#champacawrites

[dearchampaca]

Your worst habit as a writer is that you assign productivity only to writing, when reading is just as productive to your writing. You have mistakenly viewed reading as a passive process, when active reading requires so much on your end to engage with the text, to ask questions, make predictions, connect the information with your prior knowledge and take notes whenever possible. So when you feel like you have nothing to write, perhaps it is a reminder to read something that makes you feel alive again.

How are you going to write words that light fire in others' chests when you have forgotten how it feels to consume fire from reading?

—on why reading is necessary as breathing to a writer

[dearchampaca]

Short Story: Treasure Hunting

Suriawati was livid. Her latest project, a meticulously crafted branding package for a new eco-resort, was gone. Not corrupted, not saved in a wrong folder, but utterly erased from her hard drive and cloud backup simultaneously, a statistical impossibility that felt like a targeted act of cosmic sabotage. This wasn’t the first time. It was just the most blatant in a long line of near-misses, stifled opportunities, and mysterious malfunctions that had plagued her since she could remember.

Her family call it their “bad luck”, a peculiar generational curse that never manifested as true tragedy, by as a constant, low-grade pressure to conform to the path of least resistance. Dreams were gently discouraged, ambitions were met with sympathetic sighs, and creativity was treated as a dangerous, unpredictable spark that could attract misfortune. Suriawati had fought tooth and nail, her pragmatism and ambitions a shield against the family’s passive acceptance. She built a modern life of clean lines, digital workflows, and controlled outcomes, yet the stagnation clung to her, an intangible chain on her ankles growing heavier with each passing year.

The call about her grandmother came in as a bleak aftermath of the data loss. At the hospital, the beige walls seemed to absorb the little light that remained. The grandmother’s breath was a shallow rattle, but her eyes, when they found Suriawati’s, were sharp with a desperate urgency. She clasped her granddaughter’s hand with a surprisingly strong grip.

“The shadow…the one that blessed Tok Jiwa…” she whispered, her voice as dry as a bone. “It bleeds us dry.”

Suriawati leaned in, confusion warring with a cold dread. In her head, she was tracing her family tree. Tok Jiwa was the spoken family legend, the grandmother of her grandmother, and a Dalang during her time, whose name was spoken with reverence. A master puppeteer of the Wayang Kulit, the ancient shadow leather puppet theatre.

“She was charmed by it,” the grandmother continued, her gaze fixed on a horror only she could see. “Made a pact. It gave her brilliance, but it bound us. Our bloodline…we are in its service. The chain…you feel it, don’t you?”

The shiver, a cold and absolute one, ran down Suriawati’s spine. The creative blocks, the stifling pressures, and the inexplicable failures. It was not bad luck. It was a chain.

“The key is in the mantera,” the grandmother rasped, pressing a small, cloth-bound journal into Suriawati’s hands.

‘The spell?’ Suriawati thought to herself. ‘Was it the spell that the Dalang usually used in the ritual before beginning a shadow puppetry performance?’

Her mind was racing fast, but her grandmother’s breath was getting faster. “The scroll- Her scroll- find it- destroy it…” With a final, shuddering exhale, the pressure in her grandmother’s hand left.

The weight of the journal in Suriawati’s lap felt like an anvil. Driven by a volatile cocktail of grief, a desperate desire for a future unburdened by the past, and the fierce need to prove her grandmother’s dying words true, a new goal crystallised within her. This was no longer about fighting vague misfortune. It was a mission. She would find this physical scroll, this relic of a bygone era, and she would burn it. She would sever the chain that had plagued her family for generations and claim the modern, free life that was her birthright.

The journey back to Bali was a pilgrimage into a past that Suriawati had spent her life trying to outrun. Bali is not like what foreigners love to romanticise; it is filled with hardworking, poor country people who are continuously underpaid. Many who could migrate moved to cities and neighbouring countries when they could. Suriawati’s family was one of them.

The air there felt heavy with memory. Her grandmother’s journal became her grimoire, its pages filled with cryptic clues that led her away from tourist-thronged streets and into the island’s whispering heart. The first clue to her grandmother’s journal led Suriawati to a place that felt less like a museum but more like a silent, slumbering kingdom: the Setia House of Masks and Puppets. Tucked away from the relentless energy of central Bali, the air within its walls was cool and still, carrying the sacred scent of aged wood, fragile parchment, and the faint, sweet smoke of decades of incense offerings.

Haidar Abu Bakar via Flickr

It was a cultural ark, its halls a whispered census of Indonesian myth. Over one thousand three hundred masks glared, smiled, and wept behind glass. Five thousand seven hundred puppets stood in silent regiments, from heroes to clowns, to gods and demons from the epics of the Mahabharata and Ramayana, with their carved leather and painted faces frozen in eternal performance. Visitors spoke in hushed tones, some confessing to a creeping sense of unease, as if the glassy eyes of the Rakshasa demons were tracking them, or the delicate hands of the Apsara dancers were poised to move. But Suriawati felt no such fear. For her, the sensation was the opposite of creepiness: a profound, startling homecoming.

It was here, surrounded by this legion of silent storytellers, that the ghost of her great-great-grandmother, Jiwa, began to take solid form. No longer just a name in a tragic family story, Jiwa became a shadow moving through these same halls, a fellow artisan whose spirit was imprinted on the art. Suriawati ran her fingers over a display case containing the tools of a dalang, the metal clappers used to command the audience’s attention. It dawned on her that she was beginning to trace the outlines of her own inheritance, which had once been demonised by the entire family.

The next day, she sat with wizened, retired dalangs in compounds smelling of clove cigarettes—known as kretek—and offerings. She spoke with them and jotted down any oral history about her great-great-grandmother. She scoured digital archives of colonial collections, her modern skills hunting for a ghost of the past. The trail was faint, a whisper of a memory, but it consistently pointed to one thing: a specific, ornate scroll case carved from sonokeling wood, last seen in the possession of her great-great-grandmother, Jiwa.

She was lucky to work remotely, which let her keep her job while going on her own treasure hunt for her family's unique inheritance to maintain her sanity.

The breakthrough, however, did not come from finding a monk, priest, or temple, but in the musty stillness of a great aunt’s lumbung, a traditional rice barn now used for storage. Pushed deep into a corner, behind woven baskets and forgotten trunks, was a long, narrow box. She felt a cold sweat on her neck, and her heartbeat pounded faster. It was exactly as described: the dark, intricately carved wood, the silhouette of the gunungan—a triangular structure inspired by the shape of a mountain to symbolise the beginning of a universe—etched into its lid. This was the source of their family chain.

With trembling hands, she pried the rusted clasp open.

The inside was lined with faded crimson velvet, yet it was empty. There is no parchment. No rolled leaves. No incantations. Just emptiness.

The despair left her with a physical blow, hollowing the energy out of her soul. She had staked everything on this. She slumped against a wooden pillar with the carved case that felt like a mockery in her hands. As her fingers absently traced the velvet lining, her designer’s eyes, trained to see pattern and recognition, caught a detail that she had missed. The texture was not random. It was an incredibly intricate, raised songket weave. It was the same pattern her grandmother had woven into the sash of her own kebaya, the one that had always been passed down. The same pattern that edged the old puppet screen stored in the family temple.

