The Skylark Bell – Details, episodes & analysis

Hello again dear listeners. I know it’s been some time since I released a new episode of The Skylark Bell, but I believe you’ll feel it was worth the wait as you listen to this strange, uncanny tale I cooked up after a solo train ride to Inverness while visiting Scotland earlier this year.

Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri

Contact: theskylarkbell@gmail.com

The Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.com

The Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbell

Author/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.com

All music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.com

Cannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.music

FULL TRANSCRIPT:

Things with Wings Productions presents: I Met Him on the Train - A Special Episode written exclusively for The Skylark Bell podcast. I’m your host, Melissa Oliveri.  

Hello again dear listeners. I know it’s been some time since I released a new episode of The Skylark Bell, but I believe you’ll feel it was worth the wait as you listen to this strange, uncanny tale I cooked up.

I found myself once again staying with my dear little friend Russell the cat this week, and he once again worked his magic. I wrote this story over the course of 2 days, pulling inspiration from a recent trip to Scotland where I set off on my own on a 3 hour long train ride each way from Stirling to Inverness. Russell kept me company into the night and in the early morning hours as I followed the winding path of the story that came spinning out of me. It started as a title: I Met Him on the Train... then I had to sort out the details. Who did I meet? What did they do? Why was it important? What happens next? And after that? And finally, how does the story end?

All those questions will be answered... well, sort of, if you’ve listened this far into the podcast, you know I’m not one to wrap things up with a tidy little bow, I much prefer to leave room for interpretation, and imagination.

Before we dive into the story, I’d one again like to thank Lauren and Rachel for the use of their apartment over the course of this week. The opportunity to house and cat sit for them gave me the calm and space I needed to write.

And now, at last, it is my pleasure to invite you to settle in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink, or perhaps, if it is also warm where you are, turn on a fan and grab an ice cold lemonade, and let’s get started.

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I met him on the train

It was a Tuesday morning, and I was running late. The trains had been delayed due to flooding on the tracks after days and days of torrential downpours.

I didn’t notice him at first, and in fairness, when I eventually did, there was nothing much to notice. He was quite an ordinary man, not memorable in any particular way. I had headphones on and was staring out the window as the train barrelled North. I admired the landscape stretching out in a blur of greens, browns, and yellows as the sun rose over the Scottish Highlands. His presence came to my attention at a quaint little station about halfway between Glasgow and Inverness when I heard him say “G’day,” while my playlist was between songs. I turned from the window to glance at the seat across from me. 

Average height from what I could tell with him sitting down. Non-descript features, civilian clothes in neutral colours. Everything about him was... the word generic comes to mind. Never in a million years would I have guessed... well, that will come later.

Our gazes crossed paths, and he held fast, staring into my eyes in a way that made it impossible for me to look away. His facial expression, like the rest of him, was completely neutral. I felt a mounting desire to get up and change seats but found myself paralysed by his unwavering stare. Finally, he blinked, smiled a plastic sort of smile, and the spell was broken. Oddly enough, he now looked somewhat friendly and approachable, but with an undercurrent of something terribly, terribly wrong that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

“Lovely day we’re having after all that rain, don’t you think?” he asked. 

Something was off. Had his lips moved? I couldn’t tell if I’d heard him with my ears or if the words had somehow miraculously been channelled directly into my brain. I nodded silently, still locked firmly in my seat by some invisible force, whether from an outside source or a mechanism inside my body I couldn’t tell.

“Wonderful town, Inverness, I think you’ll quite enjoy it,” he mentioned, casually. Again, I couldn’t tell if his lips had moved. Perhaps he was a ventriloquist? I acquiesced with a single nod. 

“Lovely town, Inverness...” he mused, letting the thought trail off as he turned his head to look out the window. I noticed his movements were mechanical in nature, not quite human. The spell broken entirely now, I blinked, and also turned to look out the window. The view outside seemed tinged with an indigo tone that hadn’t been there before, as though someone had painted over the window with a thin layer of watercolour.

Suddenly a thought occurred to me, “How did you know I was going to Inverness?” I asked, turning to look back at him. I stared in shock at the empty seat across from me. My eyes scanned the train car, both in front and behind me, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Had I dreamt him? Yes, that must be it, I must have dozed off with my head leaning on the window, lulled by the steady movement of the train, and had one of those strange dreams brought on by weeks of insomnia and a diet comprised mostly of chips and curry. 

I chuckled sheepishly and turned my gaze back to the outside world. The train was immobilised at a small-town station. I let my eyes travel from left to right at the people waiting on the platform, first noting a middle-aged woman with mass of red hair cascading down her shoulders, her coral sundress was blowing in the breeze. Next to her stood a tall man in shorts and a hoodie with a backpack slung over his shoulder, the two looked like they’d struck up a friendly conversation, both flashing shy smiles at one another. My gaze travelled the empty space between them and landed on the third and last person standing on the platform. My stomach churned as I saw the man who, only moments before, had been sitting across from me. I felt the cognitive dissonance shake me to my core as I watched him stand patiently waiting to get on the train. The train doors hadn’t opened yet, he couldn’t have gotten off the train and onto the platform in the time since I’d last seen him in his seat.

The long signal tone sounded and the doors to the train cars slid open. The man in the hoodie and woman in the coral sundress entered the car behind me, and the impossible man climbed into mine. I watched, fixated, stunned silent, shaken, as he made his way down the aisle and slid into the seat across from mine. 

“G’day,” he said with a nod. He seemed completely normal. So normal it felt abnormal. His tone was normal, his face was normal, his smile was normal... not a sign of the strangeness the previous iteration of him had been drenched in. He also didn’t have that strange hold on me, and I found myself able to respond to him and, thankfully, move. I shifted in my seat and nodded a greeting back at him.

“Are you traveling for work or for pleasure?” he asked in a friendly, casual tone.

“I’m taking the day to explore Inverness,” I replied, reeling at the impossibility of the situation. 

“Wonderful town, Inverness, I think you’ll quite enjoy it,” he commented, striking fear in my heart as I recognised the words his doppelganger had uttered before suddenly vanishing only a short while ago.

“There’s a bookstore there,” he carried on conversationally, as though nothing was amiss... but so, so much was amiss. “It’s called...” his voice trailed off and his eyes lifted toward the roof of the train car as he scanned his memory, “...Peakey’s... Peakey’s Book Shop. It’s slightly off the beaten path, but you should take the time to find it.” 

He paused briefly before carrying on, “Would you like to know the secret to writing a great story?” he asked. I provided an uncertain nod in response. It was uncanny that he should ask me that, I’d been suffering from writer’s block for months, and looming deadlines from my publisher had caused an endless string of sleepless nights. If this strange man on the train had the secret to breaking the curse, I was willing to listen. 

“Enduring curiosity,” he replied, his mouth curling into a knowing smile. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes; the surreal conversation was over. 

We didn’t speak the rest of the way. The train eventually pulled into the station at Inverness and we both got off. I had every intention of following him out of the station to see where he’d go, but he disappeared into the crowd like a plume of smoke dissipates into the wind.

I walked out of the station and marvelled at the architecture of the buildings across the street. I had put together an itinerary, but decided to cast it aside in favour of getting lost in the streets and maybe stopping somewhere for lunch if it suited my fancy. 

I pushed through crowds of tourists, my eyes scanning for a way out of the madness. “I wonder where this goes?” I said out loud as I veered into a narrow alleyway between two stone buildings. I got to the end of the alleyway and gasped at the view. A joyful smile immediately spread across my face; I had forgotten how much I loved exploring a new city on my own. 

Spread out in front of me was a river with three bridges stretching across it, each with their own architectural style. At the far end, on my side of the river, I saw a castle mostly covered in scaffolding. I had read it was under renovation and had no plans to waste my time trying to get a good view through the construction fence, so I forged ahead and walked across the bridge closest to me.

The view from the opposing shoreline was lovely. I noticed a series of old buildings and church steeples peeking out from the lush green of the treeline that stretched along the river on the other side. That was one advantage to all the rain we’d had, vegetation was flourishing. I walked along the road that ran parallel to the river until I came to a pedestrian bridge and crossed back toward Inverness. Once back on the other side I decided on a whim to walk toward one of the churches, and discovered a small graveyard tucked away behind it after following a narrow winding trail forged between a stone wall and a row of shrubs. I’d always liked a quiet walk through a graveyard, exploring the inscriptions on the gravestones, wondering about the lives lead by the people buried there. I spent more time in the graveyard than I should have, and my shoes and socks took on water as the overgrown grass was drenched from recent downpours.

At the very back of the graveyard, I noticed a tall, slim gravestone with a tangled mass of vines on top. Intrigued, I gingerly made my way over to it. I was surprised to discover, upon closer inspection, that the tangled mass of vines was, in reality, a large bird’s nest. I stood on my tippy toes to try and see the contents, but it was too high for me to get a good view. I sighed and took a step back to look at the gravestone, and noticed a faint series of letters mostly covered by a layer of moss. I gently ran my hand over the stone and watched as the moss crumbled to the ground. I gave the stone a series of quick wipes with my palm and squinted to read the inscription. My brow furrowed in concentration as I tried to decipher the name engraved on the stone, but time and the elements had rendered it illegible. Beneath it, however, were the words Lived a life of enduring curiosity, and underneath that: 1905-1974. Enduring curiosity: The same words the man on the train had said to me. I shuddered involuntarily at the memory of him and his doppelganger.

A cold drop of rain landed on my cheek, startling me back to the present moment. I looked up at the sky and noticed a band of dark clouds had rolled in while I was busy inspecting the gravestone. I turned and began walking away when a loud screech made me turn on my heel in shock. The bird was huge, I’d never seen one like it. I stared in awe as it landed in the nest, pulling its massive wingspan closed as it curled up and all but disappeared behind the tangle of branches and dry grass. Its colouring was mostly grey and black, and its size imposing, but its most striking feature was its eyes, which were the colour of garnet stone.

