella. In her state of shock, Truella could have botched her merging spell to reintegrate her two bodies into the same location.
    Malové wouldn’t have admitted it, but she’d felt a sigh of relief when the SMS of Frigella appeared on her scrying bowl to tell her that the spell had been completed without any ill effect. Well, maybe Truella’s partner would have the time of their lives tonight.

    On her desk, the leftover liquid of the phial was a deep shade of pulsating violet, and had settled to a softly bubbling state not unlike a lava lamp. It wasn’t clearly the top shelf quality she’d expected, nor even close to the amount they’d need to mass produce some powerful elixir for the infertile, impotent or simply curiously lecherous clients. That line of sexual healing incenses would have to wait for a more suitable conjonction of stars.

    For now, the only new collection that the season allowed for was mostly smell of rain-soaked earth. She hated it. Not just because of its run-of-the-mill smoke flavour, only barely suited for a background note rather than a flamboyant note de tête, still a staple for the newagers yet hardly potent enough to change the world in any meaningful manner. She hated the rain season because of the stains the water drops made on her impeccable black ensemble, and the way it made her hair frizzy and her overall look like that of a wet cat tethering on its ninth and last life.

    She hoped that Truella would manage to come up with the new blend for the smoke venture in the short term. Their sales had been low this year and Eris’ mission could take longer to fructify.

    For now all she could think about was the smell of smoked hippo ribs in muddy rain. Swamp Serenade in Hippo Major. Hardly the recipe for a smashing success.

    #7381

    Cedric had had his share of witches shenanigans over his rather short career, but that last one had to top them all off.

    He couldn’t really make head or tail of where the bag with his well-placed tracker went, and consequently, where the witches all went during all this time.

    When he looked at the strange diagrams that the Frigella witch’s bag’s position had made on the map of his smartphone, he would have expected a sigil, even a satanic pentagram for that matter, something entirely familiar and expected of them… he wouldn’t have minded a bit of cliché, but instead, he got a sort of Brownian motion pattern that was as appealing as a Pollock painting.

    Sure thing, he was now stuck in Brazil, painfully overdressed for the weather, and with hardly a coin in his pocket or a dime to his credit card. He would have to call his employer… or maybe worse, his mum.

    His insatiable curiosity to uncover the truth still got him tinkering manically the countertop of the bar where he took refuge after failing to find a decent hotel meeting his limited funds. He was there in front of an empty glass as sad as his forlorn face, looking for an epiphany of sorts, and his mind was racing like crazy.

    Ei! pare com isso seu maníaco!” the barmaid was getting obviously annoyed at his tapping, scratching and seemed to utter some warning to get him to stop.

    She switched the TV on. Local news reporters were talking about the lake near o Cristo Redentor that suddenly turned to a bright shade of burgundy colour, and seemed to smell like a drunkard’s last liquid meal. Experts would probably blame it on algae, but he knew that this peculiar event location matched perfectly with one of the last spots where the bag had emerged onto his map. Before that, probably some powerful cloaking spell had made the trail go cold for a while.

    And after that: poof, they were gone. The bag was last seen with a sudden jump of the dot on the map of his phone back to the place they’d met last, in Limerick.

    That was it. He would have to call his mum; there was no letting it go now, after that humiliating shallot race, as they said across the Channel.

    #7376

    When they arrived at the hotel, the witches soon realized they were not the only uninvited guests here. With her keen sense of observation, Eris was the first to spot the traces left by an army of bedbugs. Tiny droppings on the mattresses and linen, blood stains left after the previous guests crushed the bugs while rolling in their bed. And the smell of dead rats was everywhere. Did they even have a cleaning staff here? When they complained, the hotel manager said: “Why do you care? Nobody comes here to sleep during carnival?”

    Jeezel noticed the bug reference. Indeed, something was still bugging her after she had closed the portal. Something that should be obvious, yet was still an eyelash away from her grasp. But something more pressing was at stake. She posted pictures of the rooms and a reel of her disappointed face in front of the disaster.

    “I was so happy to come to Rio for the first time. But the light is yellow and flickering. How can I show you how to do a proper Carnival makeup,” she said fluttering her eyelashes. As soon as the sound of a message well sent faded out,  she started to receive support and love from her fans.

    “Rio is not like that!”

    “Somebody help.”

    “2 bad! I’m on business trip. Wud hav luv to meet ya there!”

    The sounds of likes and comments alerted Malové.

    “What have you done! We were here incognito. Why don’t you go to the top of Jesus’s head and cast the Tempestarii Overture spell.”

    “I could have! That would have gone viral. But we departed in such a hurry, I have left all my sapphires and stilettos in Limerick. You can’t cast that spell without them. Anyway, we don’t have to stay longer in that cesspit. One of my fans is abroad and has offered us to stay in his villa. Look at the pics! It looks as lush and gorgeous as a Jurassic park.”

    Truella widened her eyes and said: “Saying that’s a big property would be an understatement. Roger would have loved to come with his new shovel.”

    “Don’t even think of casting a second bilocation spell,” said Frigella. “You already look like deflated soufflé.”

    “What’s the catch?” asked Eris with frown. “It looks like the kind of golden cage a king pin would own. But they have a pool.”

    “He said we just have to feed the dwarf crocodiles while we are there,” said Jeezel nonplussed, looking at Truella whose eyes were ready to pop off of their sockets. Then she looked at Malové. “What do you say? You’re the eld…head witch of our coven.”

    Malové’s eyebrow twitched. She was thinking fast. Little signs here and there, the orientation of the statues, the fountain, the placement of rocks that would look so random to a profane or a younger witch. Ancient earth magic? It was difficult to be sure with the framing of the pictures. Jeezel was swiping all the pictures her fan had sent her, hoping such glamour and mystery would melt Malové’s last reluctance.

