dearchampaca

[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]

In case it's not common, reading is a part of your job as a writer.

Not every reader is a writer, but every writer MUST be a reader. Reading inspires you, motivates you, and keeps your creativity flowing. Make sure to read more than you write.

[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]

Your Worst Habit

Your worst habit is that you strive for perfection, refusing to make a single mistake, when making mistakes is where opportunities lie for you to learn, to improve yourself and to become a better version of yourself. You are too busy painting a perfect image of yourself, so you steal yourself the chance of dreaming of better possibilities that could gift you a beautiful life.

When your worst habit is chasing perfection, you end up in an endless loop of analysis, hesitation and mental rehearsal of “what should be” that stifles your momentum in life. You delay decisions by chasing a perfect ‘phantom’ appearance, fearing regret more than stagnation. Even small choices become a battleground: weighing pros and cons until the window closes, leaving you stuck in ‘research mode’ or seeking excessive validation.

But do you know what’s worse?

When your worst habit is chasing after perfection, you slowly lose confidence in your voice. You second-guess your thoughts, your words, and your intentions a lot. You are slowly afraid of saying things as you mean them to be, afraid that you would be misinterpreted, afraid that it would paint a wrong image of yourself, and afraid that you would lose more than being truthful in the moment. You slowly lose your voice and rely on others’ words, often polished words, borrowing their courage instead of thinking on your feet, thinking that would substitute for making you a good person.

That’s not how it works.

Your perfectionism is lying to you.

Word count: 250/250 words

Sylvia Plath, aged 25, from "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath" (dated July 19, 1958)

[dearchampaca]

I also want to talk about the role of a literary agent. A literary agent is an agent who represents writers and their written works to publishers, theatrical producers, film producers, and film studios, and assists in the sale and deal negotiation. Literary agents most often represent novelists, screenwriters, and nonfiction writers.

Literary agents are mostly prominent in publishing markets like United States, United Kingdom, Canada and Australia. But literary agencies are not common in a country like mine, Malaysia.

Among the rare few available:

Sivagurunathan & Chua is a literary agency based in Malaysia, looking to bring new and diverse Malaysian writing to the world. The partners Devina Sivagurunathan and Rosalind Chua aim to combine their decades of publishing and international business development experience with a shared love for books (and David Beckham) to build long-term relationships with authors, publishers, and agents throughout the world.

Rimau Rights is founded upon the vision that Malaysian literary works could and should be promoted to a worldwide audience. Rimau Rights will also act as a bridge between Malaysian and international stakeholders, as an international publicist.

If you are non-American or non-UK and want to understand the process of approaching literary agents to get published overseas, you may also hover over the website here to read about it.

What are the pros and cons of self publishing, choosing a small press, or going down the trad publishing route?

Every writer’s journey to publication is unique, and there’s no “right” path that works for everyone. The publishing landscape has transformed dramatically in the past decade. There are more options available to writers than ever before, but with those options comes the challenge of knowing which is best for you.

Some writers dream of seeing their books in major bookstores and working with prestigious publishing houses. Others value creative control and quick time-to-market. Others find their sweet spot with indie presses that specialise in their genre or style and have captive audiences tailored for their work.

Let’s look at the pros and cons of each path so you can make the choice that best serves your work and your goals as an author.

Traditional publishing

Traditional publishing refers to the established model where publishing houses (from the Big 5 and their imprints, as well as mid-sized independent publishers) take on the financial risk and responsibility of bringing your book to market.

In this model, publishers invest their resources, expertise, and industry connections to get your book into the hands of readers. They handle everything from editing and design to printing, distribution, and some of the marketing (authors will always be expected to do some marketing themselves), all without any upfront cost to the author. In return, they take a larger share of the book’s profits and maintain certain rights to the work.

Pros:

No upfront costs to the author.

Professional editing, cover design, and marketing support.

Industry expertise and connections.

Distribution networks and bookstore relationships.

Prestige and credibility.

Advances against royalties.

Better chance at major literary awards and reviews.

Cons:

Very competitive to break into.

Long timeline (often 18-24 months from acceptance to publication).

Less creative control.

Lower royalty percentages dependent on format (typically 5%-8% for paperbacks and 15% for hardback).

Limited input on cover design and marketing strategies.

Rights typically controlled by publisher.

May need a literary agent first (another competitive step).

Small press publishing

While small press publishing is still a form of traditional publishing, I’ve given this a separate entry, as there are some differences in approach, as well as different pros and cons.

