It is with great sadness I interrupt my five week streak of posts related to video games by providing a segment of the short story I completed just before the end of 2025. While I have finished another video game (Stellar Blade), I have not the capacity to write up a scathing impression of it as yet (given I’ve fallen ill and I did not want to inundate you, my dear reader, with yet more chatter of video games). Still, there is much to be said of it – much of it relevant to our current climes.

Speaking of which, at time of writing, it is but the middle of January and yet so much has already happened in 2026. Not much of it good. Yet the world turns and every day fades into the next.

There are times where I feel so powerless. I have neither wealth nor a huge platform to decry the heinous acts being committed. Worst of all, I have no private military do I command to cleanse the world anew. Or, perhaps, a little black notebook to insert names I find egregious in their abuse of power.

So I sit and contemplate the legacy of humanity and whether it has all been for naught.

But my blog, of course, is not meant to be a philosophical dissection of the human condition. Rather, it’s a place I like to think I’ve carved out in the internet to showcase the things I enjoy (and perhaps bring a modicum of joy to the lucky person who stumbles upon it – be it on Tumblr or on WordPress). So, without further ado, a snippet of my recent short story (which has already been published on Fictionpress and Wattpad) to keep you amused during these troubling times:

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New Orleans. French Quarter. Bourbon Street.

In the light of day, the creole townhouses, with their steeply pitched roofs and stucco exterior, were a sight to behold. To my left they served as a front to various shops targeted for tourists. I’d already picked up a fleur-de-lis magnet as a commemorative souvenir.

On my right were a number of restaurants and bars. Already, some were beginning to open, offering curious onlookers a place to try the latest libations or to have their first taste of a Cajun delicacy. The thought, however, reminded me of how I’d spent most of the night before perched over a porcelain throne. My boyfriend had peered through the crack between the door and the wall with open concern. A first for Mike. Given his usual nonchalant attitude to most things in life.

Rude, I know. But having been with him for as long as I have, I feel like I have the right.

Still, how to best describe Mike?

The two of us had met in college during a chance encounter at a frat party hosted by his friend, Sammy. I’d wanted to push the boundaries of my comfort zone. But more than that, the thought of staying in my dormitory with a less than attentive roommate addicted to video games hadn’t appealed much to my sensibilities.

This was, after all, my chance to be more than the studious nerd I’d been in middle and high school. Of putting myself out there.

Mike, the life of the party, immediately caught my eye. And he, being the confident extrovert he was, had decided it was his duty ease me into life on campus. Things spiralled from the first red solo cup I had. Before I knew it, the two of us were making out on a bed.

The rest, as they say, was history.

 Seven years on and we were in the birthplace of jazz. It had been Mike’s idea to come visit New Orleans for Mardi Gras. Having never been, but also wishing to indulge my curiosity, I’d readily agreed. After all, there was just so much culture in one small southern state.

And if anyone were to say otherwise, they’d be lying.

Yes, it’s true. The two of us did struggle a little with making our relationship work. We were from two completely different worlds. He was a student of the hedonistic arts, after all. Whereas I, on the other hand, was a student of history. Somehow, though, we managed to find common ground. Namely in the appreciation of nude Grecian statues.

“Jordan! There you are! Should have known you’d end up people watching again.” Mike’s loud voice rang out across the quiet, pulling me out of my reverie. I lowered my disposable Starbucks cup of coffee and offered him a strained smile.

“Mike.”

“Listen, I know it wasn’t the best look to head out before you were even awake but there’s something I’ve always wanted to do. And last night, something came up on my Insta feed. So, of course, I DM’d the organiser. Next thing I know, I was in an empty parking lot at five in the morning.”

I squeezed the sides of my temple. “Was it drugs?”

“What? No,” exclaimed Mike. “Why would you think that? Actually, never mind. Don’t answer that.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder and pulled something from the back pocket of his designer black jeans, flashing me what looked to be a woefully crumpled handcrafted invitation. “Look. We’ve now got a bonafide ticket for an actual séance! With ghosts and maybe a Ouija board thrown in.”

“You can’t be serious, Mike.”

“Oh, come on, Jordan. Are you telling me you’ve never once sat around with a few friends and tried out a Ouija board?”

I stared Mike dead in the eye. Something not too difficult to do given there was only an inch or two difference between us.

Michael Davis Hillier was a tall wiry man with a mop of unruly dark brown hair that somehow looked styled even though it wasn’t. A loose strand trailed down towards his jawline, accentuating his sun-kissed south European skin. He was wearing a fitted rainbow button-down shirt and a blue scarf thrown stylishly over one shoulder.

Mike, as always, oozed confidence.