    “Omg! girls, we can’t refuse!” said Jeezel. “He’s got a bloat of pygmy hippos and a flamboyance of flamingos!”

    As the drag witch continued to swipe the pictures, a prickle crept up Malové’s spine when she saw a familiar face amongst them.

    “Look at him!” shouted Jeezel. “He’s a Gatsby with a spellbook.”

    There were no more doubts for Malové about the kind of magic that had been used to build his empire. Augustus St Clair, a powerful witch indeed, and one whose invitation you couldn’t refuse especially since he now knew she was here. As one of the elders of the Rio’s witches community, she had danced the dance of rivals disguised as allies, a pas de deux filled with forced smiles and tight grips. Her words felt like needles scratching her lips when she uttered them: “Tell him we accept his invitation.”

    The shouts of joy and disbelief coming from the witches couldn’t appease the memories that had resurfaced.

    #7375

    “The very image of a spy from a cheap novel. Perched behind his newspaper, peering through holes like a child with a telescope. He’s a creature of shadows, blending into the background, always watching, never seen. He thinks himself clever, but he’s as subtle as a cat in a fishbowl. He’s drawn to Frigella like a moth to a flame, but can’t shake off his ingrained caution. Intrigued yet wary, like a mouse sniffing a piece of cheese in a trap. He needs to make up his mind before his tail gets caught.”

    “What’s on your mind, Needles?” Frigella inquired of her hedgehog familiar.

    “Nothing,” replied the hedgehog cryptically, returning happily to his strawberry snack. “But you’ll soon find out…”

    Cedric Spellbind found himself woefully unprepared for what was coming after the jump into the weird glowing vortex. On a hunch, he’d followed the enigmatic Miss O’Green. Something about her, her diaphaneous looks…

    His wool tweed cap wasn’t the best attire for wherever he had jumped into. The damp smells, the warm humid air filled with electricity —something told him he wasn’t in Limerick any more,… but where.

    The group Ms Frigella was with had moved swiftly, nonchalantly going in the streets after the boisterous tall figure with the black curly wig had made a string of light glow on the ground, evanescent trail they followed unhesitant to somewhere only them seemed to know.

    He was struggling to keep the pace. At some point, the blue-haired one had turned suspiciously casting her glance, and he’d managed to dart in a nearby alley. They’d resumed their stroll, but she’d done something after that, some sort of dark magic that made their group seem to disappear in a fog, the sounds they made suddenly all muffled.

    Accustomed to tracking witches, he’d discreetly put a findmystuff tracker on the bag. Wherever that bag would go, he would follow. He opted to let them proceed unhindered, for now.

    He checked his phone. He couldn’t catch the signs in the streets during his shadowing. His phone had started buzzing as soon as he’d emerged from the vortex, so he was surely in another country. The SMS he’d received confirmed that hypothesis: he was in Brazil.

    5 missed calls. His mother… He couldn’t call her back now, it would cost him a fortune, and his witch tracking wasn’t exactly paying the bills. She would hate him for it, but she would have to wait. Maybe a bit of worrying for him wasn’t bad. One could hope.

    His last witch hunt hadn’t been the most successful. Bulgarian witches were fierce. To be honest, it had been a fiasco, and he was posted in Limerick as a consequence —on desk job only. He knew there were worse places to be, but he was missing the action of the field… He shouldn’t have followed these witches, but again, following orders had never been his strong suit.

    #7366

    “Are we going down a sewer?” asked Truella as if you’d asked her to put her hand into dragon poop to see why they had diarrhoea. She was wearing the green blouse of a nurse. Jeezel’s thought the colour was almost a match with the witch’s face.

    “Don’t be difficult,” said Frigella a bit annoyed.  “You spend most of your free time in a hole as a hobby.” She was readjusting her purple blouse, which seemed to be bit too big for her.

    “It’s my hole,” said Truella. “I know what’s in there. It’s got nothing to do with that murky miasma of decayed dreams and digested dinners piling up down there as a testimony of Limerick’s population’s contemplation of their puny lives on their pitiful thrones. And the stench, it cuts through the air, it would make a maggot gag. I tell you, certain portals are best left untraveled. I wonder why Malové has left you in charge of the portal.”

    “We won’t go through the sewer,” said Jeezel. “It’s an ancient spell I got from my grand-mother Linda Pol from the time of her Time Travelling drag show. It creates a vortex impervious to any smell. If maggots gag it’ll be because they saw your panties.”

    Truella, who had never learned how to hold her tongue, started to open her mouth when Malové arrived. She inspected every witch’s nurse attire and winced at Jeezel’s white blouse that made the tall witch look like one of those nightingale from the 50’s.

    “Will you be able to breathe?” she asked. “We don’t want to be stuck here because you fainted before finishing your spell.”

    “This is my natural silhouette, whispered Jeezel. The fabric is very stretchy. Anyway, I’m using sigils to cast this spell.”

    Truella stopped her snort short when Malové glanced at her own blouse.

    “As for you, your words are not the only thing you could iron out.”

    Then she gave a nod of appreciation to Frigella and Eris. “Then we’re good to go.”

    Jeezel started to draw lines and curves in space above and around the manhole, she looked like a peacock flaunting its feathers. Then she used her orange gloss to draw the one sigil around the manhole and invoked its name. Frigella who was seeing it performed for the first time had the impression Jeezel said “Fern” but she wouldn’t put her hand in a witch’s fire for it. The manhole cover shimmied and shook like it was coming to life. It lifted, hovering with all the grace of a duchess at high tea before sliding aside.

