The Inside Diaries

Caravan

She had woken up, not in her usual Air B&B, but this time, in a pod-like metallic caravan by the ocean. The sky was painted a pale peony pink, ribbons of peach extending onto the indigo abyss.

Airstream, the caravan's lettering read as she fixed herself a steaming cup of hot tea. Peppermint—the usual, Catticus' tail winding itself about her ankles as he purred contentedly. And food for you, she mused, plopping a pre-sealed can of minced chicken into his dish. Wave upon wave crashed onto the sandy beach further below, a collection of rocky terrain and sandy dune therein.

I hope you're happy here, Marcella.

Melanija took a cautious sip of her piping hot beverage, staring out into the horizon. She had instructed Matias to find an alternate living arrangement—perhaps with Morgana or elsewhere?—while Marcella and her beau for lack of a better term...reacquainted themselves. Given that Epicenter Pico No. 23 had a beautiful balcony view (not to mention string lights and a well-functioning hot tub), the writer had a general idea of just exactly what might transpire, from late evening into the early reaches of dawn.

What appeared to be wheatgrass grew in tufted sprouts here and there, as she debated what to do next. Sure, she was within an idyllic world of her own, but no doubt there was work of some kind to do. Why else would she have had the ability to travel within?

Recalling the previous night, in which she spent hours settling in just for a couple of days or so, she remembered noticing tea lights from Epicenter Pico aglow like none other, droplets from the hot tub seizing upward and rotating silently, akin to a snow globe. And nothing more, as she dutifully turned her head and proceeded onward with her writing projects, closing all windows, donning earplugs, lest she hear anything remotely...interesting...in nature.

Of course, Matias had waved her off time and time again. I'll be fine, his motions seemed to indicate. She had tried. But—oh well—she turned away from the ocean view, opening the caravan's door to inhale the salty morning breeze—

BANG!

She jumped—

What was that?

In the corner of her eye, she spied an aged male figure in the distance, positively fleeing his abode, dried herbs barely contained within his canvas bag. Matias. A door, slammed. Likely his.

I hope he's ok?

She re-entered her temporary abode, changed from pajamas to lightweight clothing, giving chase the next minute, as he headed toward the marketplace, and Morgana.

About fifteen to twenty minutes later, Melanija finally caught up with him. "Matias!" she called out as he paused in the marketplace's entryway. "Are you alright?"

"Funny you should ask..." his eyes darted back and forth, as though he feared being overheard. "This morning...4 am...thereabouts...heard a..." he made a motion with his hands, as her brow furrowed.

"A...?"

"Well..." he reconsidered his choice of wording. "More...felt—the earth—I think there was—an earthquake! The herbs—they shook! Faster and faster!"

Melanija bit her lip hard to avoid laughing. This was no earthquake—just very active neighbors. Marcella and her (likely) significant other, having a 'reunion' of their own. "Ummmm...right." She pretended deep contemplation. "So, I think the best course of action is for you to stay with Morgana. For, y'know, earthquake protection, just in case. If you're ok with that. I'm sure the...uh...tectonic plates will...um...adjust themselves—"

He exhaled slowly, catching his breath all the same. "That sounds like a great idea."

After watching him depart to his stall, Melanija returned to her caravan for a couple more hours of sleep and breakfast—fruit salad and thickly-sliced toasted island cream bread with freshly churned butter. Delicious. Once satiated, she departed for the dock, to get some much-needed fresh air and exercise.

Drawing closer, she spotted three tall palm trees—a fourth—and a much-taller fifth, their branches gently swaying in the breeze. A circular wicker trellis adorned with giant roses sat perched before said trees, with roughly eighty or so identical chairs facing it.

A wedding, the writer realized, walking around the perimeter, noticing the matching bouquets of damask and snow-colored roses at the foot of the final aisle. But whose? String lights swung lazily above, one glass-beaded strand after another. This venue would be gorgeous at night, she knew for certain.

The blushing bride, her dazzling gown captivating onlookers, her eyes on none but her new husband, and vice versa, as he swung her low, planting a kiss upon her gentle, becoming lips.

Worlds within worlds.

She shook her head the next second. Who was she kidding? She had a ways to go before a wedding was probable, let alone possible. First, Marcella had to come to terms with her feelings for Henry. Henry, British by birth, but a hundred miles from home, both in time and space it often seemed, with his uniquely curious habits—teatime and Windsor knots included. But home—his newfound home—was being with Marcella, with her own idiosyncratic scientific quirks and foibles.

Melanija just hoped the pair would realize it sooner or later. Who knew how much time she had left as a writer, ensconced in her own written story?

Later that evening after cooking a simple meal of chili stew and rice, Melanija went for a walk along the shore, now aglow in blue bioluminescence, the skies a deep, rich umber, speckled with gold. Constellations. She wished she had taken an astronomy course, if only to be able to label the breathtaking beauty spread above. Was it the Big Dipper? The Little Dipper? Ursula the Bear? She wished she knew.

Moments later, her toes met each resounding Seurat-studded sapphire wave—release and recede—its coolness refreshing after a warm summer's day—and so on, as the moon shone, a single opalescent dot in the stratosphere.

Maybe nomenclature didn't matter.

A rose by any other name...per Shakespeare.

Perhaps all that really mattered was to enjoy nature's artwork in the moment...and to simply, truly, be.