I shivered and scurried out of the graveyard, exiting through a different gate than the one I had come through on the way in. The rainfall was gaining momentum now, and I turned to look down each end of the small, deserted street I found myself on, desperately looking for shelter. To the left I saw an easel on the pavement with an arrow pointing toward a green door. Whatever business it was, I’d find a reason to be in it if it got me out of the rain. I half jogged down the street to the door and quickly pulled it open. The smell of old books hit me immediately, and I took a step back through the still open door, braving the rain to read the sign above it: Peakey’s Book Store.

Discomfort set it immediately. The man on the train had told me about this place, and there was something wrong with the man on the train. I took a few steps into the bookstore and stopped to get my bearings. Row upon row of floor-to-ceiling shelving lined the tiny, cramped shop, every shelf filled to the brim with books, and piles of overstock books on the floor next to them. At the center of the store a metal spiral staircase extended to a second-storey mezzanine, also lined edge to edge with books, and also with droves of books stacked on the floor. I checked the signage, the books appeared to be divided by Fiction, Non-Fiction, and Children’s Books. I decided to check the children’s books first, hoping to find a vintage copy of Alice in Wonderland with original illustrations. I scanned the 3 bookcases in the section from top to bottom, but though there were many copies, I didn’t find quite the edition I was looking for. Next, I wandered to a series of shelves labeled Fiction and found they were sorted by author name. I looked for Daphne DuMaurier, one of my favourites, but the three books of hers they had were ones I already owned. 

I carried on perusing the store, row by row, shelf by shelf, pile by pile... Not looking for anything in particular, but rather enjoying the warmth of the shop and the endless possibilities within the pages of each and every book. I was also keeping an eye on the weather through the store’s only window, which provided a narrow glimpse of the outside world.

I wasn’t sure how much time I’d spent in the shop, but eventually it looked like the sky was clearing and I decided it was time to head out. I gingerly made my way around the piles of books on the floor and was about to leave when a small book haphazardly placed on top of the checkout counter caught my eye. I picked it up and read the title out loud: “I Met Him on the Train”. It was a relatively small book, hardcover with a dustjacket that featured a view of the Scottish Highlands through a train window. I turned the book over in my hands, noting there was no author listed anywhere on the cover. My curiosity aroused; I cracked the book open to the first page...

                  I met him on the train

It was a Tuesday morning, and I was running late. The trains had been delayed due to flooding on the tracks after days and days of torrential downpours.

I didn’t notice him at first, and in fairness, when I eventually did, there was nothing much to notice. He was quite an ordinary man, not memorable in any particular way. I had headphones on and was staring out the window as the train barrelled North. I admired the landscape stretching out in a blur of greens, browns, and yellows as the sun rose over the Scottish Highlands. His presence came to my attention at a quaint little station about halfway between Glasgow and Inverness when I heard him say “G’day,” while my playlist was between songs. I turned from the window to glance at the seat across from me. 

Average height from what I could tell with him sitting down. Non-descript features, civilian clothes in neutral colours. Everything about him was... the word generic comes to mind. Never in a million years would I have guessed... well, that will come later.

Our gazes crossed paths, and he held fast, staring into my eyes in a way that made it impossible for me to look away. His facial expression, like the rest of him, was completely neutral. I felt a mounting desire to get up and change seats but found myself paralysed by his unwavering stare. Finally, he blinked, smiled a plastic sort of smile, and the spell was broken. Oddly enough, he now looked somewhat friendly and approachable, but with an undercurrent of something terribly, terribly wrong that I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

“Lovely day we’re having after all that rain, don’t you think?” he asked. 

I slammed the book closed, my heart racing. What in the world? How could this book in a tiny second-hand bookstore on a quiet street in Northern Scotland be describing the exact series of events that had transpired earlier in the day? I worked to regain control of my functions, and with still-shaking hands reopened the book. I scanned through the pages, and sure enough, the rest of my journey was described in detail. Meeting the first man’s doppelganger, walking the streets of Inverness, crossing the first bridge, coming back across the river and exploring the graveyard, the large bird with the garnet eyes, and finally, finding the bookstore. 

I tentatively turned the page.

I’m not sure how much time I spent in the shop, but eventually it looked like the sky was clearing and I decided it was time to head out. I gingerly made my way around the piles of books on the floor and was about to leave when a small book at the end of the checkout counter caught my eye. I picked it up and read the title out loud: “I Met Him on the Train”. It was a relatively small book, hardcover with a dustjacket that featured a view of the Scottish Highlands through a train window. I turned the book over in my hands, noting there was no author listed anywhere on the cover. My curiosity aroused; I cracked the book open to the first page and was shocked to find my own story written and bound within its pages. 

I slammed the book closed, my heart racing. After a few minutes of working to regain control of my functions, and with still-shaking hands, I reopened the book. I scanned through the pages, and sure enough, the rest of my journey was described in detail. I carried on reading, finally reaching the point where the book crossed into the future.

Again, the racing heart. Did I want to know what would happen next? I stared at the last paragraph for a solid minute before turning the page.

I glanced up from the book’s pages, troubled and more than a little uneasy. Suddenly, I came to a realisation that sent me reeling. Every patron in the bookstore looked like the man from the train...

My brow furrowed in confusion. What?? I had noticed a woman with a little boy in the children’s books when I first came in, and I had crossed paths with a young couple as I came down the stairs just a few minutes ago, what was this book talking about?! 

Every fiber in my body was begging me not to look up, but the process was unstoppable. I slowly lifted my head and tore my gaze from the book’s inexplicable pages. At the back of the store, I saw a man climbing a ladder to reach for a book on one of the top shelves; from the back he was wearing ordinary clothes and looked to be of average height. I glanced at the second-floor mezzanine and saw a man sifting through a series of war books. I could see his profile and felt a mounting sense of dread rise from the pit of my stomach. My breath caught in my throat as I scanned the remainder of the bookshop. The man crouched on the floor sifting through a pile of paperbacks, the man in the children’s section holding an antique book up to the light, the man walking up the stairs in the most ordinary way... all of them identical, and all with the same unsettling mechanical movements and neutral facial expression as the first man from the train.

 “Wonderful town, Inverness, I trust you’ve enjoyed it?” came a voice from behind me. I recognized it instantly and had to fight the urge to run. I slowly turned to face the man from the train. The second one, the one who made casual conversation and moved in a human way, the one who had life in his eyes. He was standing behind the checkout counter with a receipt pad in his hand, a gleam in his eye and a smile only slightly teasing the corner of his mouth.

“I... I’d like to purchase this book,” I stuttered, stumbling over my words. I felt the room spin, the endless supply of books melding into a blur of paper, dust, and typeface.

He nodded and leaned on the counter to write up my receipt. I leaned on the counter to catch my balance. The man folded the receipt in half, then straightened his body and extended his arm across the counter to hand it to me.  I gingerly took the paper from his grasp as I reached my other hand into my pocket to grab my wallet. I unfolded the receipt to check the total, but was instead greeted with a short, two-word message: Enduring Curiosity. Confused, I looked back up at the man, but he was gone. I turned to scan the bookstore, only to find it completely deserted save for the endless assortment of books lining its walls and piled on its floor. 

I slipped his receipt into the book and tucked it under my jacket for safekeeping, I didn’t trust the Scottish weather to behave for very long, and I didn’t want the book getting wet. I stepped out onto the street and saw a handful of people milling about, to my great relief each one appeared to be an individual. A woman carrying a bin full of books bustled past me and entered the bookstore, I heard someone inside greet her, it was not the man from the train. 

I shook my head and carried on down the street, meandering through the heart of Inverness. I wandered into a place called Victorian Market, which contained a food hall. I circled every booth and settled on one that was serving Cullen Skink, a traditional Scottish chowder which I hadn’t had an opportunity to try yet. It was wonderful. I meandered through the market’s various shops and restaurants, then carried on exploring until I found a small bakery tucked at the end of a narrow side street. I selected two delectable pastries that would serve as my lunch. I sat on a park bench to savour my dessert and take in the view, then eventually made my way to the station to catch the last train back to Glasgow. 

I sat in the same seat I had sat in on the way to Inverness and stared out the window, listening to music as the landscape outside went scurrying by in a blur of green, brown, and yellow as the sun set on the Highlands. I was sitting backwards this time, always a strange sensation. The train stopped at several small towns, the same ones it had stopped at on the way North. Between two songs I heard someone say, “Good evening.” I looked up to see the man from the train, once again sitting across from me. I felt no shock this time, I simply smiled at him. “Lovely town, Inverness...” he mused, looking out the window.

“Indeed, it is, a place filled with enduring curiosity,” I said. He didn’t turn to look back at me, but his reflection in the window gave me a glimpse of the smile teasing the corner of his mouth. I turned to look out the window myself, wondering what was behind the mountains in the distance, wondering what would happen tomorrow, wondering whether the man on the train would disappear again in a moment.

The man did not disappear from the train, he got off a few stops before mine like an ordinary person. We didn’t speak or make eye contact again before he left. I scanned the platform after he got off, curious to see which direction he would go, if anyone would be there to greet him, or if his doppelganger would then climb into my train car and take his place, but he vanished into the crowd like a plume of smoke dissipates into the wind, and his replacement never came.

As the train neared Glasgow, I pulled the small, strange, book from inside my jacket. “I met him on the train,” I whispered as I ran my finger over the letters in the title. I gently cracked the book open, only to find every page completely blank. 

My story was, as of yet, unwritten... but I now knew the secret to writing a great story: Enduring curiosity. I pulled a pen from my bag and got started:

I met him on the train...

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Thank you so much for listening, I truly hope you enjoyed I Met Him on the Train, an original story written exclusively for The Skylark Bell podcast. 