    “Et voilà,” said Jeezel with glitter in her eyes. “Who’s first?”

    Eris, intrigued by the vortex of glowing and sparkling with all the magical energy coursing through it, jumped right in, not waiting for anyone to answer.

    #7361

    Truella had already left for that monkey hunt in the Mediterranean. Eris had to go back before nightfall, which was quite early at this time of year as she had chosen to live in such a remote place in the midst of a frozen forest. Jeezel only thought it romantic because of the icicles that would form on your eyelashes and brows, making you the perfect avatar for the Snow Queen musical. And Frigella… She said she was tired but from the sight of her aura, she undoubtedly was onto something fishy.

    Jeezel looked at her dress. Once a divine creation, it has turned into a disaster. Irremediably stained with soot, it’s foul smell would make any dragon lose their appetite. She felt a mix of sadness and guilt for all the murex that gave their shells for that unique shade of purple she was so proud of.

    She wasn’t sure even Teddy Steambolt could muster his magic to save the divine creation. She imagined his eyes widen as saucers when she entered his Palace of Pristine with the lifeless garment in her arms. He would most certainly swoon and gasp at the same time.

    “Oh, The tragedy!” he would wail, his high-pitched lament resonating in the cathedral ceiling of his atelier of cleanliness. “What calamity hath befallen this exquisite creation?”

    “Teddy, dear,” she would say, “It was indeed a tragedy. I lost seven of my nails and my hair was ruined. You’re the alchemist of cleanliness, you’re my only hope for a miracle.”

    And he would take her dress and perform his magic from which it would emerge reborn, and all those murex wouldn’t have lost their home for nothing.

    She was about to follow the others when Malové reminded her: “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

    A broom and a bucket of black soap were floating on her right.

    Her sigh would have made a blue whale blush with envy. Her role tonight would not be the Snow Queen, but Cinderella, another of her favourite diva.

    #7352

    “If it’s nae Frigella O’green! Fancy seeing ye ‘ere!”

    Frigella stiffened. She’d know that accent and the dank tang of peat moss anywhere. She’d have smelt it sooner if it weren’t for the brewing coffee. She must be getting soft … or maybe it was the sour smell of smoke clogging up her nostrils; she’d not been able to shake the stench since the debacle that morning. Turning away from Aaron, the pleasant young barista serving her, she willed her lips into a smile – no harm in being civil! It was a long time since all the Scottish shenanigans and word amongst the witches was the Scots Coven were trying to tidy up their act.

    “Well, If it’s not Aggie Bog now!” Frigella leaned in for a cool peck on the cheek. “And what brings you to these parts? Let me buy you a coffee and we can catch up?”

    Aggie sniggered. ” Ye pay for it?” She pushed Frigella aside and approached the counter. Aaron’s eyes widened and Frigella had to admit Aggie cut a striking figure in her tiny black top and leather leggings. As a child she’d been taunted and called fat, but now she was best described as Rubenesque, and clearly had learned how to use her assets.

    I bet those pants squeak when she walks.

    Aggie leaned forward and Aaron’s gaze flicked toward her abundant cleavage. “A double black insomnia fur me, on the hoose.”  As Aaron started to protest, Aggie waved several plump fingers towards his face and Frigella saw his eyes were now dark and glazed. “Whirling ‘n’ twirling a muckle puff o’ rowk,” crooned Aggie. “Ye’ll dae as ah say or caw intae a ….

    Frigella clasped Aggie’s wrist. Thank god the lunch crowd had gone and the cafe was nearly empty apart from an older man reading his paper by the window. “Aggie Bog! Shame on you! That’s not the way we do things here.”

    #7326

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

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

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

    “What do you need today?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Yes.”

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

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

    “Thanks Flucinda,” said Jeezel with a smile.

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

    #7324

    “And that, my Dear Reader, is why, even to this day, a traffic cone is called a witches hat.”

    It was the boy’s favourite bed-time story and Frigella had read it so many times she knew it nearly by heart. She twisted her neck so she could look down on the child; his breathing was soft, the bedside light illuminated long white lashes resting on chubby cheeks. Slowly… silently, she closed the book, switched off the night lamp and edged herself from the bed. She was very keen to log on to the Ritual and see what progress, if any, Eris had made.

    The encounter with Truella and Jeezel that afternoon down at the Cabbage had disturbed her. It was not like them … Truella pouting and mutinous, Jeezel swaggering in so full of her own self-importance. And herself! Blushing and snorting and carrying on for no reason when it was her very nature to be composed. They had always worked as a team, the four of them; it was their strength.

    Was some powerful magic afoot that had got through their protection? Perhaps Eris had found something. Her nose twitched and she realised she could still smell it, a pungent uneasiness. Like stale smoke.

    “Aunt Friggy?”

    She sighed. Her brother had made her promise not to use magic on the child but surely just a wee sprinkle of moon dust couldn’t hurt?

    “Yes Conor?”

    “Are witches true?”

    She sat down on the bed.

    “What does your Daddy say?” She stroked the child’s yellow-blond hair. Silky, like her own. He looked more like her than he did his own parents with his alabaster skin and eyes that changed colour like the sea. Always watching he was too, as though he was looking to the very heart of a matter. Just like herself. She was sure he had inherited the gift but Lorcon was having none of that nonsense and had told her so in no uncertain terms. The boy would suffer for it in time though. Just like she had when it had been denied.

    “He said Conor don’t be so daft.”

    Of course he did. Lorcon clung frantically to his normal life with his normal wife. Tonight she was baby-sitting Conor while they went on a normal date night. Still, she should not be so hard on Lorcon; it was a strange upbringing they’d had themselves.

