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Reality just needs to be forgotten! Peace has finally arrived, and the evil presence, especially those troublesome bosses, has finally subsided. Sometimes, I feel like our bosses need a slap or two, but I know if someone calls me today, we're bound to have a confrontation anyway. Instead of relying on a recipe I found for vegetable soup, I’ll just make my meat soup.
The saucepan sizzled as oil popped from the surface while I stirred the garlic purée and onions until they turned golden brown. The onions began to caramelise, becoming sweet and golden, blending with the sharp warmth of the garlic that rose quickly and boldly. I added diced red, yellow, and green peppers, and suddenly the kitchen filled with colourful steam, sweet and grassy, with just a touch of spice and brightness from the red peppers. A rich, savoury scent filled the room as I poured in four hundred and fifty grams of ground beef. The fat bloomed and danced, releasing a warm, rich aroma. Finally, I finished with a dash of black pepper, paprika, oregano, one teaspoon of sugar for balanced acidity, and three pinches of salt for flavour. I then let it simmer with the broth for five minutes.
Silence...
I finished preparing the soup and served it rich and creamy in a stoneware bowl, accompanied by a side of basmati rice. I took a moment to inhale the aroma, which enveloped my senses as I took my first bite. The food melted in my mouth, and my body relaxed as I sank into my seat. Beside me, a glass of tempranillo wine teased my lips; its fruity flavour complemented the oregano in the soup, balancing beautifully with the acidity of the tomatoes, creating a delightful sweet and savoury experience.
I sat outside in the grass greenhouse. The sun peered through the window. Golden beams of sunlight blanket my body. My eyes sting. The light dances on the surface of the sea like fairies and golden stars. Smooth, gentle waves crash on the beach's shore, sweeping away the gleaming, dull pebbles scattered along the sand. Long, lush black hair billows in the cool breeze. The cool, salty air permeated the air. Cotton clouds, pink and blue, floated in the azure sky. White doves squawked as their wings glided over the ocean.
My heart raced with anticipation as I gulped, cold sweat trickling down my back just before taking my second bite. My mouth watered as the delicious aroma filled the air, and then my phone vibrated, producing a harsh, grating buzz that set my teeth on edge. I flipped it over to check the cracked screen, where "Junior Disciple" flashed on the caller ID. I couldn't believe it—why on earth would someone call me on my holiday? Reluctantly, I placed the spoon down, my heart sinking as I answered the call.
"Boss! Is that you? I couldn’t contact you—I thought you were dead or something," Raymond exclaimed, his upbeat voice mixed with the sounds of munching and music in the background.
"It’s been one day... Raymond, can this not wait?"
"Bro! Come on, I’ve been working for five years straight at that dead-end job just for a promotion! A promotion, I tell you! And do you know what I got? A demotion to a sub-employee. And you know why? Because I came into work wearing black sunglasses!"
For a moment, I was speechless, caught between amusement and exasperation. Raymond’s grievances spilt out in a torrent—his voice shrill, desperate, but somehow still laced with humour. I pictured him, hunched over his lunchbox in some fluorescent-lit breakroom, wearing those ridiculous sunglasses with all the misplaced bravado of a washed-up rockstar in a temp agency.
“Raymond, you’ve survived worse,” I replied, half-laughing, my irritation dissolving with each word. “It’s a pair of sunglasses, not an insurrection.”
He snorted. “That’s what you think, Boss. Around here, sunglasses are a symbol of insubordination. Next thing you know, I’ll be charged with inciting a fashion revolution.”
I smiled despite myself, the stress of the interruption ebbing away, replaced by the familiar warmth of camaraderie. The sound of distant music and indistinct voices on Raymond’s end faded as he sighed, his bravado waning.
“Anyway, sorry for barging in on your holiday. It’s just… I didn’t know who else to call.”
His admission lingered in the space between us—a fragile thread connecting two very different afternoons. I glanced once more at the sunlit sea, the golden light, the tranquil doves wheeling above the surf; then back at my cooling soup.
“Take care of yourself, Raymond,” I said softly, and before I could say more, ‘Anyway, I just called to tell you that your break has been cut short. We’re understaffed. 8.30 am at the office, see you. Bye-”
Raymond cut the call. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore continued.
I slumped in my chair.
The soup shimmered.
Light twisted upward from the bowl, dancing like flame made of wind. A circle of glowing script coiled beneath her chair, humming with energy too old to have a name. The room breathed once, then stilled.
She staggered to her feet, heart pounding as the air thickened with starlight and the scent of rain on stone. A sound, soft and sorrowful, echoed inside her skull.
Then, like a thread cut from a loom, everything snapped.
She crumpled to the floor just as the summoning circle flared—
—and vanished with her.
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