Carmiabell: The Black Apple

Chapter 1

I absolutely loathe Mondays, and let me tell you, I have a solid list of reasons. First off, it’s the name of my detention teacher, Mr. Monday Stephens—can you believe it? Second, I have a permanent tenant living in my head who just can't seem to get off. Damon shows up to class about as often as a unicorn sighting. I guess growing up in a family that owns forty percent of the school property means you can treat education like a casual hobby. Third, my luck is stuck in hangover mode, making me feel like a deflated balloon. And let’s not forget my dinner plate, which is most likely going to feature boiled cabbage again. Seriously, who has cabbage for dinner in this century?

Pride be damned, I’m prepared to add “starving myself” to my ever-expanding list of things I hate about Mondays.

"Carmiabell Goldmoon Locks!"

Ah, the dreaded full name! This was the universal sign that I was in deep trouble.

"Do you understand the concept of time?!" my mother exclaimed, waving her index finger like a flag of impending doom through the kitchen window.

Lucky for me (or maybe not), our house was perched on a hill, giving us a clear view of the town’s liquid timer. Southern Ellialand preferred a green liquid—a peculiar choice that many found perfectly acceptable. Every moment that passed, a single drop of this vibrant fluid descended into a globe-shaped orb, fed by a tubing perched atop. The orb was positioned above a pillar resembling a stout tree trunk, where gnarled branches spiraled around its base, cradling the orb as if it were a cherished treasure.

It had filled up to a quarter, threatening to make me late for school with every passing drop. Talk about pressure!

Before my mother could unleash another lecture, I bolted into the dining room, snatching an exaggeratedly large bun that could probably double as a pillow, and dashed for the parlor where I had carelessly tossed my bag last week.

I was sure there were plenty of blue flowers waiting for me at school, but just to be safe, I plucked some blue poppies from the flower pot on the parlor table and shoved them into my hair. Yes, I looked like a mental lunatic, but I didn’t care. As a blue dreamer—yeah, that’s a thing—I couldn’t stay away from blue flowers (my lanera) for long. Rumor had it that if a dreamer strayed too far from their “lanera,” they’d end up completely dreamless. The first sign was the color of your eyes fading to snow-white. Yikes!

I didn’t want to become a mere ghost story, not when I had so many pranks to pull!

"Don't forget the trash bag!" my mother shouted from the depths of the kitchen.

Ugh! Taking out the trash was just another thing that made me despise Mondays. I hauled the gigantic black bag behind me after swallowing the massive bun in two bites. I could’ve sworn it was going to choke me, and I’d collapse right there, preventing me from taking out the trash or going to school. But somehow, it made its way down without a hitch, galloping peacefully into my gullet.

Whoever created the meal schedule clearly had something against me. If it had been Saturday, I’d be dead from a Heimlich maneuver by now.

My mother sent me a flying kiss, a daily tradition ever since I was a baby. A flying kiss that had become the only normal thing in our chaotic lives after my father left. I caught it mid-air and chewed it like a piece of gum, then shook my head defiantly to tee my mother off. The classic “I’m not a child anymore!” look.

I unlatched the door, stepping into a bustling neighborhood where creatures hustled and bustled like they were late for a meeting with the Queen of Naps.

Kitchen witches were zooming around in their carriages, luring hapless passersby with their floating brooms. Some navigated their brooms through physical touch, while others were mind-bendingly unique, using a rare mental connection. Honestly, it was like a scene out of a chaotic magical circus.