If you enjoyed this episode, please consider leaving a rating or a review, they are both greatly appreciated. You can also support my work by subscribing to Patreon. Patreon supporters get early access to ad-free podcast episodes, digital downloads of my  music, and so much more. It’s the first place I share my creations. However, if you prefer not to subscribe, but would like to make a one-time contribution, you can do so via your podcast platform. Any and all financial support is greatly appreciated.

Once again, thank you for listening – I’m Melissa Oliveri, writer, composer, and producer of The Skylark Bell Podcast.  

The Man with a Storm in His Eyes – Volume 4

NOTE: If you have not listened to Volumes 1, 2 and 3 of this 4-part miniseries, please pause this episode, and go listen to the first three installments, otherwise the story won't make much sense.

Over Thanksgiving I spent a few days house- and cat-sitting for a friend. The moment I met Russell the cat I was completely charmed by the milky cloudiness of his eyes. What fascinated me most was that he appeared to be able to see just fine... to the point where sometimes he appeared to be seeing things that I myself couldn’t see. I found myself inspired and fully credit Russell with breaking through my writer’s block.

This story is available in written form in its entirety exclusively to Patreon Supporters, visit the link below to join.

Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri

Contact: theskylarkbell@gmail.com

The Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.com

The Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbell

Author/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.com

All music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.com

Cannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.music

FULL TRANSCRIPT:

Things with Wings Productions presents: The Man with a Storm in His Eyes - A Skylark Special Miniseries written exclusively for The Skylark Bell podcast. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.  

Before I begin, if you haven’t listened to the first three installments of this story, I strongly suggest you hit pause on this episode and go listen to volumes 1, 2 and 3, otherwise this episode won’t make much sense. 

In last week’s episode, Marie broke the sisters’ one rule and brewed a cup of the forbidden tea for herself, but she was interrupted by their early return. Disgraced and embarrassed, she returned home... only for the twins to appear outside her window a few days later.

Today we conclude this wild and eerie tale... fair warning, the ending made me cry the first time I re-read the story in its entirety.

Lastly, I’d like to thank Lauren and Rachel for the use of their apartment over the Thanksgiving holiday. The opportunity to house and cat sit for them gave me the calm and space I needed to to start writing, and in the end, their cat, Russell, provided the inspiration for the story I wanted to write. The spark has grown into a flame, and there are more stories to come in the future, so stay tuned.

But for now, it’s time to get settled in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink... perhaps a handkerchief, just in case… and let’s read the conclusion of The Man with a Storm in His Eyes.

The spell broken, I shook my head and scurried down the stairs and out the front door to collect the book they had left behind. I ran my hand over the smoothness of its cover, and noted the leather was embossed with a collection of odd symbols. I clutched the book to my chest and hurried back up to my flat as quickly as my fuzzy slippers would allow, completely oblivious to the neighbours gawking at the sight of me outside in the cold wearing only a short frilly nighty. 

I threw myself onto the sofa and placed the book on my lap, puzzling over the symbols on the cover before unbuckling its leather strap and cracking it open. I flipped through the book haphazardly and was met with page upon page of tight cursive handwriting. Every so often I would land on a carefully drawn illustration with labels and notations. About halfway through the book I found a folded piece of paper tucked between the pages. I gingerly pulled it out, the ornate handwriting was different than the one filling up the pages of the book. I squinted in concentration as I began to read:

Dearest Marie,

You must have endless questions about the goings on at 51 Dimly Court. We did not mean for you to get pulled into the vortex of our stormy existence, and I apologise for our poor handling of the situation the day you left. 

Winifred and I have decided to share with you the story that is neither ours, nor Russell’s, nor even little Jones’. The story is our mother’s. Her name was Fiona Merriwell, and she was what many would, for better or worse, call... a witch.  

Our mother grew up in the “old world”, a time and culture filled with mystique and superstition. It would be easy to brush aside these traditions as hogwash, but as you now know, there was truth to at least some of it. 

Our maternal grandmother was a gifted seer and would warn people of things to come, or describe things that had happened long before any of them were born. Our mother was always envious of this gift, but her talents lay elsewhere. She was an expert healer and could create concoctions to heal most ailments common in her time. Her one wish, however, was to find a way to recreate her mother’s capabilities using her knowledge of plants, herbs, tinctures, and the like. She made it her life mission... and it cost not only her, but several of us dearly. 

The teas in the canisters were created by her, and she was the last one to brew a cup, until you came along, of course... but I’m getting ahead of myself. 

Our mother raised us on her own after our father passed away. She worked odd jobs and kept herself busy making salves and teas to sell at local markets. Behind the scenes, however, she continued to work on her plan to create a tea that would allow her to see through veils of time, and she eventually succeeded, but things did not go as planned. 

She had just finished perfecting a recipe one day when there was a knock at the door. A young man, sharply dressed in a grey wool suit, stood on our front steps, he was selling top-of-the-line cookware. Our mother, always willing to indulge young entrepreneurs, invited him in and put the kettle on. She was fully intending to simply listen to his presentation, but as their conversation wore on an idea crossed her mind. The young man mentioned that his brother had recently passed away, and that he missed his him terribly, and wished he could see him again, if only for a moment. The gears in our mother’s mind began turning; if she served her tea to the young man and it was effective, it might provide him with an opportunity to see his brother again, and if it failed, he would be none-the-wiser and would simply have enjoyed a nice cup of tea, no harm done.

I must say at this point that our mother was neither conniving nor cruel, she was entirely under the impression that the effects of the tea would be temporary, there was no way for her to know her spontaneous decision and, ironically, lack of foresight would change the course of all our lives.

And so it was that Russell J. Holcomb, luxury cookware salesman, came to sit at our kitchen table and drink the tea our mother had aptly named Violet Storm. He remained in our kitchen for a few hours, demonstrating his goods. Winifred and I came home our jobs at the hospital partway through his sales pitch and sat at the table listening to him, enthralled. Russell was very charismatic; he would certainly have had a successful career in sales if he had never had the misfortune of knocking on our door. Winifred was especially taken with him; she would later tell me it was his smile that won her over so quickly. Little did she know we would only rarely ever see that smile again.

We were there when the tea began to take effect. I remember it so clearly because, unfortunately for Russell, there was a storm brewing outside. Winifred and I had rushed home from work due to the dark, threatening clouds hovering in the sky above. We would later learn that stormy weather exacerbates the effects of this specific tea... but once again, I’m getting ahead of myself. 

Russell was just finishing a demonstration that involved cooking an omelet, he slid it onto a plate and placed it on the table for us to see. It was then that he stumbled backwards and fell to the floor. His eyes darted back and forth as a mist began to rise in them. He started to shake and pointed at something behind us. The three of us turned in unison, but there was nothing there. Our mother crouched next to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and asked if he was okay. Through rapid breaths Russell explained that he could see other people, dozens of other people, all semi-transparent, moving throughout the kitchen. Walking, cooking, sitting at the table... he could even see different furniture, and he could see grass on the ground as well as different versions of the kitchen floor, layer upon layer upon layer of the past all visible at once. He let out a scream that still echoes in my mind to this day, then squeezed his eyes shut and clutched his head in his hands shouting, “Make it stop! Please! Make them go away! Make it all go away!”

Distraught, our mother wrapped a dishtowel around his eyes and tied it at the back of his head, then lead him to the sofa to lay down and wait until the effect of the tea wore off. Once the storm passed the effects did diminish considerably, but the clouds never left Russell’s eyes, and he never stopped seeing relics of the past all around him at all times. 

Our mother settled him in the empty flat upstairs, no one had lived there for years, and it didn’t have much of a past to speak of, or see. The outside world was far too overwhelming for Russell, so he remained in the upstairs flat from that day forward. Because he had no family to speak of, Russell decided it was best to leave him flagged as a missing person to the outside world, it seemed simpler than trying to explain the reality of what had happened. The four of us agreed to never speak of that day’s events, and our mother immediately set to work trying to create a remedy.

Days turned into weeks and months. Winifred spent a lot of time upstairs keeping Russell company, and the two fell deeply in love. One day our mother announced she had come up with a remedy, a tea she called Black Moon. She brewed a pot, and Winifred volunteered to bring it up to Russell, promising to report back if it had any noticeable effects. But as Winifred was climbing the stairs to the apartment, a shadow of doubt came over her... What if this new concoction made Russell worse? Her heart ached at the thought of involuntarily harming him in any way, so she sat on the top stair outside his door and slowly drank the cup of tea herself to see how it would affect her before giving any to Russell. 

Russell never did drink any Black Moon tea, because within a short period of time Winifred came crashing down the stairs screaming and waving her arms in the air as though swatting away a swarm of bees. Unlike Russell, her eyes never clouded over, instead they turned into two deep, dark, inky pools. We came to discover that Winifred was now plagued with incessant visions of the future: Buildings being torn down, new ones being erected, wars, unrest, and the cacophony of centuries of living beyond anything she’d ever known... Her condition worsened during the new moon when the sky was at its darkest. On these nights, her existence became nearly unbearable. Layers of the future would wrap around her like a snake wraps its body around its prey, squeezing the air out of its lungs, and effectively crushing it. On these nights,Winnifred would wear a blindfold, which helped to alleviate some of the stress of her condition. 

I paused my reading then, thinking back to Christmas Eve dinner with Russell, and his odd behaviour as the storm rolled in. He must have been suffering through a similar experience, a ramping up of the effects of his condition... My heart ached for him, for Winifred who was similarly afflicted, for Florence who was tasked with caring for them both, and for Jones the cat who had now joined their ranks. I heaved a sigh, then dove back into the letter.

In our mother’s mind, the tea she had concocted to view the future would have cancelled out the tea Russell had ingested which gave him visions of the past, but after seeing what happened to Winifred, we didn’t dare let him drink any. It became difficult for Russell and Winifred to be in the same room, they were essentially living on different plains now, he in the past, she in the future, with only a bridge of present between them so small they could never stand on it long enough to truly be in one another’s company. Heartbroken, Winnifred stopped going upstairs to visit, and only rarely ever spoke.

