Hex and the City 3: Monday

 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.

Monday

I'd been looking a a place to stay in Sympas, nothing special, just a converted storefront that combined a workshop with a small living space, but it had potential for starting my own reading space. I'd dashed from the shop back to the monorail station just in time to board the magnolia line with the tail end of the commuters. I squeezed into a seat near the rear of the last carriage and opened my notebook to begin scribbling down my impressions of the space and my plans for it. I was deep in my thoughts and lost track of the number of stops we'd taken, only rising from my reverie when we reached Reflecia and the harried student boarded the monorail.

Reflecia is the moon to Midtown Neon's sun with the narrow canal dividing them almost imperceptibly, most of its course hidden behind buildings or buried beneath wide bridges. Whereas Midtown Neon is the cultural hub of the city, or at least this side of it, Reflecia is the bohemian suburb where the artists retire and start families. Its proximity to its counterpart had seemingly protected it from gentrification so far, but I wondered how long that would continue. Artists friends of mine were increasingly commuting in from further and further afield, making homes for themselves in the crack of the increasingly affluent city.

At first glance the student was perhaps the child of an older generation of creatives, ones who'd been able to afford to live in Reflecia. Their style was a mixture of current trends and vintage pieces, both would be beyond the means of most artists I knew. They bustled aboard the monorail and threw themselves into the last remaining free seat, one directly in front of me. As they struggled within their voluminous, oversized coat one hand delicately unwrapped their scarf while the other held a mobile phone to their ear. I generally tried not to listen in to the phonecalls of others in public, no matter how loudly they shared them with their fellow commuters. Today, I was tired and allowed myself a lapse, letting the student's conversation wash over me.

They spoke wearily of the challenges they were facing; cost of living increases, tuition fees to be paid, and expensive equipment to buy. I gathered they were studying at the university, probably the Fortune Park campus where the bakery school was located. Endel always spoke highly of it, or rather of the pastries the campus bakery sold. I thought about how much joy we take in the small indulgences the city provides us, we don't always have much spare cash so the discounted, student made desserts were something we looked forward to. I pulled my scarf loose and began to twirl it through my fingers as I listened and thought about croissants.

My mind drifted to thoughts of the Moirai and their threads of fate. In my minds eye I almost caught a glimpse of the golden strands of light that they weave about us. Perhaps those threads are within reach, perhaps we can even nudge them a little, in the aid of making things a little better for everyone. Or everyone who likes pastries at least. The scarf flowed back and forth, it twisted and thrummed with each pass, the momentum of destiny building. I pulled the scarf tight in a sharp motion and the golden strand extending from the student snapped taught. I marvelled for a moment, seeing such things never fails to amaze me. I tentatively reached out and brushed the thread with my fingertips, hearing a cosmic harmony resonate.

We pulled in to Midtown Neon and the student started gathering up their belongings. It wasn't all that surprising that less time had passed than it felt like. I was used to time slipping and jumping when the higher arts were in play. I sent the rest of the journey to Gaffcairn in silence.

Hex and the City 2: Sunday

 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.

Hex and the City 1: Saturday

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.

Saturday

I jumped on the azure line at Gaffcairn and rode the monorail into the north of the city. It was early, before the height of the rush hour traffic. In an hour or so these carriages would be packed full of office workers on their way to Diamond Waterside and their workplaces in the shining chasm carved by the river. Now it was me and a dozen or so cleaners, labourers, and other service workers on the way to work in preparation for the office workers' arrival. As the monorail wove its way up and around the towers of the administrative centre, I watched the brutalist concrete of Auburn Terrace give way to the wrought iron and polished glass of Nova Park.

As we slid into the station I rose to disembark. Several cleaners joined me and together we made the long walk along the concourse to the exit. Nova Park acts as a hub for a cluster of corporate enclaves but the extensive, manicured park itself is a civic landmark. While the workers made their way through, I gathered my woollen coat and scarf about me as the chill breeze shifted in my direction. A sycamore tree rustled and unleashed a flock of its seeds that spun towards me like a cloud. I reached out a hand into the cloud and felt it flow around me, until a single seed danced its way between my fingers. I felt the papery wing and its delicate structure. The thickness of the seedpod foretold the potential tree it contained.

Holding the seed tight in my hand I perched on the edge of a low wall that ran alongside the path. The grey clouds above me threatened rain but for now their threats were hollow. In time the station disgorged the first wave of suits, a grey tide bustled past and I listened to their steady chatter as I twirled the seed in my hand.  I concentrated on these commuters, their work, and the role they played in providing the goods and services that fuel Requiem Hold. I reflected on the need for compassion over purely focusing on profits. I took that hope, that spark of light, and imbued it into the seed.

After the wave had passed, I planted the newly-enchanted seed in the soil of Nova Park and made my way home.