Pixie Prick by Winnie Winkle

Author:Winnie Winkle
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9798985961003
Publisher: Winnie Winkle

“Keeper, are you hungry?” Marjorie’s face peeked around the doorway, and I jumped, my thought train careening toward the ‘Bridge Out’ sign.

Self care.

“Is a sandwich and tea possible? I don’t want to put anyone out.”

A turkey on marble rye, adorned with bacon and avocado, appeared on a plate edged with colorful butterflies and a hot teakettle landed beside it.

“Oh, thank you. That looks and smells amazing.”

“Eat up, Keeper. We’re counting on you.”

Huh? Witches are powerful. What within our dynamic changed?

Sandwich in hand, I opened the journal to a blank page and let my thoughts wander as I chewed, swallowed, and took another bite. Think, Patra. The noise, violence, and grief is masking the problem’s heart. What lies at the center, the true issue?

I wiped my hands on a napkin, lifted the plume, dipped, and blotted.

The pixies attack the mind. Why?

The page remained blank, and I sat, letting breath and my observation of it fill my head until the edges smoothed and a sense of serenity covered me. I placed the quill’s tip and drew connecting symbols in the Vapors’ language.

Fear, love, loss.

Words rose below my sketches.

Grief is a two-edged weapon.

“It cuts us while we use its energy against others? Aegeus followed her pain, intentional. This is Reg’s plan, and while insidious, it works.”

I brushed my nose with the feather’s tip, lost in whirling thought, then drew four symbols.

Humility, acceptance, solidarity, singularity.

I connected them, hoping the Vapors understood. Communication in this manner was a soul-baring experience. When parsing the emotions that underlie human existence, ones drummed from us in an intentional muting since birth, it’s a mental minefield. We aren’t accustomed to following our hearts, centuries of art, music, and literature aside.

Rebirth won’t occur without releasing the old.

Shit. Pride, frustration, and the litany of each family—the celebration of their ancestral line—stands in the way of humans turning from known systems. Magicals too. Times billions of souls?

“I’m sorry, it’s too big for me. I can’t.”

Tears slid, and I reached to lay the plume next to the book, defeated.

We embed peace in every heart.

Wait, what? I paused, craving understanding, and gripped the feather, dipping and blotting, eyes unseeing. The tip scritched.

Are you claiming Vapors reside within humanity?

No.

As the reality landed, I shook, hands quivering as the quill skittered on the page, leaving a huge blot.

Are you saying the Vapors dwell in every life? Human and magical?

Any sentient being carries peace within their body, for peace lives inside the soul.

“Help me understand. How do I tap into the peace embedded in each life?”

Embody peace and harmony grows. Fight peace and it remains, for it can never be vanquished. Peace and the spirit move as one.

How long I sat, mind on fire, wasn’t important. I shook out of the… dream? No, bigger. An epiphany with a fat side of gobsmacked stupefaction. Times ten. I rubbed my wet face, staring at the splatted tears covering the blotchy journal’s pages, each blot forming a tiny picture of events. The pictures moved, whirling until they became a ring of ink.

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