Our mother, devastated by the tragedy she had inadvertently unleashed on our family, made one last attempt at setting things straight. She poured over her craft for several months, studying herbs and tinctures used by our ancestors. Some ingredients she foraged for herself, others she sourced locally or from overseas, until finally one day she came to us with the resulting Golden Sunset tea. This tea, she was certain, would fix both Winifred and Russell’s conditions, but she insisted she would drink a cup first to ensure there were no unexpected results. As you may have guessed, the results were, indeed, unexpected, and very tragic.

The last entry in our mother’s book was written moments after she drank the Golden Sunset tea. She detailed a scene from the future, of a young woman living in our flat, and a cat named Jones with glowing amber eyes. She said this woman would be instrumental to the future of our family history as she would carry on guarding the tea until she reached the age of 93. That is where the diary ends, there were no details beyond that.

After drinking her tea and writing in her diary, our mother walked out our front door and stood on the stoop. Winifred and I stood at the window, watching her back as she stared at the world outside, motionless. Perhaps a few minutes went by, perhaps a few hours, neither one of us could tell, but eventually our mother exclaimed “It’s all so beautiful!”, then she fell to the ground. Shaken out of our reverie we ran to her, but she was already gone. Presumably, whatever it was the tea caused her to see, it was more than the human mind and body could take.

In the decades that followed I continued to care for Mr. Holcomb and Winifred. Winifred would provide guidance on future events and occurrences, which is how we knew you were planning on drinking the tea, and that we were going to arrive just in time to stop you. We tried to change the course of history and arrive in time to also prevent Jones from drinking the tea, but as with every other time we’ve attempted to change the future, we failed.

From what Winifred has shared, and she only shares things she feels are absolutely necessary, I am to make you the beneficiary of our estate upon our passing, which, Winifred has assured me, is much farther away than anyone would ever dream. Perhaps our mother’s longevity tea worked better than her other ones.

 I wish you all the best Marie. We shall not see you again after today, but from what I can gather, someday in the distant future, you will once again see us. 

Take care,

Florence

I refolded the letter and placed it back between the pages of the book, then closed the cover, re-buckled the strap, and placed the book on the coffee table in front of me. There would be ample time to sift through its pages down the road, right now I needed to process the events of the past week.

I carried on with my life over the next few days. Those days turned into weeks, months, years, and before I knew it nearly three decades had gone by. In that time, I earned a nursing degree and used some of the knowledge from Fiona’s diary to help patients. I married and divorced, had two children whose careers eventually took them to opposite ends of the country, adopted and went through the heartache of saying goodbye to 3 different cats, all with glowing amber eyes, and... well... I grew older. 

Not nearly as old as the twins however, who died within days of one another at the ripe old age of 103. 

It was on a Wednesday afternoon a couple of weeks after the twins’ passing that my postman Gordy placed a small package on the stoop outside my front door. I happened to be looking out the window when he came and waved to him as he carried on to my neighbour’s house. He smiled and waved back; he was always such a pleasant young man. I reached into my post box and pulled out a small stack of letters, then bent down to pick up the package. I felt my stomach tighten when I saw the return address for the solicitor’s office on the parcel. I knew this day would come, this wasn’t a surprise per se, and I had only briefly met the sisters on two occasions nearly 30 years ago, yet I still felt the sting of tears in my eyes. 

Inside the package was a letter from the solicitor detailing the legal intricacies of the estate and the steps I needed to take to finalise things. The only other item in the box was an old antique key. I recognized it immediately as the key Florence had left for me that fateful day all those years ago. I placed the key in my palm and closed my fingers around it. If I focused enough, I could almost feel a low electrical pulse emanating from it.

My first time stepping back through the front door of 51 Dimly court was surreal. Everything was exactly the same as it had been the last time I was there. Every trinket, every book, every curtain and pillow and blanket, even down to the plush towel and robe set I had used after taking a bath that Boxing Day afternoon three decades ago. I walked through the flat in wonder, gently tracing my finger along the edges of the sisters’ belongings, the items strewn atop their dressers and vanities. Winifred’s copy of The House on the Strand was still on her nightstand, I understood the significance now, with her experiencing time differently than the rest of us. 

I stood at the bottom of the stairway to Russel’s flat for a long time staring at the off-center number 7 on the door. I’d read his obituary years ago, I’d lost track of how long it had been exactly, but I remembered it said he had passed peacefully in his sleep with his loved ones, presumably Winifred and Florence, by his side. Eventually I made my way up the stairs and let myself into Russell’s flat, which was also frozen in time. I stepped into his office, noting his satchel was still on the desk. I peered inside and saw a collection of marketing materials for cookware. This was the bag he was carrying the day he disappeared, that fateful day he met Fiona Merriwell and her enchanted, or cursed depending on how one views these things, collection of teas.

I stepped into the little kitchen; bright sunshine was streaming through the window. I smiled as I remembered sitting at the table sharing a meal with Russell, telling stories, and laughing together. He was a lovely man, lovely and lonely. His fate was not one anyone would have been envious of, unable to leave the confines of his apartment, destined to pine away for an impossible love just within his reach but never attainable... my heart ached for him.

I lived on in the flat for forty more years, keeping everything the same as it had always been. I eventually retired from my decades-long career as head nurse at a care home, and before I knew it found myself older than the twins were when I first met them. I surprised myself gravitating toward some of Florence’s dresses and coats. Winifred’s wardrobe, however, remained too gothic for my taste. As time wore on, I became rather uninterested in the outside world, preferring to focus on my own private little secret world inside the sisters’ flat. I never stopped thinking of it as the sisters’ flat. My children rarely visited and would only stay in town long enough for a meal, always at a fancy restaurant of course, before returning to their busy lives, and I was okay with that because they were happy.

And now we’ve come to today. 

Today is my 93rd birthday. I am celebrating alone, and rather enjoying my own company. I finished my cup of tea 15 minutes ago; I can feel its effect taking hold. I see a warm glow around everything in the flat, as though every object has been wrapped in goldleaf and the setting sun is shining through the window, even though in reality today the sky is grey and loaded with a mass of storm clouds. 

I walk to the sitting room and lower my tired body into a chair by the window, turning to face the inside of the room. I watch as the past fades into view. I see Florence and Winifred as children with their mother reading stories by the fireplace, the same fireplace in which the contents of the tea canisters and Fiona’s diary are burning right now. I see young Russell looking dapper in his grey wool suit with his satchel strapped over his shoulder, he’s coming in to do a presentation of the luxury cookware he is selling, and Fiona is guiding him toward the kitchen. I see all the events Florence described in her letter unfold before my eyes.

Eventually I see myself walking into the flat for the first time, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other waiting for Winifred to speak through the garish red lipstick streaked across her mouth. I marvel at my youth, how naïve and innocent I was then. I watch the entire Christmas holiday unfold, cooking for Mr. Holcomb, rushing outside to rescue Jones, cuddling with him on the sofa, staring into his beautiful golden eyes. Then the fateful night when he drank the tea...

Layers of past begin to pile atop one another in rapid succession now, and I see events flash before me. First, I watch the twins grow old and eventually disappear altogether. Then I see myself, older, but still young by my current standards, returning to the flat after several decades away. I watch myself age at a breakneck pace and eventually see myself, dressed the way I am dressed right now, walk into the room. I gasp as I catch of glimpse of my eyes, now turned into two glowing orbs filled with a swirling mass of mauve, gold, coral, and burnt orange. Now I understand why Fiona named this tea Golden Sunset. I watch as I gingerly lower myself into the chair I am sitting in at this very moment. 

That’s when things truly take off, when past, present and future finally collide.

In a flash of amber, coral, and lilac everything sets off at lightning speed. I see the future, I see what happens to me, what happens in the decades and centuries beyond this moment in time. I see the people who lived here before the twins, before Fiona, and those who will live here after. I see the field that was here before the apartment building, and the structure that will be built after its demolition decades from now. 

I turn to look out the window, the view is breathtaking. I can see everything that has come before and everything yet to come, all awash in a swirl sunset colours. It’s chaotic, it’s heartbreaking, it’s electric, it’s inspiring, it’s... life...

...and it’s all so beautiful.

Thank you so much for listening, I truly hope you enjoyed The Man with a Storm in His Eyes. 

It has been my pleasure to write and record this story for you, and I am very much looking forward to doing it again. Stay tuned for more spooky and unusual tales in the future!

If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a rating or a review, they are both greatly appreciated. You can also support my work by subscribing to Patreon. Patreon supporters get early access to ad-free podcast episodes, digital downloads of my music, and so much more. It’s the first place I share my creations. However, if you prefer not to subscribe, but would like to make a one-time contribution, you can do so via your podcast platform. Any and all financial support is greatly appreciated.

Once again, thank you for listening – I’m Melissa Oliveri, writer, composer, and producer of The Skylark Bell Podcast. 

In today’s episode we read the chapter 37 – Here’s the Plan – in which Magpie and Farfalla finally come face to face.

Contact: theskylarkbell@gmail.com

The Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.com

The Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbell

Author/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.com

Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri

All music by Cannelle: http://www.cannellemusic.com

Cannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.music

Official Merch Shops: http://www.melissaoliveri.com/store

The Skylark Bell is brought to you by: Phaeton Starling Publishing and Things with Wings Productions.

FULL TRANSCRIPT:

Things with Wings Productions presents: Chapter 37 of The Skylark Bell, Skyedive. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.  

In last week’s episode Farfalla creates a time loop to ensure she and Marius will meet in her youth, regardless of the heartbreak and chaos doing so will cause.

In today’s episode we read the chapter 37 – Here’s the Plan – in which Magpie and Farfalla finally come face to face.

Now, it’s time to settle in… grab a blanket, and a warm drink… and let’s get started.

I’ve done this so many times now it has practically become routine. That’s why I was so surprised when she walked in the door.