    She kissed the boy’s forehead and breathed deeply. The sweet scent of night jasmin washed over her. At least she’d be there for Conor. The thought consoled her.

    “Shall I leave the light on for you, Poppet?”

    #7224
    AvatarJib
    Participant

      Georges was following an orange line on the floor of Jorid’s corridor with Barney on his left shoulder. The man was talking to the creature and listening to the occasional chirps Barney made as if they were part of a normal conversation.

      “You see, Barney,” said Georges. “Salomé gave us this checklist.” He tapped on the clipboard with his index finger. “I have to conduct all those experiments with you in the lab while she’s doing whatever she’s doing with the maps. Salomé loves maps, I can tell you. Always trying to invent new ones that would help us navigate all those dimensions. But they confuse me, so I’m glad to leave that to her and Jorid.”

      The two of them stopped in front of an orange door with a tag on it.

      “So you’ll ask me: ‘Georges, why are we going to the kitchen instead of going into the lab?’ —which is the blue door.”

      Georges waited for Barney’s chirp before continuing.

      “You’re right! She forgot the most important. What do you like to eat? You can’t do that in a lab with instruments stuck onto your head and tummy. It’s best done in the warm and cozy atmosphere of a kitchen.”

      The door swooshed open and they entered a bland, sanitised kitchen.

      “Jorid, morph the kitchen into a 19th century style pub, with greasy smells and a cozy atmosphere.”

      “Shouldn’t you be into the lab?” asked Jorid.

      “Let’s call it a kitchen lab,” answered Georges. “So you can tell Salomé I’m in the lab if she asks you.”

      “Most certainly.”

      The bland rooms started wobbling and becoming darker. Gas wall lamps were coming out of the walls, and a Chandeliers bloomed from the ceiling. The kitchen island turned into a mahogany pub counter behind which the cupboards turned into glass shelves with a collection of colourful liquor bottles. Right beside the beer pumps was the cornucopia, the source of all things edible, the replicator. It was simple and looked like a silver tray.

      “That’s more like it,” said Georges. He put Barney on the counter and the creature chirped contentedly to show his agreement.

      “Now, You don’t look like the kind of guy who eat salad”, said Georges. “What do you want to try?”

      Barney shook his head and launched into a series of chirps and squeals.

      “I know! Let’s try something you certainly can’t find where you come from… outer space. Jorid, make us some good pickles in a jar.”

      The replicator made a buzzing sound and a big jar full of pickles materialised on the silver tray. Barney chirped in awe and Georges frowned.

      “Why did you make a Roman jar?” he asked. “We’re in a 19th century pub. And the pickles are so huge! Aubergine size.”

      “My apologies,” said Jorid. “I’m confused. As you know, my database is a bit scrambled at the moment…”

      “It’s ok,” said Georges who feared the ship would launch into some unsolicited confidences and self deprecating moment. “A pickle is a pickle anyway.” He picked a pickle in the jar and turned towards Barney with a big grin. “Let’s try some.”

      Barney’s eyes widened. He put his hands in front of him and shook his head. The door swooshed open.

      “What have you done with the kitchen?” asked Léonard. “And what are you trying to feed this rat with?”

      “This rat has a name. It’s Barney. What are you doing here?” asked Georges.

      “Well, Isn’t it a kitchen? I’m hungry.”

      “I mean, shouldn’t you go check your vitals first in med bay?”

      “When you feel hungry, it’s enough to tell a man he’s alive and well,” said Léonard. “Nice roman jar, Jorid. Depicting naked roman fighters, archaeological finding of 2nd century BC, good state of conservation.” He looked closer. “Intricate details between the legs… You surpassed yourself on that one Jorid.”

      “Thanks for the compliment Léonard. It’s reassuring to know I’m still doing great at some things when others think I’m losing it.”

      “I never said…” started Georges.

      “You thought it.”

      Léonard took a pickle from the jar and smelled it. He winced.

      “Sure, smells like pickles enough,” he said, putting it back in the jar and licking his finger. “Disgusting.” He looked at Georges. “I was thinking of taking a shuttle and doing a little tour, while you solve the navigational array problem with Salomé.”

      “Why are you asking me? Why don’t you just take a shuttle and go there by yourself?”

      “Jorid won’t let me take one.”

      “Jorid? Why don’t you let Léonard take a shuttle?”

      Salomé said he’s not to be left out of the ship without supervision.”

      “Oh! Right,” said Georges. “We just rescued you from a sand prison egg where you’ve been kept in stasis for several weeks and you can’t remember anything that led you there. Why don’t we let you pilot a shuttle and wander about on your own?”

      Léonard looked at Georges, annoyed. He picked a pickle from the jar and took a bite. Barney squealed. As Léonard chewed and made crunching sounds, the creature hit its head with its paw.

      “Then why don’t you come with me?” asked Léonard.

      “I can’t believe it.”

      “What? You go with me. You can supervise me wherever I go. Problem solved.”

      “No. I mean. You eating one of Barney’s pickles.”

      Léonard took another bite and chewed noisily. Barney chirped and squealed. He put his hands to its throat and spat on the counter.

      “I’m sure he won’t mind. Look at him. Doesn’t seem it likes pickles that much.”

      You hate pickles, Léonard.”

      “I know. That’s disgusting.”

      “Why do you eat them if you find it disgusting?”

      “That’s the sound of it. It’s melodious. And for some reason those pickles are particularly good.”

      Barney jumped on Georges arm and ran to his neck where he planted his little claws in.

      “Ouch!” said Georges. He slapped Léonard’s hand before the man could take one more pickle bite. “What the f*ck?”

      “Hey! Why did you do that?”