Small presses typically publish a smaller number of books a year compared to the thousands released by larger publishers and often focus on specific genres, styles, or communities. Because of this, many have built devoted followings among readers who trust their editorial vision.

They combine some of the professional support of traditional publishing with a more intimate, hands-on approach that many authors find appealing. While they may lack the resources of larger houses, small presses often make up for it with passion, dedication, and a willingness to take risks on unique or experimental works that might not find a home with major publishers.

Pros:

More personalised attention.

Faster publication timeline than larger publishers.

Often more open to experimental work.

May not require an agent.

May offer more creative input than traditional publishing.

Community-focused approach.

Often more flexible with rights.

Cons:

Limited marketing budgets.

Smaller advances (if any).

More limited distribution.

May lack the resources of larger publishers.

Potential stability concerns.

Varying levels of professional support.

May still be quite competitive.

Self-publishing

Self-publishing gives authors complete control over their work but requires them to manage (and fund) all aspects of publication. It has grown dramatically over the last decade or so and become a legitimate and increasingly popular path to publication.

In a self-publishing model, the author takes on the role of both creator and publisher, maintaining complete control over their work while shouldering all responsibilities for bringing the book to market. This means managing everything from editing and cover design to marketing and distribution—either handling these tasks personally or hiring professionals to help.

Modern self-publishing platforms like Amazon KDP, Ingram Spark, and Draft2Digital have made it easier than ever to reach readers directly. However, this independence comes with the requirement that you understand the business side of publishing and usually needs upfront investment to produce a professional-quality book.

Pros:

Complete creative control.

Higher royalty rates (up to 70% for ebooks).

Faster time to market.

Keep all rights.

Direct access to sales data.

Freedom to experiment.

No gatekeepers.

Can update content easily.

Multiple revenue streams possible.

Cons:

Upfront costs (editing, cover design, marketing).

No advance payment.

Must manage all aspects of publication.

Learning curve for business aspects.

More difficult to get into bookstores.

May face stigma in some circles.

Less likely to get major reviews or awards.

Need to build credibility independently.

Avenues to avoid

While both traditional and self-publishing are valid choices for authors on their writing journeys, there are some avenues that are best avoided. I am, of course, talking about vanity presses.

Vanity presses are companies that charge authors to publish their books while masquerading as traditional publishers or as “hybrid” publishers for those who prefer self-publication. They often make grand promises about marketing, distribution, and sales but deliver poor-quality products at inflated prices.

These companies prey on authors’ dreams, charging thousands for services that could be obtained independently at a fraction of the cost. Unlike legitimate self-publishing services, vanity presses will often try to keep rights to your work while providing minimal value in return.

There are some great resources available online to help you spot a vanity press, but I can highly recommend the Writer Beware blog, supported by the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association. They keep a comprehensive and fact-checked list of vanity and hybrid presses, as well as several other common writer scams to help you navigate that particular minefield.

Making your choice

Consider these factors when choosing your path:

Your financial situation and risk tolerance.

How much creative control matters to you.

Your marketing and business capabilities.

Your timeline goals.

Your specific genre and market.

Your long-term career goals.

Ultimately, it all comes down to choosing the path that best serves your unique outlook and targets. Start by honestly assessing your goals, resources, and your specific desires. Consider speaking with other authors who have experience with different publishing routes, particularly those writing in your genre. Join writing communities and attend industry events (virtual or in-person) to learn more about each path firsthand.

Whatever route you choose, focus first on creating the best possible book. A well-crafted story that connects with readers will find its audience, regardless of how it reaches them. The “best” publishing path is the one that aligns with your vision, resources, and goals as an author.

[dearchampaca]

Epic Creatures in Malaysian Folklore

***For Ghosts in Malaysian culture, see Ghosts in Malay culture.

Note: This is my copy-paste from Wikipedia for future reference of epic creatures that I could develop into future fantasy short stories. This list also serves as prompts to motivate me to create more fantasy short stories based on my Southeast Asian heritage and roots. Malaysians have always taken great interest in stories of ghosts and mythical creatures. Due to the animistic root of Malaysian folk lores, these ghosts are seen as sharing the plane of existence with humans and are not always considered evil. However, when the delicate line that separates the boundaries of existence is crossed, or a transgression of living spaces occurs, a conflict ensues that may result in disturbances such as possessions. In Malay, the term hantu is used to describe demon, ghost or ghoul and similar to the Japanese Yōkai. Malay folk stories also adopted elements from the Islamic world, of middle eastern and Persian origin, which are somewhat differ from what Malays now refer to as angels or demons.

