A series played using Songs of the City. This post is published under the CC-BY-SA-4.0 licence.
THE WITCH
Name: Sasha Wolfe
Pronouns: They / Them
Aesthetic: Cottagecore
Transport: Public transport and walking
Home: Studio flat in a converted warehouse
THE CITY
Name: Requiem Hold
Description: Historic walled city that has grown with successive migrations. Architecturally it is a classical stonework foundation with steel and glass above towering it. Culturally it is a mixture of traditions and peoples sharing and innovating practices, technologies, and festivals.
Fear: That the overly conservative local government will cause the city to break apart into factions and lose its pluralistic coherency.
Hope: That small acts of community will help to strengthen the bonds of community and promote wider civic participation.
Time: The middle of a cold, wet autumn following a long, hot summer.
Sunday
I woke up late, pulled my favourite cable knit cardigan around me, and crossed the bare floorboards to the stove. I cleaned my glasses and scraped my mousy hair into a messy bun while waiting for the kettle whistle. A knock at the door startled me from my reverie, but the door slid open before I could answer it as Endel swept into my studio. His loose shirt billowed as he threw himself onto my still-unmade bed. He sighed dramatically, and I took down a pair of enamelled mugs for coffee. We both knew the moves of this dance; I quietly made two mugs of strong, black coffee, then crossed the room and offered one to my guest. Meanwhile, Endel sighed, rolled, idly kicked his bare legs, and presented an air of disconsolate malaise.
He took the proffered mug, and for a moment, we sat and blew on the surface of our coffee, taking cautious - immediately regretted - sips. After a few minutes, I reached out to smooth his tousled hair. Endel made a face and tutted as he leaned his head towards my hand. When the mess created by his entrance had been at least partially resolved, I asked him what the matter was. Even with the calming effects of the lounging and attention, he was still Endel, which is to say, a force of nature in human form. He rapidly brought me up to speed on the latest news in the building - the management company had posted a letter in the entrance hall announcing their plans to demolish the building. We apparently had until the end of the month to find new accommodation.
I sighed and considered the situation. We'd need to scout new places to live, ideally within walking distance, as hauling our possessions on public transport would be rough, and then hope that we find somewhere large enough to accommodate us all while also being affordable. I sighed again and shepherded Endel with instructions to round up the other tenants and bring them to the foyer at noon for a ritual. Endel practically squealed with excitement. He always loved participating in rituals and fondly referred to me as his "court magician" - much to my mock chagrin. After a quick shower, I gathered some candles and chalk and headed to the foyer to prepare.
By the time I'd discretely drawn marks around them, a small group of residents had gathered and was huddled on the stairs; apparently, I wasn't the only late riser today. I cleared my throat and thanked them for coming, explaining the news of the move to those who hadn't heard it. When the clamour quietened, I told them the story of how I'd moved here; the search for a new home, the elation of finding an affordable place, the struggle of bringing my possessions across the city, and then the warmth of meeting people and settling into my new home. I lit the first candle and invited others to tell their stories.
Over the next hour, we shared stories and lit candles, reminding ourselves of what we had achieved here and how it had affected us. Eventually, we were sitting among a host of lights; candles perched on windowsills, spread across the floor, snaking up the stairs. We didn't know where we end up, or even how many of us would still be together after the move, but we knew where we had come from and what we'd achieved here.