      “It’s not me,” said Georges. Barney squealed and Georges’s hands pushed the jar on the floor. It crashed and a flood of pickle and vinegar juice spread on the floor.

      “Haven’t your mother told you not to play with food?” asked Léonard diving on the floor to catch some more pickles. Barney chirped and squealed while Georges’s body jumped on Léonard and they both rolled over in the pickles.

      The door swooshed open.

      “Guys, we need to…” started Salomé. She had a set of maps in her hands. “What’s that smell? What… did you do to the kitchen? ”

      Georges made me do it,” said Jorid.

      Georges broke a 2nd century BC jar,” said Léonard.

      “Barney’s controlling me,” said Georges.

      The creature shrugged and removed its claws from Georges’ neck.

      “Squeak!”

      “Ouch! Thank you,” said Georges, licking the pickle juice he got on his lips during the fight.

      “I can’t believe it. Georges, you had a checklist. And it did not include the words kitchen or pickles or making a mess. And Léonard, you hate pickles.”

      “I know,” said Léonard who took a bite in the pickle he was holding. “That’s disgusting, but I can’t help it they taste so good.”

      Georges stole the pickle from Léonard’s hand and took a bite.

      “Pick your own pickle,” said Léonard, stealing it back.

      “Stop guys! That smell… Jorid what did you put in those pickles?”

      “I took the liberty to change the recipe and added some cinnamon.”

      “It doesn’t smell like cinnamon,” said Georges smelling his hands full of pickle juice. He took a bite in one and said: “Doesn’t taste like cinnamon either. I would know. I hate cinnamon since the time I was turned into an Asari.”

      “That’s it,” said Salomé. “What kind of cinnamon did you put in the brew, Jorid?”

      “I’ve heard it’s best to use local ingredients. I put cinnamon from Langurdy,” said the ship.

      “Quick! Guys, spit it out,” she said, kneeling and putting her fingers into Georges’ throat to make him puke. “Jorid, make away with the pickles,” said Salomé.

      “Nooo,” said the men.

      “Cinnamon from Langurdy is very addictive,” Salomé snapped. “You don’t want to OD on pickles, do you?”

      After they got the mess cleaned up and the kitchen went back to its normal blank state. Georges and Léonard took some pills to counter the effects of withdrawal. Salomé had them sit at the kitchen table. Georges kept blinking as if the white light on the white walls were hurting his eyes.

      “You can thank Barney if you didn’t eat more pickles,” said Salomé. “You could have had a relapse, and you know how bad it was the first time you had to flush cinnamon from your body.”

      Georges groaned.

      “Anyway. I checked the maps with Jorid and I came upon an anomaly in the Southern Deserts. Something there is causing Jorid’s confusion. We’ll have to go down there if we ever want to leave this place and time.”

      #6737
      AvatarJib
      Participant

        I hear the greenhouse airlock open. I don’t look up and keep my focus on the alien sweat pea plant I have been working on. I’m trying to get it to bind itself to the carbon mesh I printed to help it spread instead of grow like a ball. My hands are precise and my movement efficient. I’ve been practicing everyday since I embarked on this ship some fourteen years ago. I don’t allow distraction when I’m in the greenhouse, and Georges was often one.

        He plants himself on my left.

        “I found the beast,” he says.

        “One moment. I’m almost done.”

        I have to be careful with the tendrils. An abrupt gesture would cause them to wind around my fingers and pierce my lab gloves with their myriad of teeth. As sharp and poisonous as black mamba teeth, I’d be dead in seconds.

        “Here, little thing. That’s good,” I say, encouraging the plant.

        After the first three tendrils find their bearing on the carbon mesh, the rest of the plant follows.

        “That’s gross,” Georges says. “I don’t know why you always pick the most dangerous ones.”

        I don’t answer and observe the plant wraps its tendrils around the carbon wires like it found a prey. I spent weeks trying to find the right combination of softness and tension for the alien plant to accept it.

        “I’m done,” I say.

        I look up and I see the creature in Georges’ hands.

        “Isn’t she cute?” Georges asks.

        “She? Should I worry next time you tell me I’m cute?”

        The creature’s cute, as much as a rodent with protruding eyes can be. It’s clearly neither from Earth, nor from Alienor. The eyes are looking straight at me and its muzzle wiggles as if getting some information through its sense of smell. It isn’t dangerous, since Georges is still alive. He’s the opposite of careful and after all those years together, I have to wonder how he’s still alive.

        #6549

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

        “Have you been drinking?” blurted out Yasmin. Immediately she regretted her careless question. Zara had  never  been one to worry overly about appearances and Yasmin, who worried overly about everything, admired her carefree attitude. But she’d been a little taken aback by her friend’s unkempt hair and the smell of stale alcohol on her breath.  “Sorry,” she mumbled. “I was just joking …obviously.”

        “What? You’ve just arrived and already you’re insulting me! Sheesh!”

        “Oh well, no doubt I’ll turn into a lush too after a few days in the outback!” Yasmin snort laughed nervously, hoping to smooth things over. “You look well! And I really appreciate you picking me up.”

        It seemed to do the trick as Zara relaxed and smiled.  “You should. I’ve gone out of my way.” She gestured to Yasmin’s bag. “Have you just got the one? Shall we get going? I’ve got so much to tell you.”

        #6545

        In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

        The road was stretching endlessly and monotonously, a straight line disappearing into a nothingness of dry landscapes that reminded Youssef of the Gobi desert where he had been driving not too long ago. At regular speed, the car barely seemed to progress.

        > O Time suspend thy flight!