Among the popular ghost or mythical creatures in Malay folk lores are as follows:

Ghosts

Bajang: a ghost with long nails that supposedly likes to disturb pregnant women or children

Pelesit: a ghost who supposedly likes to suck blood (usually represents themselves as grasshoppers)

Penanggalan: a ghost that supposedly can fly while its stomach is strapped out.

Pocong: a ghost in the form of corpses wrapped in shrouds

Polong: The polong is a type of familiar spirit in Malay folklore. It has the appearance of a miniature woman, the size of the first joint of the finger.

Puntianak or Langsuir: a ghost who supposedly likes to suck blood and disturb women in childbirth, and usually are themselves like women

Toyol: a goblin toddler who supposedly likes to steal money

Hantu Raya: A type of familiar spirit in Malay folklore that acts as a double for black magic practitioners. Roughly meaning "great ghost", it is supposed to bestow great power onto its master. Its true form, according to the folktale, is a humanoid form with a black hairy body except the facial area, rough grey skin, long sharp teeth and red eyes.

Hantu Air: Hantu Air, Puaka Air or Mambang Air is the Malay translation for Spirit of the Water or Water Ghost, which, according to animist traditions in Maritime Southeast Asia, is the unseen inhabitant of watery places such as rivers, lakes, seas, swamps and even ditches. Communication between humans and Hantu Air occurs in situations based on the well-being of the environment and can be positive or negative. Water spirits are called on and communicated with through ceremonies, rituals, incantations, and, in extreme cases, exorcisms. Hantu Air is associated with bad things happening to people, including missing persons, drowning, flooding and many other incidents.

Jembalang Tanah: A type of earth spirit, which may act dangerously if not appeased with the proper rituals.

Humanoid beings

Bidadara: a prince in heaven or in Kayangan

Bidadari: a princess in heaven or in Kayangan

Bunian or Siluman: hidden people in the forest

Duyung: a woman who is supposedly half human and half fish (tail part) and lives in the sea, equivalent to a mermaid.

Kelambai: a female red-haired ogre

Orang Mawas: a Bigfoot of Johor

Orang Minyak: a being who lubricates his body with oil (so that he will not be easily caught) and usually harasses women with the intention of violating them

Raksasa or Gergasi or Bota: a man-eating giant

Lycanthropic beings

Jadian: a human being who can transform themselves into animals (especially tigers)

Mythical beings

Naga: a fictional creature in the form of crocodiles or snakes but with wings and claws, able to breathe fire out of its mouth

Semberani: a fictional creature in the form of a horse with wing and can fly

Sulur Bidar: a fictional creature in the form of man-eating carpet monster and lives in the lake

Tambuakar: a fictional creature in the form of a dragon that evolved from fish after thousand of years

Mythical birds

Burung Bayan: a mythical bird that brings romantic notions

Burung Cenderawasih: a mythical bird in heaven or in Kayangan

Burung Geroda: a mythical bird in classical Malay literature, great eagle

Burung Jentayu: a mythical bird that always cries out for rain

Burung Petala: a mythical bird, guardian of Kelantan

Middle Eastern and Persian additions (Islamic influence)

Buraq: an animal (in the form of winged horses and heads like a human) ridden by Muhammad during Israk

Dajal: a creature that is believed to exist when the end times is near

Jin: a creature created by Allah from fire that can resemble angels

Malaikat: a creature created by Allah from light, their nature and habits are always submissive and obedient to Allah and never violate His commands

Peri: a genie who can be transformed into a beautiful woman

Syaitan: an evil subtle being who encourages evil

Source: Folklore of Malaysia

[dearchampaca]

I just want to add to the experience of being Southeast Asian, particularly if you are interested in writing a story set in Malaysia. We have many races here, and most people are at least bilingual. Urban Malay people tend to speak mostly English and code-switch to Malay when they are frustrated. However, suburban Malays primarily use the Malay language and rarely interject with English.

There are also Malaysian Chinese and Malaysian Indians who are not just bilingual but trilingual. They usually need to master Malay as their country's mother tongue, English as a second language in school, and either Mandarin or dialects such as Cantonese and Hokkien, along with Tamil for Indians, which are used at home. So most of them sometimes will code-switch between three different languages in one sentence. And it's a very common occurrence, too. While it is clear that conservatives and residents of suburban areas primarily speak one language, occasionally using Malay or English loanwords, most urban dwellers tend to mix multiple languages in their speech.