The realisation struck her. The “scroll” was a decoy, a red herring to protect the true secret. The mantera, or the spell, was never confined to a single object. It was woven into the very fabric of their heritage, into the ubiquitous patterns of their traditional textiles. It was brilliantly embedded to surround them, unseen and unread, for generations. Now she could see how much of a genius her great-great-grandmother, Jiwa, was.

As the truth settled in her soul, the air in the hut grew cold. The shadows in the corner began to coalesce. They deepened, thickened, and pulled themselves free of the walls, forming a shifting, towering figure of darkness with eyes that held thousands of untold stories. ‘This must be the spirit,’ thought Suriawati.

“I’m not a demon,” its voice rustled, wispy as a feather. “I’m Dhanyang of the stories.”

‘Only the demon would say that,’ Suriawati could not help but chuckle at the thought.

She could feel the spirit's disappointment flowing through her, but then decided to show her visions: not of being enslaved, but of covenant. Her great-great-grandmother Jiwa, a visionary master puppeteer, had not been charmed into servitude; she had formed a partnership. The spirit offered inspiration, protection, and a direct line to the wellspring of myth in exchange for the family’s sacred vow to be the custodians of the Wayang Kulit, ensuring that its soul would never die.

 The “chain” was that sacred vow. Over generations, as the family moved to cities, embraced modern lives, and forgot the old ways, the vow was neglected. The Dhanyang’s guidance, meant to gently steer them back to their purpose, had no modern language. Its tool was a subtle spiritual pressure, a nudge that felt like a shove, a redirected path that felt like a blockade. What her grandmother called a generational curse was a guardian’s clumsy, desperate attempt to enforce an ancient, forgotten promise. The stagnation Suriawati had felt was not a prison sentence, but a neglected destiny.

Weeks later, in her Kuala Lumpur studio, Suriawati opened her laptop. With swift movements, she began to work. She did not create a cheap imitation. She rendered the god-king Krishna, his skin the blue of a digital twilight, his eyes holding cosmic wisdom. She animated the gunungan, the cosmic mountain, its pattern swirling to life, symbolising not just a scene change, but the birth of a universe. She showed how a single, poignant line from the epic could be paired with a powerful visual to resonate with a modern audience’s struggles. She proved that her tools could be just as sacred, her canvas just as past. She was not rejecting the past; she was evolving it.

She knew that to destroy the songket pattern would be to commit an act of profound spiritual violence, severing a covenant that had protected her family and preserving an art form for centuries. Yet, to submit, to abandon her life, her career, and her identity to become a traditional dalang, felt like a different kind of death, a slow suffocation of her own spirit. The key was not destruction, but negotiation and adaptation.

She may not be able to be a traditional master puppeteer, but she can be a dalang for the digital age, using her skills to build a living digital archive, create animated episodes that make the epic accessible, and design social media campaigns that make the characters relatable. She would honour the spirit of the pact by meeting her generation where they lived: on screens.

As she launched her first digital Wayang Kulit, a shadow danced gleefully on the wall. Suriawati had transformed the chain of obligation into a living thread of creative partnership.

Word count: 1908 words © Champaca L. Figlar, 2025 This is a short story that made its submission to Elegant Literature: October 2025 under the theme Charmed and Chained and the keyword ‘scroll’.

[dearchampaca]

Obsidian Stone on Switch Lit

Obsidian Stone - Switch-Lit

Wrote with a stranger on switch-lit app and managed to publish another mini story again!

Happy that this is another milestone in 2025 for me.

[dearchampaca]

Short Story: A Spirit Letter

Bomoh Mustika sat cross-legged in her living room, near the window, enjoying the night breeze caressing her face and the view of the full moon in the sky. The scent of kemenyan incense curled through the air, and although the room was filled with earthy sweetness, it failed to mask the lingering stench of failure that had clung to her since the incident. The shaman leaned back in the flickering night light, her lips stained crimson as she slowly chewed a wad of betel leaves, the narcotic pinang nut releasing its bitter warmth, her eyes glazing over, halfway to the spirit world. Once, the villagers had travelled for miles to seek her gifts, the sacred Main Puteri dances that let her walk in the spirit world, whispering negotiations with unseen forces that could heal the sick soul.

Now, the only visitors were memories.

The Hantu Raya’s betrayal occupied her eyelids whenever she closed them. The way its voice had slithered into her chant during little Ratna’s healing, how its laughter had rattled her bones as the child’s breath stilled. The spirit had bound to her for a decade, its power tempering her cures until it decided the price for one more life was her life. She had severed the bond that night, her ritual dagger, Keris, drawing blood from her palm to break the pact.

 A fist pounded at her door.

Pak Atan, the fisherman, stumbled in, saltwater dripping from his clothes, his breath uneven. “Tok, the sea—” he gasped, thrusting a flat, palm-sized clay tablet into her hands. It was cold despite the humid air, its surface etched with spiralling symbols that she did not recognise. A disc of cracked red wax sealed it, stamped with a serpent coiled around a crescent moon. A mark that made her fingertips prickly.

“It washed up with the tide,” Pak Atan said. “No barnacles. No cracks. As if it was dropped in yesterday.”

 Mustika’s thumb brushed the wax.

A snap of cold shot up her arm. The oil lamp sputtered, its flame turning watery blue. Beneath the sighing wind, a woman’s voice unravelled at the edges like it had been broken, painfully cracked and thin.

“Heal the unhealed…or the pact breaks.”

Pak Atan flinched. “You heard that?”

But Mustika was staring at the wax where her touch had melted it slightly. The substance bubbled, as if something beneath was breathing.

That night, Pak Atan fell ill.

He writhed on his mat, his skin heating up with blisters and inflamed lumps forming. His cracked lips could not stop mumbling, “golden towers beneath whirlpool of waves” and “a woman adorned with sunken pearls around her neck.” By dawn, two more villagers collapsed. Their fever dreams filled with the same visions, their bodies withering as if the sea itself sucked the moisture from their bones, leaving them with burning heat.

Tok Pawang, the village's elder shaman, arrived after hearing the commotion from the villagers. His crooked fingers brushed the wax seal. The moment he touched it, the oil lamp wavered violently, casting a monstrous shadow. His breath fastened. “Surat Roh,” he whispered. “A Spirit Letter. Not just from the sea, but from the Srivijaya kingdom.”

 He told Mustika of a healer-queen who, centuries ago, faced a plague worse than death. Desperate, she bargained with a Hantu Raya, offering a life for a life. But when the spirit came to collect her firstborn, she tricked it by binding their pact into enchanted wax and casting it into the deep sea. The empire fell soon after, swallowed by the vengeful sea.

“The seal must have been the contract between them,” Tok Pawang said with a weary voice. “Now, it’s broken. And the Hantu Raya remembers the debt.”

Outside, the tide crept higher, its foam hissing against the shore like a hungry monster.

Mustika was restless. The weight of her failure clung to her still like the scent of a burnt offering from that fateful night. She was no longer a healer; she was a woman haunted. But the villagers gathered outside of her teratak, their voices weaving into a chorus of desperation. The children coughed up blood. The elders whispered of drowning in their sleep. And beneath it all, the seal’s voice grows louder, slithering into her thoughts like tidewater through cracks in a boat: Heal the unhealed…or the pact breaks.