In contrast, I had a more solid build than my boyfriend and was developing something of a stomach. Much to my chagrin. My style, to Mike’s displeasure, veered more towards comfort. I was wearing an open red plait shirt with a white tee beneath, denim shorts and a pair of loafers. My shoulder length hair was tightly braided and pulled back with a tie.

“Do I look like a teenage girl in a horror movie? I’m not fucking out of my mind. You don’t mess with that shit,” I said. “It’s bad juju.”

Mike let out a laugh, clapping a hand on my shoulder to steady himself. “Oh, come on. You’re not saying the rising star of the anthropology department believes in superstitions, do you?” When I did not respond, he pressed on. “Fine. I’ll make you a deal. If anything bad happens, we can go to the cathedral in Jackson Square. Maybe find a priest who can pray the bad juju away. How’s that sound? I mean, it’s not like it helped with the gay, but it might work this time round.”

“I hate you.”

“No,” said Mike, leaning in close. “You hate that you love me.”

I hummed under my breath, allowing myself to be pulled in. “Maybe.”

A grin broke across Mike’s lips. He closed the space between us and kissed me. Slow and deep. I couldn’t help but kiss him back with the same amount of verve, lost in the sensation.

Despite all the fights, Mike and I always came back to each other.

He pulled away first. “So, 9 PM? I’ll text you the details later,” he said, breath ghosting over my own.

“Do I really have to?”

“It’ll be fine, Jordan,” said Mike. “Why not, you know, just live a little. For me? Please?”

I looked up into his stormy grey eyes that changed to suit the weather. They were such a contrast to my own dark brown ones.

“Fine,” I conceded. “But only because you were polite. And also because I want to feel morally superior when, after everything is said and done, absolutely nothing happens and you get proven wrong for the umpteenth time. Like, come on, Mike. A séance? Ghosts? When do we think we’re living in? The late 1800s?”

“Funny you should mention that. One of your favourite authors was an ardent supporter of everything mystical. Including fairies.”

“You’re lying. Who?”

Mike danced away from me. It was only then I realised he’d taken my disposable Starbucks cup and finishing off the last dredges of my coffee. He made a show of it. Because, of course, he did.

“That’s my little secret.” He turned to leave, vanishing into the ever-growing crowds on Bourbon Street before I had the chance to chase after him. The last I saw of Mike were the flash of his fingers as he cheekily saluted his goodbye.

No doubt he was already trying to figure out how to hit the most bars before the event tonight. The real question was whether or not he’d have sobered up enough before the séance.

A thought I shoved to the back of my mind. It wasn’t my responsibility to keep one eye on him. I had my own plans. None of which included playing nursemaid to an irresponsible manchild. With a heavy sigh, I decamped from my quiet spot at the corner of a hotel and headed further down towards the Mississippi river.

My walking tour was scheduled to start in thirty minutes.

~

It was five minutes to nine when I arrived outside the intimidating colonial style house painted all in white. I double-checked the address Mike had sent me after I’d reminded him thirteen minutes after seven I still didn’t know where I was meant to go for the séance.

The house sat on the outskirts of the French Quarter, facing the river. Simple ionic columns adorned the front porch, framing the door painted a dark blue. Panelled windows, their shutters open, stared over a neatly trimmed symmetrical front yard with its waist high hedges. Two stone benches sat underneath.

The British colonial style was a symbol of a time long past where my ancestors were slaves working plantations. Much had changed since then but the chains of oppression could still be felt even in the present day. Prejudices, in spite of the distance, still had a way of hanging around. Perhaps that was the reason why I climbed the stairs with trepidation before knocking on the door.

A young girl, dressed in a white shirt, black vest and tie, opened the thick oak on my third knock. She held a clipboard in one hand. “Are you here to attend Madam Xanthe’s Miraculous Spectacle?” she asked, her voice heavy with scepticism as she eyed me up and down.

“Yes. Should be under Jordan. If not, it might be under Michael Hillier.”

The girl consulted her clipboard, her finger trailing down until it landed near the bottom. She pursed her lips. “Yes. I see it now.” She stepped to the side. “The others are waiting in the foyer. Madam Xanthe’s Miraculous Spectacle will begin within the next twenty minutes.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Oh, and before I let you go, can you tell me if Mike has arrived yet?”

Instead of answering, the girl stared up at me balefully. It was clear she wasn’t keen to be here. She motioned once more for me to enter.

The body language was clear.

“Guess not,” I muttered under my breath as I stepped through the threshold and past the girl.

God. What had Mike got us mixed in this time?

Inside the tastefully decorated foyer, with its checkerboard marble flooring sat two people. One was an older gentleman dressed in a tan three-piece suit. His salt-and-pepper hair carefully pushed back in an artfully messy style. Leaning over the low coffee table, he was shuffling a deck of cards. Occasionally, he would pull one out, stare at it with a frown before returning it to the pack before repeating the procedure once more.