We stood facing one another for a moment, like we were frozen in time. I don’t think either one of us quite knew what to do. The story had played out the same way so many times. So many lifetimes. What now?

~~~~~~

Magpie and Farfalla stand face to face. Even the air seems to stop moving for a moment. Finally, Magpie speaks, breaking the eerie stillness.

“I know how to behead the Ouroboros,” she says. 

Farfalla’s brow arches and she looks at Magpie, quizzically. At the very least, this should be entertaining. “Continue,” she says.

Magpie glances into the other room, and sees her older self in the rocking chair, eyes trained on the situation at hand despite being feeble and mere minutes from passing away. “I know the exact moment your time loop opens and closes,” she says, meeting Farfalla eye to eye.

Farfalla snickers. “I don’t have time for this nonsense...” she says, waving a hand at Magpie nonchalantly despite the fact that the girl’s words substantially increased her heart rate.

“Aren’t you tired of this? Aren’t you tired of the heartbreak, the loss, the grief, the pain? Tired of the same story over and over? The predictable lifetimes one after the other? It’s not natural! We’re not supposed to know how it ends; we’re not supposed to know everything that will happen along the way!” Magpie is now shouting. From the corner of her eye, she sees an ever so small, proud smile creep up the corner of her older self’s mouth.

Now it’s Farfalla’s turn to shout. “Know what’s not natural?! The love of your life disappearing in a snowstorm, or being centuries away from your child, or... how about this... being locked in a tree for all eternity! You want to talk to me about things that are not natural?!” at this she lets out a bitter laugh that chills Magpie to her core.

“What if I could change all that?” asks Magpie softly.

Farfalla sinks into a dining chair, folds her arms on the table, then leans her head on it and closes her eyes. “Then I would never see Marius again...” she whispers, almost like she is talking to herself. A single tear falls down her cheek, hidden from Magpie’s view by Farfalla’s thick mass of red hair.

Magpie takes advantage of the moment to scurry toward her older self in the next room. “I’m going to fix this,” she says softly. The old woman nods and mouths the words Thank You. Magpie gives her hand a squeeze, causing a light electrical current to pass between them. Magpie walks back into the kitchen and sits down across the table from Farfalla.

Farfalla sizes her up for a moment. Perhaps all these lifetimes she had misjudged Magpie. There is strength and courage emanating from the girl before her. Yet she is not hard, she is not bitter or angry. If anything, her expression is one of empathy. Farfalla is surprised to feel a sense of admiration rise in her.

“Elisabeth was my great-great-grandmother,” says Magpie. She pulls a photograph from her pocket and slides it across the table.

Tears immediately spring to Farfalla’s eyes. She looks at the photograph; an old woman in a rocking chair, knitting. Elisabeth. Elisabeth who lived an entire lifetime without her. Farfalla looks back at the girl in front of her, studying her face. She’s never taken the time to notice before, stopping only at the resemblance between them, but if she looks closely, she can see echoes of Elisabeth around her cheekbones and her upturned nose. Farfalla feels her strength and resolution fade, and finally she gives in and begins to weep. “All these years, all these lifetimes...” she says, clearly running through every painful moment in her mind, every love, every loss, “I have made your life, our lives, so hard, so unbearable... I’m so sorry. I’m so very, very sorry,” the words come out muffled between heaving sobs, “all this time, lost... all those lifetimes... I was just so lonely, and so hurt. I wanted someone else to hurt! It was wrong, I was wrong,” she whispers. Magpie isn’t sure whether Farfalla is addressing her or the photograph of Elisabeth, but at this point it doesn’t much matter, she knows she can capitalize on Farfalla’s feeling of regret.

Magpie reaches across the table and takes Farfalla’s hand. “I think I know how to fix it. All of it,” she says, “but I’m going to need your help.”

“Whatever you need, whatever I can do,” says Farfalla, finally lifting her head up. She wipes aggressively at the tears on her cheeks, a newfound look of acceptance on her face.

A moan from the next room grasps Magpie’s attention. “I have to be with her right now. Once she is gone, we will sit down together and make our plan, okay?” Farfalla nods, and Magpie walks into the small room with the sketches on the walls. She points at the sketch of the two of them coming face to face at The Early Bird diner and laughs. “Remember that look of surprise on your face when you saw me?” she asks the old woman. A weak smile stretches across Old Magpie’s lips, and she nods faintly. Magpie continues, pointing to a sketch of her and Lucas having a picnic at the library, “Remember this day? You sent a bird to give me the feather key!” she says. The old woman shakes her head and, with a considerable effort, lifts her hand slightly to point at Farfalla.

“I’m afraid she’s right, that was my doing,” says Farfalla from the doorway. She steps hesitantly into the room and leans in to look at the sketch. “Even at this young age, his love for you is evident,” she says, wistfully. 

Magpie places her hand on Farfalla’s shoulder. “I know you love him too,” she says gently. 

Farfalla turns toward her and nods.  “I did love him, yet I hurt him most of all,” she says, her voice filled with regret. “But we’re going to change all that. Tonight,” says Farfalla, giving them a hopeful look before stepping out of the room.

The old woman motions for Magpie to lean closer and whispers “Plan.... dangerous...” 

Magpie nods. “I know, but I can’t let Lucas end up at that convent in Brighthaven. I can’t let you, us, spend all those decades alone in this tiny little house. I can’t let Grandma Gemma die without ever knowing what happened to Lucas... I can’t let things keep happening. Not when I have knowledge of them and a chance to stop it,” she says.

“If you fail... you will die, we will die” says the old woman, tears springing in her eyes.

“I won’t fail,” says Magpie with a confidence she isn’t feeling. She has studied every memory, analyzed the time loops from every angle, and she truly feels like she has a chance. But her older self is right, there is a chance her plan could fail, and if it does, she will not survive.

Magpie sits on the floor, holding her older self’s hand. She can feel the electrical current between them weaken, and eventually it is gone. She wraps the green shawl around the old woman’s shoulders and runs a hand through her hair before stepping out of the room and closing the door. She walks to the dining room where Farfalla is sitting and regains her seat at the table. She takes a pen and paper and expertly draws a series of lines and points, then adds a few handwritten notes. Her task completed, she slides the page across the table to Farfalla, who looks down at it with great interest.

“Okay, this is the plan...”

Thank you so much for listening.  Join me next week for Chapter 38 – Skye Dive – in which Magpie and Farfalla’s plan is set in motion.

The Skylark Bell is brought to you by Phaeton Starling Publishing and features original music by Cannelle. Leaving a rating or a review on your preferred podcast platform is incredibly helpful in helping the podcast gain visibility so others can find and enjoy the story of The Skylark Bell, it’s a quick, easy, and free way to support my work. If you’d like to support me further, you can also subscribe to Patreon, where you’ll get early access to ad-free episodes as well as digital downloads of my music, artwork, behind the scenes videos and more! And be sure to follow me on social media for updates, I love to connect with listeners... Just check the show notes for all necessary links.

Once again, thank you for listening – I’m Melissa Oliveri, writer, host and producer of The Skylark Bell Podcast. 

When we left them last season, Magpie and Lucas had just learned of Farfalla’s passing, and had ventured to her tiny house to gather her things. As they were about to leave, an gust of wind slammed the bedroom door closed, and they heard footsteps inside the empty room. When they eventually re-entered the room they found it just as empty as they’d left it, with one startling exception: A sketch left on the seat of the rocking chair. On the back of the sketch were 4 words that made their blood run cold – I am not Farfalla. We were left with more questions than answers after a roller coaster of a first season which saw Magpie finding the mythical Skylark Bell and ending the silence at Meadow Lane.

Now, we rejoin Magpie and Lucas two years after The Great Silence as it has come to be known.

In today’s episode we read chapter 1 – Suitcase to Scotland – where the pair prepare for a journey to Scotland to claim a centuries old house left to Magpie from her great-great-grandfather James Carnifex.

Brought to you by: Phaeton Starling Publishing and Things with Wings Productions.

The Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.com

The Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbell

Author/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.com

Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri

Melissa on Instagram: @the.mop.pod

Melissa on Twitter: @melissaoliveri

All music by Cannelle - http://www.cannellemusic.com

Cannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.music

FULL TRANSCRIPT:

Things with Wings Productions presents: Episode 1of The Skylark Bell, Wingspan. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.  

When we left them last season, Magpie and Lucas had just learned of Farfalla’s passing, and had ventured to her tiny house to gather her things. As they were about to leave, an gust of wind slammed the bedroom door closed, and they heard footsteps inside the empty room. When they eventually re-entered the room they found it just as empty as they’d left it, with one startling exception: A sketch left on the seat of the rocking chair. On the back of the sketch were 4 words that made their blood run cold – I am not Farfalla. We were left with more questions than answers after a roller coaster of a first season which saw Magpie finding the mythical Skylark Bell and ending the silence at Meadow Lane.

Now, we rejoin Magpie and Lucas two years after The Great Silence as it has come to be known.

In today’s episode we read chapter 1 – Suitcase to Scotland – where the pair prepare for a journey to Scotland to claim a centuries old house left to Magpie from her great-great-grandfather James Carnifex.

So get comfortable… grab a blanket, and a warm drink… and let’s get started.

“Magpie, you won’t be able to lift this suitcase!” Mrs. Phaeton exclaims, pushing on the top with all her might while Magpie quickly latches to clasps.

“I’m not sure what the weather will be like in Scotland, I hear it can get really cold, so I packed a few sweaters.” Replies Magpie, blushing.  She heaves the suitcase off the bed and lets it slam to the floor before rolling it to the doorway.

“How about this,” says Mrs. Phaeton, “let’s take a few of these things out and if you still think you need them, I’ll mail them to you in a care package after I get back. Deal?”

Magpie, still struggling to push the heavy load across the room, nods her head.  On cue, the clasps snap open and the contents of the suitcase spill onto the floor.  “Is that a can of soup?!” exclaims Mrs. Phaeton.