After two hours of meditating, she relented.

Tok Pawang prepared the ritual space with care, offering a watchful eye in case anything happened. Tok Pawang, playing the role of Tok Minduk, the ritual's assistant-interrogator, would assist Tok Puteri, Mustika, when she lost consciousness later. The sacred floor, woven from mengkuang leaves, was swept clean of the mortal world. Padi beras kuning, ritual rice stained golden with turmeric, was scattered in spirals as a path for the spirit to follow. Three beeswax candles flickered at the cardinal points, their light reeking of old promises. Outside, the rebab players began, their bow drawing a mournful wail from the strings. The sound hooked onto her ribs, pulling her toward the trance before she was ready.

  Her body swayed before she commanded it to. The rhythm was in her now, as inexorable as the moon dragging the waves of the sea. Her feet stroked the mat, each step a thunderclap, each pivot a whirl of swaying batik skirt and head shaking side to side. The villagers observed eagerly. She was no longer Mustika; she was a vessel. Empty.

 Fading into darkness, Mustika found herself standing in front of the ruins of a drowned city. Floating under the deepest sea surface, her bare feet were barely sinking into the sediment. Around her, the skeletal remains of Srivijayan towers loomed like crooked teeth, their gold-leafed domes now green with corrosion, their arched doorways vomiting streams of dark water. It reeked of salt and rotting offerings, a scent that suffocated her airways to the back of her throat. Before her, the Drowned Healer floated just beneath the surface of a stagnant pool, her skin bleached and bloated, her lips stitched shut with strands of seaweed. Tiny crabs scuttled around her body.

“You read the message,” the healer’s voice echoed through her sealed mouth. “But did you understand?” It was poignant, but loud enough to vibrate through Mustika’s bones, piercing through her.  

 Mustika’s breath became shallow. The wax seal, the serpent, and the crescent insignia were not a plea for salvation. It was… a prison.

The realisation crashed over her like a wave. The Drowned Healer had won. The Hantu Raya was trapped by her in that disc of enchanted wax, to bind its malice into something small enough to hide beneath the waves. The empire’s collapse. The healer’s death. These were not failures. But sacrifices to keep the Hantu Raya’s malevolent spirit contained.

And Mustika, the fool, had broken it open.

Above her, the water quaked. Shadows spiralled in the drowned archways, thickening into something with too many joints, with grinning canine teeth.

The Hantu Raya was free.

Outside of the astral travel, Mustika was suddenly tugged back into her body. Despite the persistent effort of her consciousness to fall into darkness, she restrained her mind when she heard the villagers screaming. She shook her head and scanned her surroundings. Some of them were covering their mouth while some were pointing at her.

That’s when she saw her blackened hands, slowly creeping up to her. Cold, wispy air slowly enveloped her body as she started to speak in a raspy, somewhat lingering, authoritarian voice, “You called me, now I am here with you.”

“No, no, my body is mine!” Mustika tried to fight back by speaking up, using all of her strength, but the Hantu Raya was stronger. She tried to cover her mouth to stop the spirit from taking over her speech, but the spirit took over her mouth and bit her own hands, so she had to let go. Without Mustika even being able to yowl in pain, the Hantu Raya took full control of her body and lunged towards the crowd, looking for a child to feast on.

Mustika panicked. The memory of little Ratna being left breathless and still from her failure as a healer still jabbed her heart. Hopelessness began to reign over her. She slowly felt her grip over her own body fading, as the Hantu Raya grew stronger in her own body. Stuck in a corner of her own spiritual body, whatever she tried to do to stop the malevolent spirit was slowly becoming useless.

Tok Pawang did not sit idly. Without wasting any time, Tok Pawang, acting as Tok Minduk, the assistant in the ritual, immediately started his chanting of jampi, calling upon guardian spirits, local deities and ancestors for help before he began to insert nails, needles and resin into the clay jar to bind the spirit of Hantu Raya. He prepared all the necessary stuff, knowing the nature of Hantu Raya, which was prone to violence.

Watching the bomoh’s body being possessed by Hantu Raya after the failed attempt at interrogating it, he instructed two men by his side to grab the arms from lunging into the crowd. Despite the feminine body, being possessed by the Hantu Raya meant she was now exceptionally strong, as the bomoh possessed by the spirit tried to hurl the two men who were trying to catch her across the wall. Came rushing another two men, grabbing the possessed bomoh’s legs from moving forward. Four men had to come forward to hold the possessed body as the Hantu Raya struggled to escape from their grip.

Inside, Mustika could feel her body’s temperature rising. She writhed left and right, screaming, “It’s hot, HELP—” before her voice darkened to a raspy, lingering, authoritarian voice again, “STOP, YOU ARE BURNING ME!”

“Come out of that body if you don’t wish to be burned,” Tok Pawang warned the Hantu Raya.

She was wriggling in scorching heat for a few minutes before she could feel it being sucked away from her body. Tok Pawang, who did not stop reciting the jampi serapah to trap the Hantu Raya, instantly sealed the jar with black cloth to further weaken the spirit’s resistance once he saw that the Hantu Raya was leaving Mustika’s body. The villagers cheered for the success of the ritual, while some other women villagers immediately rushed to her side to nurse her back to health.

Mustika stood on the shore at dawn, her hands still hurting from burying the sealed jar of Hantu Raya from somewhere that only she knew about. There was no throwing it into the sea, afraid that it might end up on the beach in the hands of innocent people and cause chaos again. The villagers are healed. The Hantu Raya is gone—or so they think.

“Child, messages received are not always for the listener,” Tok Pawang approached Mustika with a revelation. “Sometimes, they are for the sender.”

 Mustika looked beyond the sea. It was a difficult lesson that she had to learn in her haste to redeem herself.

            Messages received are not always messages understood.

Word count: 1851 words © Champaca L. Figlar, 2025 This is a short story that made its submission to Elegant Literature: August 2025 under the theme Message Received and the keyword ‘seal'.

[dearchampaca]

Short Story: A Tarot Reader's Plight

“Maya, are you sure you are not clairvoyant?”

The question from Toyol the other day kept bothering her. She joked about being a highly stimulated, burnt-out autistic person with special interests in spirituality, esotericism, and occultism; however, she honestly wondered about her situation. How could she be the only one who could see Toyol when the others could not?

She tossed and turned on her bed. It was now half past 1:00 AM, and the glow of the salt lamp painted her wall the colour of sunset. Her phone was facing down on the nightstand, vibrating with notifications that she could not bring herself to check. Probably another brand deal offer, another hate comment, or just another follower questioning, “Can I get a free reading?”

She stared at the collection of her tarot decks, and her eyes landed on the first one that she bought at a flea market few years ago out of curiousity. Although she ran a TikTok account where others would call her a “spiritual hustler” as she posted about witchcraft, manifestation, and cheap spiritual hacks, they are all her true special interests that she dedicated her time and energy to.

She had never considered herself to be spiritually gifted; no, it was quite the opposite. She has been quite strategic in her approach, particularly regarding the engagement and marketing techniques she used to make her online posts go viral.

All of them were slowly becoming hollow for her.

Being half-Malay, Maya realised she grew up disconnected from her folk magic roots, and preferred quick, viral rituals over real tradition. What started as fun has now slowly become an existential crisis. Then again, she has no elders to turn to, no mentor to learn from, and although she isn’t religious, folk magic has been rather taboo to discuss openly in society.