        Eternity. Something only nature could procure him. He loved the feeling, and compared to the more usual sand of Gobi, the red sands of Australia gave him the impression he had shifted into another reality. That and the fifteen hours flight listening to Gladys made it difficult to respond to Xavier’s loquacious self and funny jokes. After some time, his friend stopped talking and tried catching some signal to play the Game, brandishing his phone in different directions as if he was hunting ghosts with a strange device.

        It reminded him he had to accept his next quest in a ghost town. That’s all he remembered. He could do that at the Inn, when they could rest in their rooms.

        Youssef wondered if the welcome sign at the entrance of the town had seen better days. The wood the fish was made of seemed eaten by termites, but someone had painted it with silver and blue to give it a fresher look. Youssef snorted at the shocked expression on his friend’s face.

        “It looked like it died of boredom. Let’s just hope the Innside doesn’t look like a gutted fish,” Xavier said.

        An old lady showed them their rooms. She didn’t seem the talkative type, which made Youssef love her immediately with her sharp tongue and red cardigan. He rather admired her braided silver hair as it reminded him of his mother who would let him brush her hair when they lived in Norway. It was in another reality. He smiled. She saw him looking at her and her eyes narrowed like a pair of arrowslits. She seemed ready to fire. Instead she kept on ranting about an idle person not doing her only job properly. They each went to their rooms, Xavier took number 7 and Youssef picked number 5, his lucky number.

        He was glad to be able to enjoy his own room after the trip of the last few weeks. It had been for work, so it was different. But usually he liked travelling the world on his own and meet people on his way and learn from their stories. Traveling with people always meant some compromise that would always frustrate him because he wanted to go faster, or explore more tricky paths.

        The room was nicely decorated, and the scent of fresh paint made it clear it was recent. A strange black stone, which Youssef recognized as a black obsidian, has been put on a pile of paper full of doodles, beside two notebooks and pencils. The notebooks’ pages were blank, he thought of giving them to Xavier. He took the stone. It was cold to the touch and his reflection on the surface looked back at him, all wavy. The doodles on the paper looked like a map and hard to read annotations. One stood out, though which looked like a wifi password. That made him think of the Game. He entered it on his phone and that was it. Maybe it was time to go back in. But he wanted to take a shower first.

        He put his backpack and his bag on the bed and unpacked it. Amongst a pile of dirty clothes, he managed to find a t-shirt that didn’t smell too bad and a pair of shorts. He would have to use the laundry service of the hotel.

        He had missed hot showers. Once refreshed, he moved his bags on the floor and jumped on his bed and launched the Game.

        Youssef finds himself in a small ghost town in what looks like the middle of the Australian outback. The town was once thriving but now only a few stragglers remain, living in old, decrepit buildings. He’s standing in the town square, surrounded by an old post office, a saloon, and a few other ramshackle buildings.

        A message appeared on the screen.

        Quest: Your task is to find the source of the magnetic pull that attracts talkative people to you. You must find the reason behind it and break the spell, so you can continue your journey in peace.

        Youssef started to move his avatar towards the saloon when someone knocked on the door.

        #6535
        EricEric
        Keymaster

          “What was that?” Salomé was trying to get her bearings after they hit the sand storm into a different place.

          Before the sand storm hit, they got chased by one of the Zathu army drone’s which they tried to shake off their tail, but that was only the beginning of the fun.
          Coming ominously from afar, a huge wall of sand came toward them at surprisingly massive speed darkening all in its wake. They were about to be hit and engulfed, but that was when all took a turn for the strangest. The dark sand wall suddenly split open, reacting to a sound beam apparently emitted from Klatu’s speedster. After that, it was mostly a blur. They had gone into a sort of shifting sand vortex that had them glide into a series of  sliding slopes with the oddest directional gravity pull she’d experienced. She had to shout a few times “Watch out” when some of the giant sand snapping turtles tried to gobble their ride, but somehow they seemed to have managed to reach their destination —and quite safely too.

          “Whooo!” Georges was elated at the adrenaline rush. “So that’s the trick our friend had up his sleeve, it seems?”

          “Silly human hasn’t seen anything yet” mumbled Klatu whose middle ear was tuned into their direction.

          “I’ve got sand in places one shouldn’t.” Georges said laughing, as if to make the air lighter.

          “Don’t get me started,” Salomé managed a weak smile. She never was fond of the speed thrills. But when she turned her head, that’s where she saw them —old ruins dripping sand like a streaming source. Down or sideways, she couldn’t tell. The gravitational pull seemed to indicate they were down, but herself, Georges, their pod and Klatu were all stuck on a vertical cliff like geckos comfortably lounging on a warm wall. Down, then it was…

          It took her a minute to realize Klatu was actually manipulating the sand and the gravitational configuration around, revealing the landscape that was hidden.

          “Mmmm, dimensional magic…” she remembered the words from Jorid.

          “Smelly friends of yours inside. Must go quicksy, Klatu can’t hold it long.”

          Georges opened his mouth, but Salomé elbowed him right away. “He doesn’t mean to pee, Georges.”

          #6520

          In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

          Rajkumar had named his car JUMPY because he said it reminded him of his mother country. He drove like they were in the chaotic streets of an Indian city. Youssef’s fist was clenched on the door handle, his knuckles white. He needed to hold on to something just as much as he was afraid of loosing the door.

          He had never been so happy as when Rajkumar stopped in front of his cousin’s shop and restaurant.

          “Just in time for the best butter chicken in all Alice Springs!” said Rajkumar, pointing to the restaurant on the left.

          Smells of greasy sauce, meat and spices floated in the air. Despite his legendary hunger, Youssef’s stomach started to protest from the recent treatment on the road. If he had had any doubt, he was sure now that he wouldn’t go on a trip in Jumpy with Rajkumar.

          “Maybe I’ll go for the scarf first,” he said.