There's an observation that our English is known as Manglish, which is a colloquial, informal version of English spoken in Malaysia. Manglish is sometimes historically known as Bahasa Rojak, but it differs from the latter by the use of English as the base language. The term rojak derives from "mixture" or "eclectic mix" in colloquial Malay. It blends English with various Malaysian languages like Malay, Chinese dialects, and Tamil, creating a unique linguistic blend. It's not an official language and is often discouraged in formal settings like schools, but it's widely used in everyday conversation. We also often add particles like "lah," "lor," "mah," and "ah" to the end of sentences for emphasis, softening commands, or indicating agreement.  Examples of Manglish (Malaysian English):

"Can or not?" (Are we allowed to do that?)

"I don't like durian lah."

"Got meh people like that?" (There are people who are like that?")

"You don't noisy-noisy ah, I whack you later then you know." (Don't be too noisy or I'll discipline you later.)

What I would love to say is that Manglish on its own can function as its own language with syntax, grammar, and nouns that can be difficult for foreigners to grasp if it's their first time coming to our country. Therefore, my advice is that if you are interested in writing about Southeast Asian people, particularly Malaysians who use Manglish, you should conduct proper research first! Or at least you are always welcome to my inbox for any questions!

Source: Wikipedia

SO YOU WANT TO WRITE A BILINGUAL PERSON BUT YOU'RE STILL HAVING THEM "FLIP LANGUAGES" LIKE IT'S A LIGHTSWITCH

As a bilingual person (English and Spanish fluently, learning German) and also a writer, I'm here to fix that.

First of all, there are not different "modes". your languages coexist in your brain all the time and it's a mess. That's one thing that immediately takes me out of the story.

Everyone's obviously different, but in my experience, you categorize people into different languages. I have English speaking friends and Spanish speaking friends, and very very few who can be both. If anyone speaks the wrong language I will have a stroke.

I tend to have favourite words that I'll use when talking to myself or other bilingual people, even if the entire conversation is in the other language. One of mine is "pedazo," which directly means piece but in slang terms means "extremely" and can be used for adjectives or nouns. You can have your character's favorite word be anything.

They can also have least favourite words. I avoid the word "zanahoria" (carrot) like my life depends on it. Get creative with it.

If your character has a lot of bilingual friends with languages they don't know, they're gonna pick up on some words. I've never actually studied Russian, but because of my friends I know a good portion of the alphabet and some basic words or phrases.

Continuing with multiple languages: idk how to really describe this one but if you see a "different language" that is YOUR second language no matter what. I was once with someone who knew English and Russian. She didn't know a word in English and my immediate instinct was to translate to Spanish. Obviously not helpful, but that and similar phenomenons happen SO often.

Finally, this is probably best for humour: forgetting words. You might have heard this before, most famously from TikTok user DeztheLez describing things their mother says. This is not an isolated situation. If you forget a word, you describe it (normally badly)

Some of my own examples: Those which are no longer grapes: raisins The socks that are so long they're trousers now: tights Confusing the spanish words "pulmones" and "pulgares" which lead me to saying "lungs up" Hand ankle: wrist The spinning flower: sunflower (in Spanish the name is girasol, which translates to "turn-sun"

Happy writing! If you have any questions, feel free to ask

[dearchampaca]

Always a pleasure.

Will definitely return to EstellaInk for help :)

✨ Feedback Spotlight ✨

Getting to read not one, but two of Champaca’s short stories was such a treat! Her words bring Southeast Asian folklore to life in a way that feels both magical and accessible, and it was an honor to reassure her that the lore comes across naturally.

Here’s what she had to say about her experiences with EstellaInk:

"The feedback is very uplifting, just gently nudging me into the right direction instead of being outwardly harsh. I love the mention of personal favourites as it informs me which parts of the story capture the reader’s heart. The feedback is also fast, as I don’t have to be kept waiting very long. Overall, with mythology clarity section it also answers my doubt about my short story as well so I’m very satisfied."

And for her second story:

"I love how this story feedback about Toyol answers my insecurity about its folklore’s accessibility. I am glad to learn that the lore feels natural without making it like a lecture, which is something that I am learning to do when I am infusing my Southeast Asian folklore into the short story I’m writing. I am also pleased that the short story that I enjoyed most writing also find its way to steal EstellaInk’s heart, especially reaffirmed through favourite parts stated."

Thank you, Champaca, for trusting me not once, but twice—it means the world that my feedback could help ease your doubts and celebrate your favorite moments. 💜

@dearchampaca

[dearchampaca]

It’s still worth writing even if it’s niche, because you will find your own audience eventually.

SO WRITE IT.

Your story is still worth writing even if it veers off from what you planned originally.