So she turned to the witchcraft community due to its accessibility online, despite feeling disconnected from her roots and heritage. She continuously felt an ache and a hole inside of her despite her active participation in the witchcraft and spiritual community.

Maya got up from her bed and walked to her desk. Without her knowing, she has been staring blankly at the wall for 20 minutes. Shaking her head to ground herself in reality, she grabbed a lighter to light up a white candle and lavender incense. She knew just what she needed.

“Dear spirit guide, if you are there, please grant me a wish,” she set her intention and prayed before the candlelight flickering gracefully.

Maya’s fingertips grazed the edges of her tarot collections with each deck, a chapter in her journey. The Wild Unknown, with its inky shadows. The Thoth, dense with esoteric weight. Then, her fingers stilled.

There. The Light Seer’s deck, with its gilded edges catching the light, flickered like a candle in the candlelight. She had not used it in months, not since her readings became content instead of communion. But tonight, the deck seemed to hum under her touch, a magnetic pull in her heart answering back.

“Fine,” she murmured, as if the cards could hear her. “You win.”

Maya cradled the deck between her palms, letting its energy settle against her skin. She closed her eyes and took a slow breath, surrounded by the aroma of lavender incense and candle wax, with the quiet static of midnight pressing in around her. The cards warmed beneath her touch, as if waking from a long sleep.

Focus.

She exhaled, loosening her grip just enough for the first card to slip free with a whisper of cardstock against her fingertips. Then another. The shuffle began in earnest now, her hands moving with the rhythm of a heartbeat, each pass a silent prayer.

What do I need to know?

The question unfurled in her mind, not as words but as a weight in her chest. She did not force it. She let it sink into the spaces between the cards, trusting the deck to carry it where it needed to go.

A moment of uncertainty appeared: “What if I am in the wrong?” But she smothered it with another breath. The only sound now was the soft riffle-raffle of the shuffle, the occasional card catching the light as it turned over in her hands.

And then, a pause. The deck felt heavier suddenly, or maybe it was her pulse thudding in her wrists.

Now.

She drew three cards.

Eight of Cups with an image of a woman walking away from a bowl containing burning fire, which is floating in the middle of a lake.

“Walk away from people and beliefs that no longer serve you,” she whispered the meaning of the card to herself.

Next was The Moon with an image of a drowning woman under the water, where there were two dogs, black on the left and white on the right, howling at the full moon above the sea.

“Deception, illusion and lying to yourself.”

Third was The Star card with an image of a woman kneeling while holding onto a thread carrying far to the burning star in the sky.

“Have hope.” Maya read out the meaning of the card monotonously.

A single hot tear escaped before Maya could blink it away. It fell in perfect silence, striking the face of The Star card with unexpected weight. The droplet caught on the card’s shimmering surface, distorting the celestial figure’s serene expression for just a moment before spreading into a tiny translucent pool.

She watched, transfixed, as the tear slowly evaporated from the glossy cardstock. The moisture left behind the faintest ring, a watermark of vulnerability on the symbol of hope.

“I don’t even know what I’m asking anymore,” she whispered, her voice cracking like dry kindling in the midnight stillness. The words hung suspended in the air, heavier than she’d intended.

Across the table, the candle flame shuddered in response. Shadows leapt wildly across her small apartment before settling again, now slightly dimmer than before. The wax had pooled into an uneven landscape of translucent amber, one side collapsing inward as if mirroring her own crumbling resolve.

Maya brought a trembling hand to her cheek, surprised to find more tears waiting just beneath the surface. When had she last cried like this? Not during her carefully curated “vulnerable” Instagram stories, not during her performative moon rituals for the camera. This was different. Messy, unplanned, and real.

The Star card seemed to glow more brightly in the flickering light, with its golden foil catching the scant remaining illumination. That single tear had left its impression, and now the card felt forever altered in her hands. It seemed that it was no longer merely a tool for her readings, but a witness to her unravelling.

Night after night, the cards taunted her. Her body ached from nights spent chasing answers in glossy cardstock, only to find the same three staring back. The Moon’s drowning woman, the Eight of Cups’ abandoned bowl of fire, and always ending with The Star, they all seemed to be mocking her.

Hope? For what?

She scoffed, hurling the deck across the room. Online, her posts flatlined. No likes, no comments, just the echo of her own doubt bouncing back at her. The algorithm had abandoned her. Or perhaps she had abandoned herself.

Her phone buzzed with another notification from a follower: “Your readings used to feel real. What happened?”

Maya’s stomach dropped. She chucked her phone onto the bed, where it landed facedown like a bad omen.

Delete the app. Burn the deck. Pretend this was all just a phase.

The thought slithered through her, tempting. It would be so easy. No more forced positivity, no more performing magic she was not sure she believed in anymore.

But then the exhaustion hit like a wave. Not just tiredness, but the kind of deep, bone-aching surrender that appeared when you were sick of fighting yourself.

Without thinking, she reached for the cards again. This time, forget about Palo Santo, she did not cleanse them. Did not set an intention. Did not even light a single damn candle.

She just pulled.

And there she was, the High Priestess, staring back at her with a knowing half-smile, her pillars of wisdom, her scroll of secrets.

Maya heaved a one sharp exhale.

For the first time in months, the cards did not feel like props. They felt like a mirror.

Maybe the magic was not in the ritual. Maybe it was in the moment you stopped pretending you needed one.

Dawn seeped in through the blinds with pale, tentative light pooling on the floor. Maya did not move. Her legs had gone numb hours ago, her back pressed against the bedframe, her fingers still absently tracing the edges of the High Priestess card.

The realisation hit her like a slow-moving train:

You turned your intuition into a packaged product.

It was all there, ugly and undeniable. The way she had sanded down the rough edges of her readings to fit into tidy, shareable clips. The way she had scripted “channelled messages” to sound more viral. The way she had started to care more about the aesthetic of spirituality than the quiet, unmarketable truth of it.

A dry, broken laugh escaped her. The irony was almost funny. She had sold “authenticity” so hard that she had almost lost it entirely.

Outside, a bird began its morning song. The sound grated against the silence. Maya’s phone lay beside her, screen cracked from when she had thrown it earlier. She picked it up now, wincing as the glass bit into her palm.

No setup. Not a ring light. No agonising over the perfect caption.

“Maya! Do you know that your name is a wordplay? In Malay, it means the Internet world. And in Sanskrit, it means 'illusion or magic'. Cool, right?” The voice chat from Toyol appeared suddenly. The goblin toddler she once helped to free from his master has now transformed into digital form, but he keeps bothering her every few days in the week.

“Toyol! Not now!” She yelled into the voice chat.

She sighed and hit record.

The camera lens stared back, a black pupil dilated in the low light. For a long moment, she just breathed.

“I’ve been scared.” Her voice came out raw, the kind of hoarse that came from hours of unshed tears. “Not of being wrong. But of being real.”

She glanced at the cards strewn across the floor, the same damned trio that kept appearing. The Moon. The Eight of Cups. The Star.

“The truth is not in the performance,” she whispered. “It’s in the pause.”

Her thumb hovered over the post button. For once, she did not overthink it.