          Rajkumar noded and pointed to the right, to a stout man squating in front of a pile of scarves.

          “This is cousin Ashish. You can’t find a better shop in town for scarves,” said Rajkumar. He high fived his cousin who looked like a giant in comparison with the short guide. They talked for a long time in what Youssef assumed to be some Indian dialect. At some point, his guide pointed a finger at him and said : “This big man is looking for a red scarf. I told him you had the best quality in town. Hand made, right from India. Ashish buys and sells the best to the best only. I have to go park the car and tell my other cousin to prepare you a meal. Best Indian food in Alice.”

          After he left, cousin Ashish showed Youssef in. At the entrance incense burned at the feet of a couple of colourful Hindu gods. The intoxicating smell reminded him of a stop at a temple during his last trip with the documentary team. The face of Miss Tartiflate jumped into his mind. He would have to take care of THE BLOG at some point, but for now, he was looking for a red scarf. The inside of the shop was as messy as a Mongolian bazaar. Clothes upon clothes, and piles of scarves everywhere.

          “Red scarves are over there, said Ashish. Follow me.”

          He was less talkative than his cousin, which was a welcome relief. He led Youssef to the back of the shop. On the wall, the portrait in black and white of an old Indian man was watching over their shoulder.

          Ashish took one long red scarf and put it around his neck.

          “You can touch, he said. Very good quality. Very light. Like you wear nothing.”

          Youssef took the end of the fabric in his hand. It felt very silky and light to the touch.

          “That’s perfect, I’ll take it”, he said.

          His phone buzzed in his pocket. He took it out and checked his messages.

          • 📨 [Quirk Land] NEW QUEST OPENED

          Looking at the time, it was already noon. Xavier must have landed in Alice already. He started to type a message to his friend :

          💬 Meet me for lunch at Todd Mall. Patel indian restaurant next to fabric shop

          #6504
          EricEric
          Keymaster

            Klatu was a quite unassuming alien form (alien for them anyway, he was actually more indigenous than they were). Looking like a green gnome with bulging eyes covered by protective goggles, long pointy ears (2 or 3 depending on the wind direction), a short three nostrils snout, an a mossy toupee on top of his head, he made quick work of the formalities and presentations.

            “Little ugly humans, come follow me. Have tracked your smelly hairy friend, not time to waste.”

            Salomé looked at Georges sideways with a smirk on his face. They could read their thoughts easily on that one, something along the lines of:

            “The translator is behaving again, or is he really calling us ugly?”

            “Don’t worry dear, that’s probably a polite way of addressing people in their language.”

            They arrived at a little sand speedster just barely big enough for their indigenous companion. Salomé raised an eyebrow at the situation, while Georges was ready to ride shotgun with the alien on the tiny bike.

            Klatu moved his arms in short annoyed movements, “not here, stupid mammals, go there and be quiet!” and pointed them to a makeshift trolley attached behind and half burried in the sand. He grinned from ear to ear to ear, visibly pleased with his vehicle tuning appendage.

            “Horrid creatures better wear seatbelts. Ride gonna shaky.”

            #6453

            In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

            Each group of people sharing the jeeps spent some time cleaning the jeeps from the sand, outside and inside. While cleaning the hood, Youssef noted that the storm had cleaned the eagles droppings. Soon, the young intern told them, avoiding their eyes, that the boss needed her to plan the shooting with the Lama. She said Kyle would take her place.

            “Phew, the yak I shared the yurt with yesterday smelled better,” he said to the guys when he arrived.

            Soon enough, Miss Tartiflate was going from jeep to jeep, her fiery hair half tied in a bun on top of her head, hurrying people to move faster as they needed to catch the shaman before he got away again. She carried her orange backpack at all time, as if she feared someone would steal its content. Rumour had it that it was THE NOTEBOOK where she wrote the blog entries in advance.

            “No need to waste more time! We’ll have breakfast at the Oasis!” she shouted as she walked toward Youssef’s jeep. When she spotted him, she left her right index finger as if she just remembered something and turned the other way.

            “Dunno what you did to her, but it seems Miss Yeti is avoiding you,” said Kyle with a wry smile.

            Youssef grunted. Yeti was the nickname given to Miss Tartiflate by one of her former lover during a trip to Himalaya. First an affectionate nickname based on her first name, Henrietty, it soon started to spread among the production team when the love affair turned sour. It sticked and became widespread in the milieu. Everybody knew, but nobody ever dared say it to her face.

            Youssef knew it wouldn’t last. He had heard that there was wifi at the oasis. He took a snack in his own backpack to quiet his stomach.

            It took them two hours to arrive as sand dunes had moved on the trail during the storm. Kyle had talked most of the time, boring them to death with detailed accounts of his life back in Boston. He didn’t seem to notice that nobody cared about his love rejection stories or his tips to talk to women.

            They parked outside the oasis among buses and vans. Kyle was following Youssef everywhere as if they were friends. Despite his unending flow of words, the guy managed to be funny.

            Miss Tartiflate seemed unusually nervous, pulling on a strand of her orange hair and pushing back her glasses up her nose every two minutes. She was bossing everyone around to take the cameras and the lighting gear to the market where the shaman was apparently performing a rain dance. She didn’t want to miss it. When everybody was ready, she came right to Youssef. When she pushed back her glasses on her nose, he noticed her fingers were the colour of her hair. Her mouth was twitching nervously. She told him to find the wifi and restore THE BLOG or he could find another job.

            “Phew! said Kyle. I don’t want to be near you when that happens.” He waved and left and joined the rest of the team.

            Youssef smiled, happy to be alone at last, he took his backpack containing his laptop and his phone and followed everyone to the market in the luscious oasis.