Closer to the entrance, ensconced in an armchair, was a younger woman who appeared to be in her early 40s. She was dressed conservatively in a long skirt and a blouse with a large round frill buttoned all the way to the top. Her hair was a shock of white though a streak of dirty blonde snaked through. It was an odd choice but who was I to judge?

A large bag sat next to her where a thread of purple yarn led up to whatever knitting project she had in her hands. From my angle near the door, it looked to be a scarf of some sort. Or maybe it was a blanket. It certainly had the width for it.

She looked up as I approached, setting her knitting to one side. “You’re not a familiar face.” The strong Scottish brogue took me by surprise.

“Jordan,” I said, stretching out a hand.

“Patrice,” she answered, giving my hand a shake. “No offence, but you don’t look the type.”

I cocked my head to the side, puzzled. “The type to what?”

Patrice gestured to the foyer. “All this. Psychics and mediums. Too much of a head on your shoulders, you.”

“And you’d be right,” I answered with a heavy sigh as I took the armchair opposite her. “All this was my boyfriend’s idea. He’s always been more interested in these kinds of things. I’d have preferred staying in a hotel room watching a documentary.”

“Maybe he wants you to experience more of the world beyond the ivory tower.”

“Maybe. But—”

I was pulled up short by the entrance of Mike. He had changed into a flamboyant glittering silver shirt that revealed his smooth chest. Skintight slacks replaced his jeans. The dress shoes, he kept, though they’d been recently polished.

Mike scanned the foyer, lavishing in the attention as all heads turned to face him, before his gaze settled on me. “Jordan! There you are! Was afraid you’d have tried to escape or called in sick last minute.” He came up to me and enveloped me in a warm embrace. The stench of alcohol was heavy despite the cologne he’d sprayed.

I forced a smile to my lips. “Wouldn’t want to miss this for the world.”

“Before you tell me off again, I want you to know that Madam Xanthe is the real deal. No parlour tricks here.”

“You’re very confident,” I said. “How can you be so sure?”

Before Mike could answer, the elderly gentleman cut in. “Stories from previous clients. Reviews. Even live footage.” He turned to Mike. “It’s…Hillier, correct? It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. I’m Copernicus.”

Surprise, recognition and then awe flashed across Mike’s face. He took Copernicus’ hand. “Hillier is my father. You can call me Mike. The pleasure, though, is all mine. I know we spoke of attending a séance together but I didn’t think you’d be here. Foolish, of me. Of course you’d attend in person. A chance to see across the veil? This is what we’ve dreamt about for years.”

“It is indeed. Though, had you not brought Madam Xanthe to my attention, we would not be meeting here like this.”

“And are you the client? The one seeking to commune with—”

Copernicus shook his head. “No. It seems our main guest of honour has yet to arrive.”

I watched the two of them banter, feeling out of my depth. It was like the two of them were speaking another language as they descended into conversation about something the two of them were both enraptured by.

In fact, I’d never seen Mike look so animated before. There was a feverish glint in his eye and a wide smile on his lips.

“—and this is my partner, Jordan.”

I blinked owlishly at the gloved hand proffered in my direction. “Hillier—no. Mike. He spoke of you often in our discussions,” said Copernicus. He nodded towards Mike. “You’re lucky to be with such an enterprising individual in the field of mediums and spirituality.”

Was it me or did Mike actually blush? I’d never seen him preen under someone else’s praise before. The sight made my stomach churn with something ugly I refused to acknowledge. He had never once looked at me like he did Copernicus.

With effort, I forced myself to smile as I shook the older gentleman’s hand.

“Copernicus, here, is one of the leading specialists in all things supernatural,” said Mike. “The two of us met in an online forum.”

I nodded my head. “And, um, is Copernicus your real name?”

“Well, he’s no Renaissance scholar,” admitted Mike. “Let’s just say ‘Copernicus’ is,” he snapped his fingers, trying to jog his thoughts, “an alias.”

“I see.” Silence rushed in to fill the gap. “And what’s yours? The penname you use, that is.”

Mike grinned at me in the way I knew meant trouble. “Doyle. But in the end, it was easier to use my real name.”

Of course.

He could never resist yet another dig at my expense. The very fact he chose Doyle was a means at getting back at me for whatever slight he thought I’d caused him.

“Oh, how delightful,” piped up Patrice. “Are we all part of the Peering into the Supernatural forum?  I did think you looked awfully familiar, Doyle. Or do you prefer Mike?”

“It doesn’t really matter. Mike’s probably easier,” he replied. Then, almost as if it was an afterthought, he added, “Well, if you’re familiar with us then you have to be Boudicca. Although, I must say, you look a lot younger than the display picture you used.”