The phone clattered onto the nightstand. Maya dragged herself onto the mattress, her body heavy with exhaustion. The pillow smelled like stale incense and salt, proof of the night’s unravelling.

As sleep finally pulled her under, she thought dimly, “The magic did not leave. You just drowned it out with noise.”

In her sleep, she dreamed of coming home to her old two-storey house. Only to find a serpent’s shed skin tracing a path up the stairs, glistening like oil on water. She followed its ghostly trail to her room, where the skin pulsed and split, and from its husk emerged a dragon. It turned its great head toward her, eyes reflecting her face back at her, not as she was, but as she might become. Word count: 1909 words © Champaca L. Figlar, 2025 Written in response to: "Set your story before dawn or after midnight. Your character is awake for a specific reason."

[dearchampaca]

Short Story: Memoir of Toyol in a Cashless Society

At this point, I am not even sure I am alive.

Or why I bother living.

I used to be good at this.

Like, don’t get me pissed off.

I was once feared.

Just the mention of my name had the villagers hide their jewelry, money, coins, and any treasure that they had, whatever that was supposed to mean. Back in the 60s, I could slip from one house to another, creep from one room to another, and steal everything clear until they had nothing left. Whether they had them hidden in a treasure chest, under a pillow, or inside a wardrobe, my keen, sensitive nose would be able to sense them. Nothing could escape my superior nose. And then I would just vanish with a fistful of ringgit, gold, coins, or jewelry before the family even stirred.

But now?

Now, now, you will see why I hate modernisation so much.

My tiny fingers scrambled at the edge of the nightstand, claws leaving no mark on the tempered glass. The wallet lay there, plump and smug, black leather gleaming under the faint blue light of a sleeping MacBook. I could smell the greed on it, like the old habits, the kind that used to make my teeth ache with hunger.

I flip it open.

Empty.

Not even a single note. Just rows of plastic from credit cards, membership cards, and a gym pass that I will never use. My fingers trembled as I shuffled through them. I bit one just to check. My fangs slid right off.

“Platinum Visa,” the card mocked me in sleek, embossed letters.

Where’s the cash? There’s always cash. Humans hoard it, even now. They need it.

My nails dug deeper into the leather. Maybe it’s hidden. A secret compartment. I tore at the seams, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts. Nothing.

Then I saw it tucked behind a driver’s license, crisp and untouched.

A fifty.

My heart leapt. I snatched it up, pressed the paper against my nose, and inhaled the ink, sweat, and promise of it. This, this is what I am made of—the thrill of stealing, the weight of stolen wealth in my hands.

Then I turned it over.

“SPECIMEN” was stamped in the center in bold red letters.

It’s fake. A prop.

I hissed and flung the wallet across the room. It hit a framed photo of some smug bastard in a suit, grinning beside his Tesla. The glass cracked. The bastard’s face split in two.

Good.

My reflection glared back at me from the broken glass. The pinprick eyes, needle teeth, and a body no taller than a toddler. I used to be a nightmare. Now I’m just…small.

From the bed, the tech bro snored. His phone lit up on the charger. A notification flashes: “Payment received: $10,000.”

My stomach coiled in anger. That money was my money, floating somewhere in the air, in a place that I can’t reach. No pockets to pick. No locks to break. Just numbers on a screen.

****

Master used to say that I was the best, “slippery as an oiled eel, quiet as a shadow.” He would pour a thimble of goat’s blood mixed with a drop of his blood sliced from his toe into my mouth after a good haul, and for a moment, I would feel powerful.

Now? Now I’m a meme. A green-skinned, fanged relic haunting air vents like some expired startup founder.

My claws scraped against duct metal as I dragged myself forward. The vent cover below offers a perfect view of a graphic designer’s apartment. He has passed out at his desk, face smushed against a tablet, stylus still clutched in his hand like a weapon. On the screen: half-finished digital art. Of all things, it’s Pontianak, all flowing hair and bloody fangs. Cute. Real Pontianak doesn’t bother with vengeance these days. They have moved into influencing, it seems.

“Steal cash, Toyol,” Master wheezed at me last night, his breath reeking of betel nut and desperation. “Bring me gold, bring me coins!"

Like it’s still the fucking 90s.

I pressed my forehead to the cool metal. Gold is in the banks now, locked behind retinal scans and quantum encryption. Coins and cash are in apps, bouncing from phone to phone while I am stuck here, literally crawling through walls. And Master? Master is still back in his rotting sarong, burning incense while using a Nokia 3310 like it is some sacred relic.

Below me, the designer’s phone lit up. A notification: “Payment received: RM 5,250.00”

A cheerful ‘ding!’ followed, like it was mocking me. My stomach growled. That sound—that stupid, happy little ding—used to mean something. It meant full pockets. It meant the rustle of paper notes, the clink of loose change in a ceramic penny bank, and the heavy weight of stolen wealth in my hands.

Now? Now it’s just…numbers. Invisible. Weightless.

Un-steal-able.

I could drop down right now, pry open his fingers, and take the phone. But what’s the point? I could not eat the QR code. Could not trace a wire transfer. The hunger gnawing at my ribs is not just for food; it’s for a purpose. What is a thief in a world with nothing left to steal?

A vibration rattled the duct. I froze.

The Polong slithered into view, its size as small as a forefinger, making it perfect to shapeshift and move around quickly. Its appearance glowed faintly, not with magic, but with the blue light of a dozen open banking apps.

“Still hustling the old way, my little guy?” A glitchy laugh echoed through the phone. The Polong materialised in a haze of static, its holographic skin flashing between Grab promos and Shopee ads.

“Aiya, even Pocong evolved. Now, they hop on e-hailing rides to go wherever they want to.”

I bared my teeth. “I don’t need your cyber tricks.”

“Sure, sure,” It grinned, all needle-fangs and pixelated eyes. “Enjoy starving.”

I lunged, but my stubby legs could not reach its digital form.

Pathetic. A goblin trapped in the analogue past.

Left alone with another failure etched to the bone.

Outside, the sky paled over KLCC. The full moon was shining brightly between the Twin Towers.

****

The 7-Eleven ATM kiosk hummed under flickering fluorescent lights, its blue screen glow cutting through the midnight haze. I perched atop the machine with my clawed toes gripping the edge as I peered down at my target, one of the last ATMs in Kuala Lumpur that still dispensed thick, crinkly RM100 notes. My favourite.

This was it. My big comeback.

I had been stalking this specific machine for weeks, memorising its maintenance schedule, its sound, the way it coughed out cash like it was judging every withdrawal. But tonight, something was off. A new sticker on the side: “AI FRAUD DETECTION ENABLED.”

My pointed ears flattened. Since when did ATMs need AI security?

The glass door slid open. A drunk university kid, reeking of cheap Soju alcohol and regret, stumbled in, jabbing at the screen. The machine beeped. Whirred. Then, glorious, the sound of the bills being counted.

My mouth could not help but water.

I focused on the old trick, whispering the incantation that Master had taught me decades ago.

Possess the machine. Become the machine. 

My form shimmered, and then—glitch.

Instead of slipping into the ATM’s circuits, my body phased the wrong way. Suddenly, my body turned solid, fully visible and before I knew it…

“WHAT THE—” The guy shrieked as I materialised mid-air, slamming into his leg like a feral, green-skinned possum.