“Well, I… uh… I’m going to miss that soup, it’s my favourite! They don’t have it in Scotland, I looked it up.”  Stammers Magpie, looking sheepishly at the floor.  Silence hangs in the room for a moment before the sound of laughter erupts from Mrs. Phaeton’s throat “A year is a long time!” exclaims Magpie joining in her mother’s laughter.

“I will mail you some soup, my darling.” Says Mrs. Phaeton, embracing Magpie and kissing her forehead.  “Now, let’s make this suitcase more manageable! …Magpie?”

Magpie sits on the edge of the bed, her unseeing eyes staring out her bedroom window at Meadow Lane.  “Magpie!” says Mrs. Phaeton, her tone suddenly containing a small amount of panic.  Magpie shakes her head and focuses her gaze on her mother’s worried face.  She still occasionally has visions, but they occur less frequently than they did two years ago when the mysterious silence hanging over Meadow Lane started spreading to the entire town.  A few months after the incident she finally found the courage to tell her mother and Lucas about her visions, and they both made it very clear that they believed every word. “What did you see this time, honey?” inquires Mrs. Phaeton, her tone softening.

“It was strange, it was a house kind of like meadow lane, but it wasn’t.  There was an ocean behind it where the apple orchard is, I could smell the salt water!  The house was similar but made of stone instead of wood…” her voice trails off

“Well, maybe this one time it was just your imagination.”  Says Mrs. Phaeton, kneeling by the suitcase to rearrange its contents.

“Yeah, I bet you’re right,” says Magpie, sliding off the bed to the floor.  She picks up a half dozen sweaters and stares at them thoughtfully.  A smile teases the corner of her mouth “I guess I don’t need all these sweaters,” she admits.

“They do sell sweaters in Scotland, Magpie, rather nice ones in fact!” Says Mrs. Phaeton, giggling.   

Warm sunlight shines through window, filtering through the dust in the air.  “Look at that, it’s like the dust particles are little stars, suspended in time!” says Magpie.  She feels a shiver run through her and a familiar tugging at the back of her mind, like there is a message she can’t quite decipher.

“That settles it, you have way too much imagination!” smiles Mrs. Phaeton. “Now let’s get this baby packed up and ready to fly!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Magpie and her mom have finished packing and their suitcases are neatly lined up by the front door. Magpie can still picture herself coming through that heavy wood door for the first time, nearly 2 years ago, when she and her mom moved into the old farmhouse, it feels like she’s lived an entire lifetime since then. She hears echoes from the past in her mind - dinner dates with her mom where they told stories and laughed into the night, Scarlet’s soft meow as she followed Magpie around the house on velvet feet, Lucas’ footsteps on the old creaky stairs as they went up to explore the secret attic… So much has happened, it’s thrilling and a little scary to think about what the future might hold.

“All set?” asks Mrs. Phaeton, bringing Magpie back to the present by laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Yes, it’s time.” Says Magpie, grabbing her suitcase and walking out the door. 

“Hi Lucas!” says Mrs. Phaeton seeing him walk up their driveway GRAVEL with a small duffle bag slung over his shoulder. 

“Good morning! Wow, Magpie, that’s quite the suitcase!” he exclaims, laughing.

“You’re going to be very grateful for one of my sweaters or an extra pair of socks one of these days, since you clearly haven’t packed enough of your own!” she says, giggling and giving him a friendly push.

“Grandma Gemma says hi, and wishes everyone safe travels,” says Lucas, “She wishes she could be here to see us off, but she’s volunteering at the convent over in Brighthaven this morning.”

“That’s so sweet of her, what a wonderful lady,” says Mrs. Phaeton, smiling.

“It’s so amazing she can do that, given that only a couple of years ago…” Magpie leaves the thought unfinished as she places the last suitcase into the back of the car. She steps back and closes the trunk with a thud. Mrs. Phaeton and Lucas nod in agreement, it is amazing the transformation that took place in Grandma Starling, at almost exactly the same time Magpie found and rang the Skylark Bell. 

The thought makes Magpie glance toward Meadow Lane, now surrounded by lush green grass, young apple trees starting to bloom in the orchard behind the house. Magpie, Lucas and Mrs. Phaeton. have spent a lot of time there over the past two years, slowly repairing the house and cleaning up the Shearwater family’s belongings that still remained there. Mrs. Phaeton plans to use the house as an art studio and gallery, and perhaps even turn it into a B&B or artist’s retreat in the future.

Magpie sees a flicker in one of the upstairs windows and blinks hard before squinting to try and get a clearer look. “Did you see that?!” she asks, surprised.

“See what?” asks her mom, turning to look toward Meadow Lane.

“I thought… Never mind, it was probably just a reflection...” She says, not entirely convinced.

Lucas steps closer to Magpie and leans in. “I saw it too” he whispers so only she can hear. He steps back and they exchange a knowing look.

“Alright everyone, it’s time!” says Mrs. Phaeton cheerfully as they all climb into the car. They head down the long driveway and turn onto the road, heading full steam toward their future. 

In the second story window at Meadow Lane, the same window where The Skylark Bell still hangs, gently swaying in the breeze, a woman watches them disappear around the bend, her icy blue eyes twinkling as her perfectly shaped mouth forms into a twisted smile.

Thank you so much for listening.  Join me next week for Wingspan chapter 2, Birds of a Feather Fly Together, in which Magpie has an eerie premonition as they fly across the ocean toward their destination.

Before I go, I’d like to thank Phaeton Starling Publishing for this fantastically eerie story, as well as Cannelle for composing equally fantastic and eerie music for this podcast. 

If you are enjoying this story, please consider leaving a rating or a review, they’re both greatly appreciated. You can also support my work through a donation via my podcast provider or my subscribing to my Patreon where you get early access to episodes as well as MP3 downloads of the music, artwork, writing, recipes, and more!

Thank you

In today’s episode we will hear a quick recap of Season 1 as we prepare to read the first chapter of season 2, Wingspan, next week.

Music: Nightbridge by Cannelle (www.cannellemusic.com)

Find The Skylark Bell online: www.theyskylarkbell.com

Instagram: @theskylarkbell

Twitter: @melissaoliveri

Patreon: www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri

TRANSCRIPT:

Things with Wings Productions presents: A special episode of The Skylark Bell. I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.  

In today’s episode we will hear a quick recap of Season 1 as we prepare to read the first chapter of season 2, Wingspan, next week.

So get comfortable… grab a blanket, and a warm drink… we’re getting started.

Margaret Phaeton, better known as Magpie, lived in the city with her mother until the day they moved into the old farmhouse on the outskirts of Pocket. The day they moved in she met her next door neighbour, Lucas. That was also the first time she laid eyes on the mysterious abandoned house at Meadow Lane. 

It took some time for Lucas to open up about Meadow Lane, but he eventually told Magpie the stories handed down through generations about a mysterious silence hanging over the farm, and that no one who set foot there ever spoke or heard again. 

Magpie found herself fascinated with the place, and began to notice connections between her mysterious visions and the house at Meadow Lane. One day she encountered an old woman named Farfalla, who was rumoured to have been the last resident of Meadow Lane, and, by some accounts, the one responsible for cursing it with the silence.

Over time Magpie put more and more of the pieces of this odd puzzle together until she finally realized the silence at Meadow Lane was spreading to the entire town. Farfalla sat down with Magpie at The Early Bird diner and told her the unbelievable history of the house at Meadow Lane and the mythical Skylark Bell. Farfalla told Magpie the only way to end the silence was to find the bell, hidden within the confines of the house at Meadow Lane, and ring it loud and clear. 

Magpie successfully swallowed her fears and braved the silence at Meadow Lane in search of the bell. She was successful in her quest and did indeed end the silence, but the celebrations were short-lived as she and Lucas learned of Farfalla’s passing the following day.

As Magpie and Lucas were gathering Farfalla’s things from her tiny house around the corner from Tuffeto’s bakery, they heard impossible footsteps behind the closed door of an empty room. When they re-entered the room they found a sketch that hadn’t been there earlier. On the back of the sketch were four words that turned everything they thought they knew about Meadow Lane upside down. I AM NOT FARFALLA.

Thank you so much for listening.  Join me next week as we begin the second season of The Skylark Bell by reading chapter 1 of Wingspan, where we will reconnect with Magpie and Lucas 2 years after the events at Meadow Lane as they prepare to travel overseas to claim a house handed down to Magpie by her great-great-grandfather James Carnifex.

Before I go, I’d like to thank Phaeton Starling Publishing for this fantastically eerie story, as well as Cannelle for composing equally fantastic and eerie music for this podcast. 

If you are enjoying this story, please consider leaving a rating or a review, they’re both greatly appreciated. You can also support my work through a donation via my podcast provider or my subscribing to my Patreon where you get early access to episodes as well as MP3 downloads of the music, artwork, writing, recipes, and more!

Thank you

In this Holiday special edition of the podcast, we will read a bonus chapter of The Skylark Bell called A Strange New Year – which contains a bit of foreshadowing of what the future has in store for Magpie and Lucas.

So grab your fizzy drinks and party attire -  The countdown is on!

Music: Nightbridge and A Strange New Year by Cannelle (www.cannellemusic.com)

Brought to you by: Phaeton Starling Publishing and Things with Wings Productions.

The Skylark Bell official website - http://www.theskylarkbell.com

The Skylark Bell on Instagram: @theskylarkbell

Author/Producer: Melissa Oliveri - http://www.melissaoliveri.com

Join Melissa's Patreon for early access to podcast episodes, music downloads, and more: http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri

Melissa on Instagram: @the.mop.pod

Melissa on Twitter: @melissaoliveri

All music by Cannelle - http://www.cannellemusic.com

Cannelle on Instagram: @cannelle.music

FULL TRANSCRIPT:

Things with Wings productions presents, a special presentation of The Skylark Bell. I’m your host, Melissa Oliveri.

In this Holiday special edition of the podcast, we will read a bonus chapter of The Skylark Bell called A Strange New Year – which contains a bit of foreshadowing of what the future has in store for Magpie and Lucas.

So grab your fizzy drinks and party attire -  The countdown is on!

“Eight!  Seven!  Six!  Five! Four!” counts the crowd, their shouts bouncing off the worn stones covering the cottage walls.

“Three!  Two!  One!” says Lucas, the sparkler hissing in his hand casting flickers of light on his gray eyes, *HISSING* “Happy New Year!” he whispers, gently pushing strands of silver hair from Magpie’s face before laying a New Year’s kiss on her cheek.