Patrice seemed delighted by the compliment. “It’s the make-up, sweetie. Takes off thirty years if you know how to apply it.”

“You don’t say?”

Before the two could continue, the girl who had greeted me at the door, stepped through. She did not look up from her clipboard. “Madam Xanthe’s Miraculous Spectacle is about to begin. Please follow me.” Without checking to see if we would obey her imperious command, the girl turned on her heel and marched through the door.

After exchanging a glance with all those in attendance, we scrambled after her; the sound of her heels on the marble floor the only indicator we were heading in the right direction.

The room she led us to was a dimly lit fire hazard. Hundreds upon hundreds of candles were strewn haphazardly in the small claustrophobic chamber. Some were held aloft in tall golden candelabras. Others had been placed in strategic positions around the room. All were different stages of their life. The dripping wax a sight to behold in and of itself.

But what upset me even more were how the room was decorated. The upholstery of the room could only be described as 1920s chic with its lavish and extravagant style. Heavy drapes covered the windows, blocking out even the electric light in the street outside. Ancient relics, kept safe in class cases, were tucked neatly to the side underneath various portraits of people long dead.

In the middle of the room sat a round table. Affixed to the centre was a Ouija board. Next to it was a crystal ball and a set of tarot cards in a nine-card spread. None of which had yet been flipped over.

Framed between two sticks of incense sat a dowdy woman wearing a dress my mother would have turned into curtains at the first chance. She had paired it with a gaudy gold belt around her waist. Her long curly brown hair was held back by a bejewelled head scarf.

Seated opposite her was a mousy woman dressed in a grey pencil skirt and a neat white blouse. She looked up as we entered. Her eyes narrowed. “I thought this was supposed to be a private session.”

“Crossing the veil is no easy feat. Assistance is always needed.”

The woman stood up. “I came to you in confidence. Not to be the butt of an elaborate prank.” She made towards the entrance foyer.

Madam Xanthe waved at the chair. “Adelaide—”

“It’s Adeline.”

“My apologies,” said Madam Xanthe. She gestured once more to the chair. “Adeline, please. Sit. I know the recent loss of your father has left you raw and that you seek answers. This séance, powered by those present, is your best hope.”

The words gave the woman – Adeline – pause. She worried the bottom lip with her teeth before letting out a breath and returning to her chair. “Fine.”

“Excellent.” The smile on Madam Xanthe’s face did not reach her eyes. She turned her attention to the girl. “Magdalene. Fetch the purified salt. I shall begin with the protection circles.”

Magdalene nodded, a less than enthusiastic expression on her face and vanished around the corner.

With her out of the room, Madam Xanthe motioned to the rest of us to sit down. After exchanging a glance with Mike, I took a seat to his left. Patrice plonked her knitting project next to the chair beside mine before bending over to talk to Adeline.

“It may not be my place to say this but time heals all wounds. You’ll get through this.”

Adeline offered the Scottish woman a wan smile but said nothing in return. She crossed her arms and turned to Madam Xanthe, as if waiting for the show to begin.

 Like the fraud she was, Madam Xanthe made a show of her preparations. She muttered under her breath as she cast the purified salt in a circle, making sure to keep us all sequestered. Then she gazed into the crystal ball on her desk, humming in assent, seemingly pleased by what she saw.

If I were to be honest, she was sloppier than I expected.

But there was little I could do. After all, I’d made a promise to Mike. And true to my word, I was to see it through. Despite my misgivings.

Once everything was ready, Madam Xanthe instructed us all to hold each other’s hands. Mike’s hand was warm and clammy. A surefire sign he was nervous. In contrast, Patrice was dry as a bone. When I managed to crane my head over to take a peek at her, she seemed to be vibrating with excitement.

At least one of us was having fun.

“The spirits are capricious,” said Madam Xanthe, drawing our attention back to her. “They can be malevolent or helpful. Tonight, we reach across the veil and beseech their aid to call upon the ghost of Gerald William Faversham.”

“Is there anything we need to keep in mind?” asked Mike.

“Yes. Please keep hold of the hands of your neighbours as we begin the chant. And carefully enunciate as you repeat after me. It is imperative you say the words exactly as I do or else it won’t work.”

Copernicus raised a white eyebrow. “Who knew the spirits would be so exacting.”

“They aren’t,” answered Madam Xanthe with a tight smile. “I do all this to increase our chances of a positive outcome. You will appreciate that mediumship is not…a science. Nor is it replicable. What might work in one situation might not in another.”

“How terribly frustrating.”

Madam Xanthe inclined her head towards Patrice. “Still, I’ve come to find certain things help. And in this instance, I hope to use my ability to ease Adeline of the pain she carries within.” She looked around at each of us around the table. “Now, if there are no further questions, let us begin. Magdalene, please close the door and ensure we are not interrupted.”