I immediately scrambled, my claws snagging on his jeans. My clouded eyes locked onto the wad of cash. For one glorious second, I could almost taste the RM100 note, but he was already flailing backwards, screaming, “GOBLIN—HELP—” before he scurried away.

From the snack aisle, a voice suddenly interrupted. “Oh my God. Are you a Toyol?”

I stood there blankly for a minute.

No one had seen me in decades.

A 20-something woman in a cropped “MANIFEST” hoodie stood there, holding her phone vertically, which I believe was recording me.

“Dude,” she said, “you are trending in 2012.” I saw her zooming in on my umbilical cord leash as she walked closer to get a better look at me.

My ears flattened, and my needle teeth ground together. “Delete that.”

“Make me,” she replied cheerfully, then took a sip of her Bandung Boba and offered me the straw. “Thirsty, boomer ghost?”

I wanted to bite her, but the drink was pink. And sweet. And—

Fuck.

Five seconds ago, I was a nightmare. Now? I was a washed-up cryptid, slurping syrup while this human girl adjusted her ring light.

“Look, my name is Maya, and, uh…” she said, crouching. “My engagement is tanking. You help me go viral and I’ll get you…uh…” She squinted at me. “Whatever evil toddler eats.”

“Cash,” I snarled at her. “I eat cash.”

“Damn, inflation really screws us up, huh?” Maya nodded ironically.

The ATM whirred. The 7-Eleven air conditioner dripped. Somewhere, a Polong laughed in crypto. Then, Maya pulled out her phone and opened CapCut. “Okay, Grandpa Ghost. Let’s get you relevant.”

Uhh… I hate this. 

But I was also hungry.

“Fine,” I surrendered. “But I want McNuggets. And a soul.”

“Yes! Let’s do this!” Maya jumped like she had just won the lottery.

The ATM spat out a receipt as if it were laughing at me.

I am so doomed. 

****

I should have known something was wrong when Maya strapped the Shopee Special proton pack onto me. It was made of plastic water bottles and a broken power bank, held together with Harvey Norman cable ties. It buzzed ominously against my back, smelling faintly of fried circuits and deceit.

“This is an insult,” I hissed, trying to wiggle free. “I’m a Toyol. A nightmare.”

Maya adjusted her ring light, unfazed. She was too busy angling her phone, with a third eye drawn on her forehead, catching the ring light’s glow. “Just growl when I point at you, okay? We are going live in three… two…”

The phone screen glared at me, a tiny red light blinking like the eye of some judgmental god.

Live Viewers: 12

Pathetic. 

Then the first Super Chat popped up.

RM5 ‒ user @XXsephiraXX: “IS THAT A BABY DEMON??”

Maya’s grin turned razor-sharp. “Showtime, gremlin,” she whispered as she kicked the Roomba towards her ex-boyfriend’s prized Travis Scott rug.

For some reason, I have no idea how this woman could convince her ex that his apartment was haunted. I also could not believe my eyes that such a big guy could be easily scared by the idea of having a spirit and entity roaming their household. Alas, he trusted his ex to perform an exorcism to remove a negative entity from his house.

I doubt he could see me. Perhaps seeing the proton pack floating around was convincing enough to persuade him, I believe.

Adi yelped as I seized control of the vacuum, sending it spiralling toward his bare feet. The chat exploded.

RM50 ‒ user @InnerDivineLight: “OMG IT’S POSSESSED!!"

I could feel the viewers multiplying, their attention striking against my skin like static waves. The Roomba hit his ankle with a satisfying thunk, but the victory felt hollow.

This was not stealing… This was…performance art.

And I am not quite sure if it aligned with my purpose as a Toyol.

During a bathroom break, I caught my reflection in a smart mirror that cheerfully suggested I “try the Goblin Glow-Up filter!” Before I could issue any protest, it evened out my green complexion and made my milky eyes brighter. For one terrifying moment, I saw human features staring back—round cheeks, normal teeth—before the mirror slapped digital cat ears on my head. “Looking fierce!” It chirped.

My umbilical cord twitched in disgust.

That’s when the burning started. Not the usual dull tug from Master, but a searing pain that smelled of rotting betel leaves, metallic copper, and kemenyan incense. The cord blackened, smoking against my belly.

Maya appeared in the doorway, leaving her phone still streaming on the tripod. “Uh, you okay, little dude?”

I forced my lips into a snarl while my claws dug into the sink. “Just buffering,” I lied.

A few seconds later, her phone buzzed violently. “Holy smokes,” she panted. “The viewer count ticked past 10,000!”

Top comment: “CURSED ROOMBA?? PLS COME HAUNT MY EX NEXT!!”

From the living room, the trapped Roomba let out a plaintive beep. The proton pack’s dying battery whined in harmony. I closed my eyes as another Super Chat dinged—RM100, someone requesting I “please possess a blender next.” The cord pulsed like an infected vein. Somewhere beyond the WIFI signals and LED lights, I could feel Master was fuming.

****

The rooftop air smelled of exhaust and impending rain as Maya’s phone screen lit up with the incoming WhatsApp call. I knew who it was before the ancient bomoh’s face pixelated into view, his wispy beard trembling with rage. “Toyol,” he croaked, the single word carrying decades of disappointment. The umbilical cord around my waist began to scorch hotter, its fibre blackening as my form began to flicker.

I could feel my green skin slowly dissolving.

“You are obsolete,” spat the shaman. Behind him, I could see his new familiar, a sleek neon Polong typing away at three keyboards simultaneously, its fingers moving quickly from one key to another, meanwhile looking at the stock market graphs. “Even Polongs are mining crypto now. What use is a thief who cannot touch digital gold?”

Maya, who had been adjusting her ring light, halted. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she said, shoving her phone closer to my disintegrating face. “Back off, Gandalf. He’s viral now. We got brand deals pending.”

The shaman’s laugh crackled through the speaker. “Foolish girl. He’s bound to me. That cord is not just a leash; it’s his soul.”

I tried to growl, but my voice glitched into a stuttering, buffering sound. Maya’s eyes darted between me and the screen, her influencer mask slipping for the first time. Then, with the decisive fury of a Gen-Z exorcist, she rummaged in her purse and pulled out a Hello Kitty nail clipper. “Okay, boomer,” she muttered, and she snipped.

The cord howled.

Not me, but the cord itself sounded like a dial-up modem dying in reverse. The bomoh’s image distorted violently as the severed tether whipped back through the screen, taking half his beard with it. I expected myself to vanish. Instead, my body exploded into pixels, a thousand glittering fragments reforming in the air before collapsing into Maya’s phone with a sound like a corrupted MP3.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then…

“What the heck did you just do?” My voice echoed from her speakers, tiny and digitised.

Maya gasped at her screen, where my face now lived as a floating sticker in her gallery. “I… I think I just turned you into an NFT.”

I could feel the breeze of a quiver.

A notification popped up.

Unknown Sender: RM 1,100.00 deposited to your Touch ‘n Go eWallet.

Another. And another.

I could feel them: every transaction in the city, every digital whisper of money moving through invisible veins. No more ATMs. No more locks. Just…numbers, ripe for the taking. My laughter came out as a soundbite Maya had downloaded last week.