“Gosh, 2049… Would you ever have thought we’d be here right now?” Says Magpie, leaning back to gauge Lucas’ expression.

It feels like only yesterday they were making their way across the ocean, leaving the town of Pocket behind and coming to Scotland to claim a house that once belonged to Magpie’s ancestors. Little did they know then, all that the future, and the past, had in store for them… 

“Here and now have totally different meanings than they used to!” Exclaims Lucas before grabbing Magpie’s hand and leading her to the improvised dance floor in the middle of the room.  *SCOT MUSIC* They spin and sway as a band of local musicians fills the air with Scottish folk music. Lucas notices that Magpie moves more slowly now, her pace has changed, her face has changed, her smile has changed - it’s sadder now, nostalgic… yet in her eyes he still sees a spark of the Magpie he once knew, and his heart breaks.

Thank you so much for listening. I hope the past year was kind to you, and look forward to what the new year will bring.    

Be sure to tune in next month as we continue the story of The Skylark Bell with season 2 - Wingspan.

Before I go I’d like to thank Phaeton Starling publishing for this fantastically eerie story, and as always, Cannelle for the dark, moody music that sets the tone.

If you enjoyed this story, please leaving a rating and a review. Your support is tremendously appreciated. Thank you.

This week you can officially stream and purchase the soundtrack to The Skylark Bell podcast with Songs from The Skylark Bell by Cannelle.

The soundtrack is available for purchase on Bandcamp http://www.cannellemusic.bandcamp.com and iTunes, as well as streaming on Apple Music, Amazon Music, Spotify, and more. The Bandcamp exclusive version contains 2 bonus songs.

Current Patreon subscribers and subscribers who sign up before December 31st 2021 receive a digital copy, as well as a limited edition signed CD* containing the 2 bonus songs included with their membership. http://www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri

More information available at http://www.theskylarkbell.com and http://www.cannellemusic.com

*CD not available to addresses in Australia and NZ due to shipping costs

In this Thanksgiving special edition of the podcast, we will hear a story called The Moonlight Parade, which was inspired by a real-life friendship between a horse and a girl.You definitely want to get cozy for this nostalgic, heartwarming story. 

Music: Nightbridge and Night by Cannelle (www.cannellemusic.com)

Find The Skylark Bell online: www.theyskylarkbell.com

Instagram: @theskylarkbell

Twitter: @melissaoliveri

Patreon: www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri

FULL TRANSCRIPT:

Things with Wings productions presents, a special presentation of The Skylark Bell. I’m your host, Melissa Oliveri.

In this Thanksgiving special edition of the podcast, we will hear a story called The Moonlight Parade, which was inspired by a real-life friendship between a horse and a girl.

You definitely want to get cozy for this nostalgic, heartwarming story. So grab a blanket and a warm drink, we’re getting started.

Many years ago, in a place like many places, with fields and trees and the occasional house, was a farm with many horses.  The horses raced around the fields; tall, short, old, young, light, dark.  

One of those horses, rather young and rather dark, was very special.  She was special because she was kind, gentle and smart.

Nearby lived a girl, rather young and rather tall.  Every day she would ride her bike down the dirt road, wind blowing her hair into tangles, just to see the horse.  The girl was also kind, gentle and smart.  

They would stand in the fields for hours.  The girl would talk and the horse would listen, the girl would sing and the horse would doze off, and sometimes the girl would lean on the horse and they would just stand in silence.

At dusk, when all the other horses would run across the fields like their wild ancestors, the horse would shield the girl from their pounding hooves, and they would both watch the parade as the moon came up.  

Day after day, night after night, the girl and the horse would stand and watch the moonlight parade.

Over time, the girl started coming every other day, then once a week, then the visits became fewer and fewer until the girl stopped visiting at all.  

She had grown up and moved to a place like many places, with tall buildings and cars and the occasional tree.

The horse grew up too, and became a mom.  She taught her foals to be kind, gentle and smart, and all of them grew up to be very special horses.  

But at dusk, when the other horses started their parade, she would watch and wonder what happened to the girl.

Far away, in a small city house, the girl had also become a mom.  She taught her baby to be kind gentle and smart.  

She kept busy every day, but at dusk she would look out her tiny window at the rising moon and remember the field, the parade and the horse.  Night after night she thought of the horse and wished she could stand with her and talk, and sleep, and sing.

Many years later, on a warm and sunny day, the girl came back to the place with the fields and the trees… and the horse.  The girl had grown older, her hair was getting grey and she spoke more quietly, but that day she had a sparkle in her eye.  

The girl walked to the field and called the horse’s name.  The horse had grown older, her mane was tangled and she walked more slowly, but when she heard the girl’s voice she also got a sparkle in her eye. 

They spent some time standing very close.  The girl talked and the hose listened, then she sang a little song and it was time to go. 

They both felt very sad, and as the girl walked away the horse whinnied a loud, proud and heavy-hearted goodbye.

Years went by and the horse thought of the girl and the girl thought of the horse.

One night, the horse was very tired and lay down to sleep.  

But as the moon started to come up, and the horses started their parade of pounding hooves, the horse lifted her head, shook her mane, and got up to join them.  She ran and ran in the field with the other horses.  

As the moon rose higher and higher she ran faster and faster, so fast she lifted into the night sky and raced into the girl’s dream.  

The girl was very happy to see the horse, young and proud, running like the wind.  She dreamed they were standing in the field and, just before she woke, the horse whinnied one last goodbye.

The next day, the girl gathered her family and drove to the place with the fields and trees.  Things had changed a lot since she had been there as a child; the dirt road had been paved, the bikes had rusted, some of the houses were gone and others had been built.  

But the biggest change of all was that the horse was no longer in the field.  

In her place was a foal, rather dark and rather tall, and very kind, gentle and smart.  

The girl had brought her son, and the foal looked at the boy, and the boy looked at the foal.  

They walked to the field and stood together.  The boy talked and the foal listened, the boy sang and the foal dozed off, then the boy leaned on the foal and they stood in silence.

At dusk, as the moon started to rise, the foal stood guard as the other horses started their parade.

The girl stood watching, and for just a brief moment she saw the horse; running and jumping and kicking her feet in the air, and the girl smiled.  

The horse stopped and looked at the girl, then her loud whinny echoed through the fields as she faded away, 

and the moonlight parade continued…

Thank you so much for listening. I wish all of you a safe and happy Thanksgiving holiday.    Be sure to tune in next month where we will once again find Magpie and Lucas for a holiday special edition called A Strange New Year.

Before I go I’d like to thank Phaeton Starling publishing for this heartwarming story about life, loss, and friendship. 

If you enjoyed this story, please consider supporting the podcast via Patreon, Paypal contribution, or by leaving a rating and a review. Your support is tremendously appreciated.

In this holiday special edition of the podcast, you get a little behind the scenes information about the Skylark Bell creator in the form of a pre-recorded Q+A.

Hear about the strange way the story first came about, and the process behind writing the book, and eventually creating the podcast.

Music: Nightbridge by Cannelle (www.cannellemusic.com)

Find The Skylark Bell online: www.theyskylarkbell.com

Instagram: @theskylarkbell

Twitter: @melissaoliveri

Patreon: www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri

TRANSCRIPT:

Things with Wings productions presents a special presentation of The Skylark Bell. I’m your host, Melissa Oliveri.

In this holiday special edition of the podcast, you get a little behind the scenes information about the Skylark Bell creator in the form of a pre-recorded Q+A.

Hear about the strange way the story first came about, and the process behind writing the book, and eventually creating the podcast.

 If you haven’t already, go grab a blanket and a warm drink… here we go.

Q - How did you come up with the premise of The Skylark Bell?

A – The title for the book actually came to me in a dream. I sometimes dream letters, words, and or sentences. I keep a notepad and pencil in my nightstand drawer so I can jot things down in the middle of the night. In this instance, I dreamed the words “Meadow Lane and the Skylark Bell”. I didn’t know what it meant, but I filed it away for future use.

Q – When did you start writing the story of Meadow Lane and the Skylark Bell.

A – I believe it was sometime in 2010 or 2011. I distinctly remember sitting in my car on my lunch break with a yellow legal pad and a pen coming up with ideas for the story and character outlines. My first idea was that there would be no sound on Meadow Lane. I thought that was original. I also found the idea of stepping into a space where there is no sound very unnerving.

Q – What took so long to share the book?

A – My first draft of the book was completed in the summer of 2014. I was pleased with myself for finishing it, but I was quite unhappy with the ending. I put the book on a shelf and forgot about it for several years. Finally in 2019 when I started a Patreon account for my music I thought it might be fun for my patrons if I shared the story of Meadow Lane and the Skylark Bell one chapter at a time. I started posting one or two chapters per month, and the book began to make the rounds that way.

Q – What made you turn the book into a podcast?

A – In the summer of 2020, my friend Amy from the Collected Sounds and Volsteadland podcasts approached me with the idea of turning my book into a podcast. She was starting a podcast of her own and had done quite a bit of research on it, and she offered to help me get started. At first I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do it. I had never really listened to a podcast before. I told her I’d think about it. And I did. I thought about it a lot. I thought “Ooooo I could compose intro music for it” and “Oooo I could compose background music for it” and “Oh! I could include sound effects!” and the more I thought about the more excited I got, so I went for it!

Q – How did you decide on the format, frequency of episodes, length of episodes, etc?

