The Celoisa Temple
Five young adults called....five open seats of study at the hidden Celoisia Temple. Five mystical journeys that will be fulfilled. Join us for another chapter! Written by alistair, TheSpecter, and ciorstian_eileionoir!
Donovan – Who Knows
I was finished my shift, cycling away from Burger King at 5:30pm. With a yellowish black sky above me, reflecting the city lights all around, I sped off through torrential bullets of snow and ice.
My mind was just focused on the thought of supper; I could care less about the snow.
After riding past a number of stoplights, I veered into the residential area. The side streets were becoming harder to navigate through, due to high snow banks.
I increased my speed down the street. By now, home was only a block away, and, best of all, tonight was the night for fried chicken. Not the Burger King type of chicken that took forever to cook every day—home-cooked chicken. Not to snub Burger King in any way, but after eating chicken fries, sandwiches, strips, and nuggets for weeks on end at half-price, I had started to crave the original kind I always knew. There’s nothing like plain chicken dipped in raw eggs, rolled in leftover bread crumbs and spices, and fried in a pan of sunflower oil.
A pair of car-lights met me head on as I turned the corner of the side street. Panicked, I tried to steer away, ramming the brakes, only to roll over into a snow bank on my right. The car swerved, just in time to miss me.
I lay there for a few seconds. Let’s just say chicken was the farthest thing from my thoughts. I rose and shoved my bicycle out of the snow bank, shaking the snow out of the wheels, and mounted again. Slowly, my thoughts turned back to home.
It was just ahead of me.
Inside, the scent of deep-fried chicken permeated the air like smog. Over in the living room, my mother was sitting in a rocking chair, glasses on, with a newspaper in her hands.
“They like to keep you overtime, don’t they?” she commented, with a raised eyebrow, as I tramped in.
“It was only ‘bout a half hour,” I replied with a shrug, shaking off my coat and gloves, “and the snow was coming down pretty thick. The roads will probably be even worse by morning.” I didn’t have to ask where the chicken was; there was the steel pan on the stove, a lid fixed on it, containing the glorious meal.
Mother and I moved to the table to eat, clearing off some papers as we did so. I noticed, in the day’s mail, another letter from Peter. It made me think about how odd it was that Peter was so “open” recently, if that’s the word for it. Before he moved to university, he never talked about his life the way he did now, or shared that much about his questions, opinions, or thoughts on stuff in general. At least, not with me; I’d sensed that he felt uncomfortable, even annoyed, talking about that kind of stuff with me. For a moment, I held the letter in my hand with a hint of a frown. Then I tossed it aside.
Usually, during dinner, I’d sift through the mail for anything of particular importance, but tonight I didn’t. While we ate, mother told me about some of the recent political conspiracy theories floating around on the news. We laughed—or smirked—over most of them. I told her about a conspiracy theory of my own, about a buddy at work who always seemed to get away with never paying for the food.
After supper and a few other chores and chit chat with mother, I decided to take a peek at Peter’s letter before mother noticed it.
Bringing the pile of mail to my room, I stretched out comfortably on the bed and sorted through it, throwing the flyers and commercial ads on the floor. Peter’s letter was near the top of the pile; I kept on sorting. Eventually, another handwritten letter caught my eye; it was addressed to me. This was new.
My curiosity piqued, I forced the letter open. What I saw made me grimace. Go where?
“Yeah, this is probably a joke,” I thought, “or a scam of some sort. Nobody would know that about me. I mean, not for real.”
Slowly, I reeled off the creaking bed and gathered up the garbage I’d tossed on the floor. That done, I turned to see what Peter had written this time. But I could predict it. It contained another profound thought about how his experiences and studies were making him a better person, and another one of his perfectly laid out ideas for his shiny, future career plan. Glancing over it, I decided mother would find it amusing.
After handing it over to mother, who gladly accepted it and gave me a sweet goodnight smile —as she always did—I wound up slouched in my bed again with that unusual letter laid out in front of me.
The word “Choose” leapt out at me from the page.
At the end of the letter, “Destiny” seemed to haunt me.
There was a breathless sort of silence—if you could call it silence—suspended around me. Too much was going on in my head.
I couldn’t stand it.
Crushing the letter in my palms, I hurled it straight ahead at the wall, thinking inside, “You don’t know me!”