Maya’s phone buzzed again, but this time, it was a DM. The Polong from earlier, its profile picture was a glitching Bored Ape. “Collab? We hack Bank Negara. 60/40 split.”

On the rooftop, the first rays of dawn hit Maya’s face as she slowly grinned.

“Toyol.” She whispered, “You’re upgraded.”

In her camera roll, my new sticker pack auto-generated: Toyol’s Cursed Reactions. A GIF of me flipping off the bomoh. I'm devouring a credit card emoji. I winked with the caption “Glitch in the System.”

From the depths of her speakers, my voice whispered, “…still hungry, though.”

Maya’s next YouTube went live at 6:00 AM sharp.

“POV: Your sleep paralysis demon adopts you.”

In the comments, my pixelated face popped up beneath a viral reply:

User @LilToyol: "RM10 can buy what nowadays? Asking for a friend.”

The Polong liked the post. The bomoh left a scathing review under the video.

And somewhere in the digital void, I finally feasted.

Three days later, Bank Negara reported an “anomaly” of RM1,000,000 vanishing from dormant accounts. The security footage showed only a flicker of green static…and the faint sound of giggling.

© Champaca L. Figlar, 2025 Written in response to: "Write a story from the point of view of a canine character or a mythological creature."

[dearchampaca]

Short Story: Among the Bunians

The first thing that she smelled was incense, with a mix of earthy and woody scents, with a slightly bitter aroma that woke her up from her deep sleep. The smell hung in the air, clinging to the back of her throat like a half-spoken whisper. How long has she been asleep? She tried to reach for the light, but it was pitch black. She could feel soft fabric, damp with breath and sweat, pressed around her eyes and wrapped around her head. It was a disorienting experience trying to shake the darkness away. That knowing alone sharpened the edges of every other sense. The earth beneath her felt cold, uneven, and suddenly shifting, while in the distance, she could hear the low rustle of trees moving in the wind. She knew she was not indoors.

She moved to stand up, but her arms resisted. The rough, coarse rope tightened around both wrists and bit into skin that was already rubbed raw. The bindings did not give in. Panic did not rush in, but she grew in awareness, creeping slowly like dawn in forests, that she was not alone, and she was not free. She tried to move to stand up again but could feel her body freeze. The third time she tried to stand, she staggered to her feet and fell to the ground.

“Oh, would you look at our guest!” A voice laughed, light, lilting, and almost playful, but with a cold undercurrent that made her skin crawl.

“After forty-eight hours of being knocked out!” Another voice jeered, this one deeper and unkind, with a theatrical mockery that set her nerves on edge.

The words dropped like stones in the silence that followed, and she could feel their weight more than hear them. Her mouth was dry, coated in the aftertaste of incense and fear. She tried to lift her head, but the blindfold still held, pressing against her lashes like a second skin.

“W- wh- who are you?” she asked, her voice hoarse and cracking, barely more than a whisper. “What are you trying to do with me?”

There was a pause. Then the sound of leaves being crushed underfoot, soft and deliberate.

“She speaks,” the first voice said, more amused than surprised. “And here I thought the binding spell had frayed too far to hold the tongue.”

“She’s trembling,” the second one observed. “The forest can feel it.”

Something shifted in the air the moment the observation was mentioned. A subtle change in pressure occurred, as if the trees had exhaled in response. She felt it not just on her skin but in her bones.

Her hands remained tied behind her back. Her knees pressed into the forest floor. And all around her, the world held its breath, watching.

A low rustle stirred the silence. It was not leaves, but something softer, deliberate, and circling.

“Stillness suits her,” one said, tone winding like ashes rising from fire. “The forest remembers quiet ones.”

Another laughed, like wind passing hollow bone. “She does not know, does she?”

A sudden warmth licked across her wrists, a tingling sensation just beneath the rope, like something unseen was brushing her skin.

Her breath hitched. “Please,” she begged, “why am I here?”

Silence again, but this time it was full, thick, and eager.

“Why do you ask what is already in you?” one voice whispered close to her ear. “You were never lost. Only returned.”

The words fell through her like pebbles into water. Something stirred in their wake. A distant warmth, a flicker of something. Not quite a memory. Not yet.

“I don’t know this place,” she said, louder this time. “I don’t know you.”

“You do,” murmured the first voice again, and it was neither mocking nor kind. “Because you are one who once walked willingly into the roots and shadows. The pact is not forgotten.”

She shook her head. “What pact?”

A hand that was cool, dry, and impossibly light touched her forehead. Not threatening, but also not human.

“There was a woman, long ago,” the third woman continued. “A mortal who stepped through the veils to find her heart among our kind. In return, she promised a child. One who was born of dusk and dawn. A child to carry both her longing and our blood.”

The hand lifted. Her skin burned where it had touched her. There was a mark of recognition where the skin burned. And surprisingly, it did not cause her any pain at all.

“You lie,” she cried, though the words trembled in her mouth.

The ground shifted beneath her knees. It was not shaking but breathing, as if it were responding to her.

Then something cool brushed against her wrist. She had not heard it being carried. It was smooth and damp. It was a stone, she thought, but not lifeless. It pulsed faintly as it made contact, as though it recognised her. Where the stone touched, a mark began to stir. A faint shimmer appeared beneath the skin of her left wrist. What once appeared to be an old scar, pale and barely noticeable, now floated above her skin, like incense smoke spiralling in shape. Its shape spiralled outward, delicate and deliberate, a sigil etched in flesh by something older than blood.

She gasped.

“The mark of return,” said the voice. “The bride-gift, sealed in you since birth. Hidden until called.”

Her breath caught as the stone pressed into her wrist, and the mark flared briefly, beautifully, before dimming to a steady glow. Her skin tingled beneath it. A mark of awakening.

She clenched her hand instinctively, but the sensation did not recede. It has always been there, and now it refuses to be forgotten.

“This is madness.”

“No,” the voice said, almost tender. “This is remembrance. The vow calls to you. One of ours waits beyond the veil. It is nearly time.”

She felt the world tilt. The forest floor beneath her knees no longer felt solid, as it seemed to breathe, pulling her downwards, not with force, but with something gentler, older, and inevitable.

The mark on her wrist pulsed again. Once, twice, and in perfect rhythm with her heartbeat. Then it stilled, and for a moment, so did the world. She felt no wind, no forest floor beneath her knees. No birdsong, no incense. Only silence. Then the silence cracked open.

Suddenly, the blindfold melted from her face, not physically, but as if it were no longer needed, as though her sight had shifted inward. What surrounded her was not darkness, but bright light, a rich gold threaded with shadow. She was standing, not kneeling, though her body had not moved. Before her, a river glistened, wide and quiet, its surface glinting with constellations. The air smelled of sandalwood and champak.

Across the water, two figures stood in profile: a woman wrapped in dark, earthen batik, and beside her, a tall, indistinct form woven from light and moss in human form—a Bunian, unmistakably other, yet not unfamiliar. Their hands were joined. Above them, the trees bent inward, forming an arch. Then, from the woman’s lips, a voice echoed:

“I give the child in promise to you; let them walk between breath and roots. Let them bind what I have broken.”

The Bunian raised a stone, the same river stone that had touched her wrist, and pressed it to the woman’s forearm. A mark bloomed there, swirling into the same floating scar now etched into her own skin.