            At the center, near the lake, a crowd of tourists was gathered around a man wearing a colorful attire. Half his teeth and one eye were missing. The one that was left rolled furiously in his socket at the sound of a drum. He danced and jumped around like a monkey, and each of his movements were punctuated by the bells attached to the hem of his costume.

            Youssef was glad he was not part of the shooting team, they looked miserable as they assembled the gears under a deluge of orders. As he walked toward the market, the scents of spicy food made his stomach growled. The vendors were looking at the crowd and exchanging comments and laughs. They were certainly waiting for the performance to end and the tourists to flood the place in search of trinkets and spices. Youssef spotted a food stall tucked away on the edge. It seemed too shabby to interest anyone, which was perfect for him.

            The taciturn vendor, who looked caucasian, wore a yellow jacket and a bonnet oddly reminiscent of a llama’s scalp and ears. The dish he was preparing made Youssef drool.

            “What’s that?” he asked.

            “This is Lorgh Drülp, said the vendor. Ancient recipe from the silk road. Very rare. Very tasty.”

            He smiled when Youssef ordered a full plate with a side of tsampa. He told him to sit and wait on a stool beside an old and wobbly table.

            #6390
            EricEric
            Keymaster

              Trying to get some interesting unlikely, absurd associations or quests… Still some way to go!

              2 impossible associations

              1. The creation of a time machine using only household objects such as a toaster and a stapler.
              2. The discovery of a parallel universe accessible through a secret passageway hidden in a public park’s playground equipment.

              give an association of 3 or 4 words with each words being statistically probable to occur in every day conversation but with statistical probability of occurring together of less than 10^-57.

                1. “Giant robotic giraffe farming”
                2. “Vintage cars restoration using only expired food”
                3. “Archaeological board game design with only smells”
                4. “Artificial intelligence calligraphic body language assisted therapy”

              All the words in these associations are commonly used in everyday conversation, but the associations themselves are relatively unexpected, absurd, and may surprise people. They are all grounded in everyday happenstances but are less modern tech-oriented and the concepts they describe are related to diverse interests that may not be related to technology trend and are quite unexpected and bizarre..

              #6388

              In reply to: Orbs of Madjourneys

              Youssef came out of the Internet Cafe Yurt quite satisfied of himself but confused. It was already night time here and he felt hungry like a bear looking for honey. He smelled the scents of yak’s meat and followed the trail to the resto’yurt of the camp the production had settled in for the night. They were on a trip to make a documentary about the last surviving authentic shaman of Mongolia. They’d heard he was still alive and 125 years old. Of course, he was difficult to find and they’ve been looking for him for weeks.

              Fortunately, they had good reception for him to stay in contact with his friends and play the new game with that AI generated storyline stuff. Youssef liked his character with the bear shirt, but he wouldn’t tell his friends that he hadn’t  quite understood the concept of the game or of the quest. He was the kind of guy who liked having some explanations first and follow clear rules, have a little guidance. He smiled and performed two steps of breakdance, recalling one of Xavier’s joke about a little “guy dance”. His stomach growled as he approached the resto’yurt and the scent of food became stronger. The sounds of cheerful conversations in different languages welcomed him as he entered.

              He’ll have plenty of time to think of the game in front a spicy smorlax fried and a bowl of sweet tsampa for dessert. He noticed an empty seat just near Rebbecca, a young intern that took care of Mme Landowski’s schedule. She was smiling and Youssef thought they could continue the conversation they started this morning about the type of guys she liked.

               

              #6319

              In reply to: The Sexy Wooden Leg

              “Calm yourself, Egbert, and sit down. And be quiet! I can barely hear myself think with your frantic gibbering and flailing around,” Olga said, closing her eyes.  “I need to think.”

              Egbert clutched the eiderdown on either side of his bony trembling knees and clamped his remaining teeth together, drawing ragged whistling breaths in an attempt to calm himself.  Olga was right, he needed to calm down. Besides the unfortunate effects of the letter on his habitual tremor, he felt sure his blood pressure had risen alarmingly.  He dared not become so ill that he needed medical assistance, not with the state of the hospitals these days. He’d be lucky to survive the plague ridden wards.

              What had become of him! He imagined his younger self looking on with horror, appalled at his feeble body and shattered mind.  Imagine becoming so desperate that he wanted to fight to stay in this godforsaken dump, what had become of him! If only he knew of somewhere else to go, somewhere safe and pleasant, somewhere that smelled sweetly of meadows and honesuckle and freshly baked cherry pies, with the snorting of pigs in the yard…

              But wait, that was Olga snoring. Useless old bag had fallen asleep! For the first time since Viktor had died he felt close to tears. What a sad sorry pathetic old man he’d become, desperately counting on a old woman to save him.

              “Stop sniveling, Egbert, and go and pack a bag.” Olga had woken up from her momentary but illuminating lapse.    “Don’t bring too much, we may have much walking to do. I hear the buses and trains are in a shambles and full of refugees. We don’t want to get herded up with them.”

              Astonished, Egbert asked where they were going.

              “To see Rosa. My cousins father in laws neice. Don’t look at me like that, immediate family are seldom the ones who help.  The distant ones are another matter.  And be honest Egbert,” Olga said with a piercing look, “Do we really want to stay here? You may think you do, but it’s the fear of change, that’s all. Change feels like too much bother, doesn’t it?”

              Egbert nodded sadly, his eyes fixed on the stain on the grey carpet.

              Olga leaned forward and took his hand gently. “Egbert, look at me.” He raised his head and looked into her eyes. He’d never seen a sparkle in her faded blue eyes before.  “I still have another adventure in me. How about you?”

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