It’s still worth writing even if you aren’t feeling it right now.

It’s still worth writing even if it’s fanfiction.

It’s still worth writing even if you don’t think anyone else would ever want to read it.

It’s still worth writing even if it doesn’t get published.

It’s still worth writing even if it doesn’t get adapted into a huge blockbuster movie.

It’s still worth writing even if you can’t have fancy illustrations at the beginning of chapters or a map of the world at the beginning.

It’s still worth writing even if someone you trusted told you to stop.

It’s still worth writing if you just rolled your eyes at me.

It’s still worth writing, SO WRITE IT.

[dearchampaca]

Personal Reflections from Joining Writing Contests

Writing from perspectivs of someone who has entered multiple writing contests

1. You can write about what you are passionate about, but that may be not what the judges are looking for, or up to their taste or preferences. It’s okay, writing itself is a discovery process of what you are passionate about. Always hold on to that and keep writing.

2. Not winning the writing contests does not mean that your writing is not original, nor weak or anything slightest bad at all. However, the winning submission usually exceed the theme and prompt given for the contest AND win the judges’ heart unanimously.

3. Most winning submissions are usually stories with strong emotional impact. It could be story that explores grief in depth. It could be story that explore certain sensation in depth. But certain criteria is at play here, and emotional impact is usually difficult to measure when humans are impacted emotionally by different things. All there is remember is that you have given your best shot to fulfill the criteria.

4. Writing for the purpose to win the contests can be a good motivational boost for deadline setting, and give adrenaline rush for its competitive edge but there’s also acceptance and learning curve from losing that hold so much values. You learn about improving your writing, and understand that just like a matter of taste and preferences, luck can favour you in next round.

5. Writing for contests can be a good writing exercise ground, but it cannot be the only exercise ground that makes you write. Eventually, you still have to explore different avenue that helps you write, different platform that you can write freely, or have the help of different eyes to give feedback to your writing. If you want to improve your writing, you have to continue writing without/after the writing contests.

6. Writing contests are not the place to find your audience. Sure, some writing contests may contain prizes where they introduce you to literary agent or pair you to one to help you get published, but yet again, you will not find an audience to your writing through writing contests. It would be much better to grow your audience, and develop your writing through reader-based websites like Wattpad, A03 and Inkitt.

7. Just because you don’t win writing contests, it does not mean that you don’t have what it takes to be a good writer and to be published. If you feel called to write, then that means your voice matters to be heard. Trust in your own journey of unravelling your story to tell to the world. Your story deserves a place in this world. Keep writing and improving.

[dearchampaca]

Welcome to EstellaInk! ✨

Hey there, fellow writer! ✨

I’m so glad you stumbled into my little corner of the internet. EstellaInk is a completely FREE passion project run by just one teen (hi, that’s me!), and it’s here to help you bring your stories to life. Whether you’ve got a half-finished novel, a character you can’t quite understand, or just need someone to hype you up—I'm here for it!

What I Offer (so far!) Here’s what you can ask for through the form linked below:

✏️ Editing Help – I’ll read through your writing and give thoughtful, constructive feedback—whether you want help with grammar, flow, dialogue, character voices, or everything.

🧠 Brainstorming Support – Stuck on a plot twist? Can’t figure out what your character wants? Need a name for your magical sword? I got you.

📬 Story Feedback – Want general impressions on your story or chapter? I’ll respond as both a reader and a writer.

🌍 Worldbuilding, Plot, or Structure Advice – Need help with pacing? Plot holes? Theme? I’ll dive in and help however I can.

❓ Other Writing Help – Have a writing issue that doesn’t quite fit into these categories? Ask away—I’ll do my best to help!

This isn’t a big official service (at least, not yet!)—just a fellow writer lending a hand to help you tell the story only you can write.

Want help? Start here: EstellaInk - Submission Portal

More coming soon:

I’m working on writing resources, character guides, and maybe even a newsletter 👀 So stick around!

— Mahi (aka the scribbler behind EstellaInk) 💜

[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."

[dearchampaca]

Introduction

Hello, everyone!

This is Champaca here, a neurodivergent Southeast Asian who loves to write and aspires to be a published and successful author.

This blog will be a space where I post my musings and short stories. I also plan to write short pieces under prompts to practice writing. This may also be where I write and publish some resources that I plan to keep for reference, if they will be useful for my future writing. All short stories are copyrighted by me unless stated otherwise.

In the meantime, please enjoy your stroll here. You are welcome to leave your comment, reblog, or follow me so we can be mutuals.

Read: Short Stories by Champaca