Wanderlust Whimsies: An Occult Outlet

BeautifulTrauma

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In traditional Victorian grandeur sits an old three-bay commercial storefront in the center of a less traveled backstreet. Above the establishment are two stories, red brick and mortar, with time-honored casement windows adorned with off-red lintels; the third floor being the living quarters of the proprietor, whereas the second floor serves as an overflow and warehouse for the excess or uncatalogued wares. The facade of the first floor is slate gray in an attempt to appear modern, repainted multiple times over the years, though cosmetic scratches on the paint reveal a rich forest green beneath. Beautifully ornate pilasters etched with composite decoration bring the eyes to the large glossy windows looking into the curious little shop; behind each window sits a round, antique, Gabon Ebony table adorned with various bits and bobs: crystal balls, small hand-carved ambiguous statues of the God and Goddess, various front-facing books on stands, and other small trinkets to catch the eye. A small stoop gives way to crimson French doors at the center of the shopfront, and a large rectangular single-pane glass window above them reads the name:

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(Wanderlust Whimsies: An Occult Outlet)

On entering Wanderlust Whimsies, one is immediately met with the scent of burning Myrrh incense and other pleasant fragrances that scream out the nature of the business. The shop is split into two large sections with a long Gabon Ebony table in the center of the establishment that houses various crystals, statues, cauldrons, pentacle tiles, altar cloths, bells and small spell candles of various shapes, sizes and colors. On the left of the entrance, there are ceiling-high built-in book cases stuffed to the brim with various spiritual tomes and guides, as well as some modern-lensed mythology, theology and psychology manuals. On the right of the entrance, there is a wall of various handcrafted items made by the curator, including incense by the stick or cone, bundles of sage and other smudging bundles, talismans of different secular branches, and hand-carved wands in various types of woods, adorned with or without power crystals that have been charged by certain moon cycles. Small note cards written in beautiful script lay beneath each item describing what they are and what they do; there is no price on these items, merely a phrase in Dragons Blood ink stating: “Please See B.T. for More Details.”

As a patron of Wanderlust Whimsies continues deeper into the Outlet, they will come to see glass cases attached to the walls, from floor to ceiling, on the right: swords, daggers, dirks, bolines and athames rest gently on crimson velvet within their containment vessels. There are no tags or notes beneath the items or anywhere on the cases: simply, a free-standing sign in the same ornate lettering of the store’s signage stating: “Please Ask for Assistance.” On the left of the establishment, the bookshelves end a little over halfway through the length of the building and give way to an alcove in the architecture where shelves line the walls to the furthest accesses of the establishment, housing Spirit Boards, Ouija Boards, Crystal Balls, Pendulums dangling from a display rack, Tarot Cards, Oracle Cards, Runes and various blank-paged leather-bound journals of varying sizes, colors, and decorative embossment.

At the back, center, of the interior sits a large Purpleheart desk encased by a barrier of similar wood with a small outward swinging gate to the right. On the side opposite of the gated entrance stands twenty or so brooms made of different woods that are stained different colors; on each handle, a small leather chord of matching color to the broom’s color is tied with a note about the product: what it’s made of, what properties it exhibits, etcetera. The proprietor’s desk is neatly organized; a laptop and a Point of Sale terminal sit at the center for shoppers when they are ready to purchase their wares. A modest sign hangs beneath the terminal: “Please Ring the Bell, if I Am Not at My Desk;” a small silver wall bell is affixed to the desk, right above the sign. To the left, a large, black leather-bound journal lays open with a crimson ribbon holding a different page’s place—the words scrawled on the open page reflect the proprietor's deepest desires. A great horned owl feather quill sits in its antiqued silver stand just above the journal, with a matching inkwell; two sticks of Myrrh smoke beneath a vertical incense burner in the shape of an owl as tendrils of ethereal smoke slither up towards the ceiling from its nostrils. To the right, an old, black, vintage Continental Standard typewriter sits beside an open notebook with a crimson fountain pen placed between its pages: small fleeting thoughts are strewn on the pages, anything from plot discovery for her novel, to small sketches of characters she’s seen in dreams, to thought-provoking emotive poems.

Behind the workstation is another wall of shelves: jars of various herbs and ointments sit partially empty; their tags are black with silver calligraphy identifying their contents. Spell candles (already created, carved, and intentions imbued) sit adjacent to the herbs and tinctures, and on the furthest corner is a small book case of rare first edition manuscripts and tomes of the proprietor’s craft. Behind the desk, to the left, stands a large black-iron spiral staircase leading to the second-floor landing; a door behind it leads to a small hallway that splits at an emergency exit but continues to an industrial elevator (installed far after the buildings’ construction), for transporting items to and from the second floor.

B.T. sits at her desk, in a wonderfully plush black leather office chair, deep in thought as she whittles another wand: a springy little piece of willow gifted to her by a tree at her favorite creek just on the outskirts of town. She glances up occasionally to see if anyone is coming to peruse her little shop, smiling, knowing that folks will come, in time. She hums a soft chant to herself and sways as her hands work their magick on the little wand: she ponders what stone would fit well at the base, and whether she should wire wrap it for aesthetic purposes.

This is her dream: a place where she can live and gift people her precious heart-felt handmade items. She pauses her work to take a sip of peppermint tea; glancing once more at the door, she realizes that she hadn’t turned the sign to “Come on in, WE ARE OPEN, and the tea is brewing.” She shuffles to the door, taking great care to admire each item she passes on her way to the entrance; flipping the sign, she giggles at her simple mistake, then wanders back to her position at the back of the store. As if in a trance, she takes up her whittling again and goes back to work, methodically carving with the grain of the wood, trying to keep as much of the original shape as possible.


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The elf wanders in. It feels a bit strange to do something like just enter through a door, but this was a place he had never been before, he wouldn’t just poof here.

He had a purpose, for he very rarely did things without some purpose. He had received a visitor, and now felt compelled to leave her a note as well. His note that he planned to lay on her desk would be written in two scripts. The first the flowing tongue of his people, elvish, below it the translation to common.

“There is someone I did not expect to see again. Some people come into our lives briefly and leave a mark. It took me a moment or three to make some mental connections but with some effort, much came back to me. I hope your return is not fleeting, I’d love to reconnect.”

Not knowing how to end the note he hadn’t bothered, she would know who it was from. With that he decided to wander through the store a bit before fading away.
 
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