The mark had been passed down, not as punishment, but as a bond.

The vision shifted.

Now she stood in a field of twilight, surrounded by whispering trees. A parade of faceless figures moved past her, silent and slow. Each wore moss-draped robes. Each carried an object: a bowl, a thread, a bone, and a blade.

They stopped before her.

One figure stepped forward, clocked in light so bright it hurt to see. In its hand: the same stone. It did not speak, but as it reached for her wrist, her body surged with memory. It was not her own, but memories inherited, burned into blood.

Then the light shattered like a mirror struck from within, and the forest rushed back in.

She panted.

The blindfold still covered her eyes. The scent of incense still hung around her like a veil. But she knew now that something inside her had been unlocked.

She knew the mark was not a marking but a key.

And behind the veil, something waited to be answered.

The forest shifted again, almost imperceptibly. The ground beneath her knees hummed with a rhythm older than language. A pair of unseen hands guided her upward, not rough, not coercive but welcoming.

"Come," a voice whispered beside her. "It is time."

She stumbled forward, the blindfold still wrapped around her eyes, but now it seemed translucent. Not obstructing, but filtering. She could see faint outlines through it: vines curled into symbols, petals unfolding in breath like pulses. The air grew warmer, tinged with wild jasmine and myrrh. Somewhere nearby, water trickled like soft laughter.

They brought her to a clearing. She felt it more than saw it, a basin in the heart of the forest, rimmed by ancient trees whose roots held old bones and older truths.

A figure stood at the centre, still and luminous. She knew him not by face, but by pull—the Bunian who had appeared in her vision. Cloaked in bark-like robes and light, he radiated something between divinity and ruin.

"You have come," he said. His voice was not deep, nor sharp, but familiar. It folded into her like rain returning to the riverbed.

She stepped forward. No one guided her now. Her feet moved of their own accord.

"I saw her," she murmured. "The woman who made the vow."

He inclined his head. "She gave us a promise. And through you, it is fulfilled."

Words stirred in her mouth. There were protests, doubts and anger, but none took shape. The stone on her wrist pulsed again. The mark hovered faintly above her skin like mist caught in candlelight.

All around her, the Bunians began to sing. It was not a melody, not quite. A layering of voices, like the hum of insects, the crackle of fire, the turning of pages written in root. She understood none of the words and yet felt them settle into her bones.

A small platform of polished wood rose from the ground, braided with ivy and silver-leaf. The Bunian held out his hand.

"Through joining," he said, "you will no longer be divided. Neither world shall break you. You will walk between the veils, as was always meant."

She hesitated only a breath, then placed her hand in his.

Heat rippled through her. It was neither pain nor joy. It was a fusion.

The platform glowed beneath them, and the voices rose. Vines snaked up her ankles, not to bind, but to anchor. The air tightened, and her vision flickered, showing her roots spreading from her feet into the soil, her veins branching into the trees, her blood singing the same song.

Then something changed.

The Bunian's hand grew colder. Her wrist throbbed. The mark flared, then darkened, the glow sinking into her skin like a brand.

The vines coiled tighter.

"You are ready," he said, but the voice had changed. Hollow now. Mechanical.

"You were always meant for this," another voice added from the trees. "A vessel carved in prophecy. Blood pledged, body offered."

She opened her mouth, but it was dry. Around her, the platform darkened, wood turning to stone. The scent of incense soured. The song twisted.

"You said union," she whispered. "You said joining."

"A vessel must be joined before it is filled," the Bunian said, gaze empty now. "The pact was never for a bride. It was for a gate."

The vines surged, wrapping her wrists and chest. The platform cracked open at the centre, revealing a pit of living roots, pulsing with a molten light. It radiated hunger.

She screamed, but no sound escaped.

The Bunians chanted faster now, their tones sharpening like blades. The Bunian beside her raised the river stone. Light shot from its core and struck her wrist. Her mark flared painfully now, searing her to the bone.

But in that agony, something opened.

A whisper, not from the Bunians, nor from the forest, but from within. A voice she had never heard but somehow always known.

“Child of dusk and dawn. Remember the third name.”

A memory struck her, her grandmother humming a strange lullaby, fingers tracing a spiral on her wrist, the final word always swallowed by the wind.

Now, she heard it clearly: "Antarvahini.”

The vines recoiled. The stone in Bunian's hand shattered.

She raised her arms, and the forest gasped.

Words rose from her throat. It was not English, not Bunian, but a language she knew deeply—the language of the root worker, of boundary and breakage.

"Sandeha-dvāri tiṣṭhāmi. Na pratijñātā. I am the threshold. I am the one unpromised."

The chanting around her faltered. The platform trembled.

She stepped forward, pulling the vines from her body. Her mark blazed into brilliant white, cutting through the enchantment like moonlight through mist.

The pit beneath her roared. A final voice that is ancient and desperate screeched from below.

"You are ours! You were given!"

She raised her wrist above the opening.

"No," she said. "I was named, not owned."

With one final incantation, she flung her voice into the roots.

"Saṅdhimocaya. Let the vow unbind."

The forest exploded with sound. Roots shattered, vines shrivelled to ash. The pit convulsed, then collapsed inward, taking the ritual site with it. The ground surged and threw her backwards.

When she landed, the world was still again.

She lay gasping in the clearing. The mark on her wrist had faded to a faint outline, quiet and dormant.

All around her, the Bunians were silent.

Some had vanished. Others stood still but translucent now, as if dimmed. Even the one who had stood beside her was no longer whole but just light and shadow, unravelling at the edges.

"You broke it," he said softly. There was no anger but only a mournful awe.

"No," she replied, rising shakily to her feet. "I simply change my fate."

The trees above her bent slightly, not in warning, but in respect.

She turned from the fractured platform. Its roots were still warm, alive with the quiet tremor of broken vows. The forest had gone still, not in anger or sorrow, but in something older. Watchfulness. Waiting.

Between the ancient trees, a shimmer moved through the air like heat above stone.

A seam of light unfolded, humming softly, parting like mist. On the other side, she saw the contours of the human world: a slope of mossy ground, the soft bend of a mountain trail. Shapes she once knew. A world that had almost forgotten her. She stepped forward. Her foot touched the earth, and something beneath it stirred, as if the land itself remembered her weight.

Behind her, the grove remained unchanged. The portal stayed open.

She turned once more. The Bunian forms stood motionless, the circle unbroken. Some watched with quiet resentment, others with something close to respect, but none came after her. None called her back.

The mark on her wrist pulsed softly. Not with urgency or heat, but with quiet direction, like the settling of a needle pointing true.

She understood now.

She was not what they had tried to make her. Not a captive. Not a bride. Not a sacrifice. She was the edge where one world met the next. The breath that moved between word and silence.

She stepped into her world completely, and the air behind her shifted. The veil did not close. It paused.

Beneath the familiar trees, she walked forward, not as she had before, but as someone newly woven from all that had nearly claimed her. And far behind her, deep within the stillness of the grove, something ancient gave its assent—not in speech, but in the quiet turning of the world when a story has begun to rewrite itself.

© Champaca L. Figlar, 2025 Written in response to: "Start your story with a non-visual sense. Use a certain scent, texture, sound, or taste to ground the beginning before continuing the narrative."