Nobela ni Bee Lynx

“Can you believe that prick?!” I spit, slouched like a discarded sock in Evelyn’s bougie bedroom. She’s perched elegantly in front of her mirror, dabbing her plush lips with a velvet-red lipstick like she's preparing for a Vogue cover, when she's not actually heading anywhere. Meanwhile, I’m hunched over in a creaky armchair, hacking away at my uneven nails like a woman on the edge. “I mean,” I groan, flicking the nail file like it’s to blame, “this guy just turns up from nowhere, struts into someone’s coffee shop, MY very own workplace, by the way—in his flash posh-mobile, acting like he owns the bloody shop. Such a rude, arrogant piece of shit!" Evelyn pouts in the mirror, then turns toward me, her smirk borderline aristocratic. “Lottie, darling,” she purrs in her perfectly enunciated drawl, “don’t slag off the rich. It screams broke. And… desperate.” She rolls her eyes, then waltzes over and flops on the bed beside me. Her movements all grace and silk, while I resemble a slug i

I quickly sit up, pick my phone and dial her number. "Babe!!" Evelyn screams into my ears the instant she picks up, "you completely put me on hold you selfish skank!" She yells, "I'm so annoyed at you right now, don't fucking talk to me!" I respond with a soft laugh. It always felt so good hearing her voice. "Don't be mad, Lynn," I say in a low tone, almost a whisper, "you know the coffeeshop's been quite busy these days." "Is that why you sound like you're about to die," Evelyn croaks, "or wait, don't tell me you're already dead? Am I talking to Lottie's ghost?" "May be, considering I'm back at my parents'." I can hear Evelyn gasp over the noise of clanking metal. "Oh my word! Did Melinda finally castrate you for not getting a boyfriend?" "Almost, fortunately I could escape it this time." We both laugh, but the continuous clanking is enough for me to get curious. "You busy or what?" I ask, and I can feel her grinning from the other end as she clears her throat and rep

I'm sitting in the backseat of a half-worn taxi that smells suspiciously like old takeaway and stale air freshener. The driver’s just turned on the radio, and, bloody hell, it’s some miserable tune straight outta a funeral march. Violins screech like a banshee’s wail, and suddenly, Monday feels like it’s kicked me square in the gut. “Oi, could you just turn that bleedin’ racket off?” I bark, way louder than intended. The poor guy jumps and fumbles with the dial like I’ve just smacked him. “I did ask if you fancied some music…” he mumbles, clearly regretting his life choices. “Some folk are right pains in the neck.” I sink into the torn leather seat, arms folded like a sulky teen, mentally replaying that moment at the coffeehouse. It been two weeks now. Two entire weeks since that stranger had strolled in like he owned the air I was breathing and said those maddening words. 'Found you.' And those two words haven’t stopped echoing through my skull. My overactive imagination's gone

It started off as a weird sort of routine, more of a strange ritual than custom the universe had assigned just to me. Every other weekday without fail, that woman would stroll into the orphanage, like she owned the winds. Honestly, she was always hovering by either getting in the way of the other children's fun when it involved me, or plopping down next to me like some chatterbox auntie. Yapping on at an eight-year-old who couldn’t be less interested. I remember one of those afternoons pretty clearly. I’d parked myself under this massive old tree in the furthest corner of the garden, the rough bark digging into my back as I vigorously scribbled orange crayon over my four-legged stick drawing. I was lost in moment, like it was some ancient relic I had to uncover. Then came the soft rustle of leaves, followed by a sound, delicate, airy... like little bells being jiggled in a jar. I already knew it was her. Always her. She moved like a breeze wrapped in silk, like the wind itself w

If there’s one thing I can say about my family, it’s that we’re tightly wound together like a pack of old socks, maybe not the fanciest, but warm and worn in. That’s me, my mum Melinda, and my dad Oliver. Well, more Melinda’s opinion than ours, but let’s not split hairs. We live in Lexxton—a quiet-ish town with twice as many tongues as brains. Rumours here grow faster than garden weeds after a thunderstorm. Oliver, bless him, ran this dinky coffee shop that somehow brewed magic in a cup. The place always smelled like sweet roasted heaven, and no one could beat the blend he made with them long fingers of his. Funny enough, he looked like a twiggy scarecrow with a constant slouch and a lopsided grin, always ready with a daft joke for anyone who’d listen. Melinda though…eh, she was a force of nature. She had twice her husband's body count—of course I wouldn't dare say that in front of her but, oh well— with squinted green eyes that squinted even more behind her thick specs. And whe

A few years earlier, and in the strangest of dreams, I saw a building… The crooked sign on the old pet shop door read “CLOSED” in faded, peeling paint. Outside, the cobbled town of Lexxton slumbered beneath a velvet sky, heavy with silence. But inside the dimly lit shop, a different world stirred. It was one still teeming with peculiar life and strange, secret purpose. From a shadowy corridor emerged a bald, ebony-skinned man cloaked in long, flowing white robes. Metal jingled as he unlatched each animal cage with measured hands. Creatures crept out cautiously, groaning and yawning like hungover spirits. The man’s thick grey moustache which curled around his mouth like twin ropes of charcoal smoke, made his lips look like two black sausages. And the dark brown beaded necklace swaying from his neck mirrored mine perfectly— another uncanny detail in this unreal place. A sluggish tabby, dull in colour but sharp in voice, leapt down from an old half-broken shelf. “What a bloody lo