A – In my preparation phase, which lasted about 6 months, I realized a lot of things. One, I had to change the ending of the book to something much better than what I had originally written. That was the first thing I did, only after that was done did I fully commit to doing a podcast. Second, I realized my episodes would have to be somewhat similar in length, so I adjusted my chapters to have similar word counts. Third – After I recorded a few chapters for practice I quickly realized that each chapter needed to end on a bit of a cliffhanger. The first few fell flat – so I re-wrote most of the chapter endings. Once all my chapters were ready, I began to think about how I was going to fill up an entire year with 26 chapters. This is where Fantôme Friday comes it.  I decided that on the last Friday of each month I would pause reading of the Meadow Lane and the Skylark Bell, and instead tell a true ghost story. Well, they aren’t really all ghost stories, but they are definitely supernatural in nature!

Q – Are all the Fantôme Friday episodes true stories?

A – Absolutely! I did my best to write the Fantôme Friday stories in an honest way without embellishing or taking too much creative freedom. The majority of the episodes cover things I experienced first-hand, and the others came to me from people I trust implicitly.

Q – Where did you come up with the idea to include an original song with each Fantôme Friday episode?

A – I am equal parts author and musician. Music is a huge part of my life. For my music endeavours, I go by the stage name Cannelle. When I realized what a huge undertaking the podcast was going to be – sidenote, I didn’t realize how much work would be involved when I started out – I grew concerned that my music would fall by the wayside, and that didn’t seem fair to the people who have been supporting my music on Patreon and on social media, particularly Instagram. My initial plan was to use existing songs and recordings to go with the Fantôme Friday episodes. I got this idea in my head because the first Fantôme Friday is about Jack’s Room, and I already had a song written about that. That is the only Fantôme Friday for which I had a song that fit. I found myself having to compose a new song each month. I’ll be honest, some months were easier than others! But the wonderful thing is doing that helped me keep my music and my writing closely intertwined, and in doing so I ended up creating a soundtrack for the podcast called Songs from The Skylark Bell!

Q – How do you think being a musician affects how you approach the podcast?

A – I am very in tune to how sounds make people feel. I felt it was important for the spoken intro and outro to have a different feel than the story itself. That’s why there is no background music for the intro and outro, but while I am reading the story there is subtle, low, rumbling music in the background. Interesting fact, that background music just a loop of the intro music but with all the high-pitched instruments muted.

Q – Tell us more about the intro music, was it written specifically for the podcast?

A – Well, yes and no. As I was sitting at the piano trying to come up with something new, I started playing the bridge to an original song of mine called Night. Suddenly the light came on, I’d been looking for something a little creepy, but still nice, with a theatrical edge to it – the bridge to this song fit the bill perfectly! I plugged my Roland keyboard into my laptop and began recording. I started out with piano then added a bunch of low choir sounds and strings. Then the fun began. If you listen carefully you’ll notice the only percussion in the song is the sound of a heartbeat. There is also a swooshing sound that was added by my sun using a “rain” sound effect on my keyboard. At the end of the song we hear bells and birds, which are intricately woven into the story of Meadow Lane.

Q – Speaking of the story – what can we expect in future seasons?

A – I always knew the story of The Skylark Bell was going to be a trilogy. Book 2 is titled Wingspan and is completely written. That is what season 2 will consist of. We’ll reconnect with Magpie and Lucas about two years after the end of Book 1. They have finished high school and are heading to Scotland to claim a house left to Magpie by her great-great-grandfather James Carnifex. Of course mysterious occurrences and visions and clues are all part of the story. 

Q – Will we get an answer to the question on everyone’s lips after the season 1 cliffhanger – Who is Farfalla?!

A – Yes! I don’t want to give too much away, but about 1/3 of the way through book two that question will be answered.

Q – You mentioned The Skylark Bell is a trilogy, what will the third book be about?

A – The third book starts out as a bit of a prequel, and follows Farfalla’s timeline. Part of it takes place at Meadow Lane, and part of it takes place in Scotland. I don’t want to give too much away, but all three books are very tightly intertwined, and all major characters make appearances in all three books. 

Q – Are there plans to publish the story in book form?

A – Yes! This is something I’ve wanted to do for a very long time. I am waiting to complete the third book, then will revise all three books to ensure there are no errors or omissions I the story, then I will send the books for publication. I am hoping to have at least one of the books available by the summer of 2022 in both printed and e-book format as well as an audiobook version.

Q – Are there plans for any other physical or digital merchandise related to The Skyarl Bell?

A – Yes. The soundtrack is currently available on Bandcamp. You can visit www. Theskylarkbell . com for more information on that. I also offer goodies to Patreon patrons such as ornaments and bookmarks. I am hoping to put together an online shop in the near future where anyone can purchase The Skylark Bell merch, and eventually the books!

Q – As we wrap up this conversation, tell us where fans can get more information about the podcast and the music.

A – The website is a great resource. You can go to www . Melissa oliveri . com to learn about everything I do. There are separate pages for my music as Cannelle, as well as The Skylark Bell podcast, and all social media links, music website links, and podcast platform links are there. You can also sign up for The Skylark Chronicles, my montly newsletter for the podcast. There is also a separate newsletter for my music for those who are interested.

Thank you so much for listening. I wish all of you a safe and happy holiday season.

Be sure to stay tuned in a couple of weeks when we’ll once again find Magpie and Lucas for a holiday special edition called A Strange New Year.

If you have any comments or questions following this episode, I invite you to reach out via the form on my website which can be found at www . theskylarkbell . com

You can also reach out via social media if you prefer, links to Instagram, facebook, and twitter can also be found on the website.

As always, leaving a rating or a review is greatly appreciated. Thank you.

This episode is dedicated to my husband, Tony, on our 15th wedding anniversary.

Things with Wings Productions presents: The Skylark Bell, Fantome Friday.  I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.  

This Fantome Friday special episode, The Wedding Dress, allows the dress itself to tell you her story as she is passed down through the decades. Be sure to listen all the way through for a new song by Cannelle, also titled The Wedding Dress, composed exclusively for this episode (http://www.cannellemusic.com)

Find all information about Amy's podcasts, Collected Sounds and Volsteadland, here: http://www.blog.collectedsounds.com/welcome/

Music: Nightbridge and The Wedding Dress by Cannelle (www.cannellemusic.com)

Find The Skylark Bell online: www.theyskylarkbell.com

Instagram: @theskylarkbell

Twitter: @melissaoliveri

Patreon: www.patreon.com/melissaoliveri

TRANSCRIPT:

Things with Wings Productions presents: The Skylark Bell, Fantome Friday.  I am your host, Melissa Oliveri.  

This Fantome Friday special episode, The Wedding Dress, allows the dress itself to tell you her story as she is passed down through the decades. I was inspired to write this as my husband and I recently celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary. 

Before I begin, I’d like to let you know about my friend Amy. She is the one who planted the seed for this podcast and helped me learn the ropes. Her podcasts Collected Sounds and Volsteadland are both fantastic, and she offers podcast production services to people who are looking to start their own podcast. The last episode of season 1 of Volsteadland, which traces the history of infamous Minneapolis mobster Kid Cann, is out now. If you recall, I had an encounter with the long-departed Kid Cann which I recounted in my fantome Friday episode called The Bootlegers.  Check the episode description for links to A my’s podcasts.

Now, it’s time to get settled in. Grab a blanket, a warm drink, and let’s get started… 

I remember all my parts. I remember when I was a bolt of lace, a bolt of satin, a drawstring bag of pearls, a string of elastic, a spool of thread... I remember how it felt when the woman brought all my parts together and began to cut and stitch. I remember how dedicated she was, how much love she poured into her craft; her steady hand cutting into the fabric, her foot pumping the pedal of the now antique sewing machine. I remember how she pinned my cutout parts on the dress form, stepping back to evaluate her work. Then at the end when she hand-sewed the pearls to my bodice and the satin-covered buttons in a row down my back. 

I started out as satin, pearls, and thread, and I became a wedding dress. 

I remember the look of satisfaction on her face when, at last, her work was done. 

Then came the girl.

Her eyes lit up when she saw me. We became fast friends. With only minor adjustments she donned me on her wedding day. She carried carnations, the soft apricot coloured kind, sprinkled with baby’s breath. My train trailed behind her down the aisle, sweeping up the rose petals that had been dropped by a pair of flower girls in matching baby blue dresses.

After the wedding I was lovingly wrapped in tissue paper and put away in a fancy box. At first, I listened in on their lives... family gatherings, laughter, tears, the arrival of first a dog, then children. After a while I tuned out, giving in to the feeling of loneliness and abandonment that had been nagging at me for some time.

Finally, one day, I felt the box move. I waited, perfectly still, as the lid of the box was slowly lifted off, and the tissue paper carefully peeled back. There, peeking down at me, was a young woman with long dark hair. I recognized her right away, she looked very much like her mother. She gingerly lifted me out of the box and held me up. Next to her stood her mother. She looked much different than her wedding day. Strands of silver decorated her hair, and the corners of her eyes creased when she smiled, but she was just as beautiful as the last time we were together. 

I was carted off to the seamstress. My sleeves were removed, and my neckline lowered. A few of my missing pearls were replaced, and my hem was shorted so it would no longer trail on the ground when the bride walked the aisle. When the big day came, the girl had her long dark hair pinned up in a fancy twist, and she carried white and pink lilies. A long lace veil trailed down her back, laying delicately against my row of satin-covered buttons. Once the wedding was over, back into the box I went. I knew the drill now. I spent the first few weeks reminiscing about the two weddings, and wondering what would happen next. 

The box moved again. Had it been years already? This time, a man was staring back at me. . I recognized him from the wedding. His eyes looked sad. I felt his tears fall and soak into my satin. I could feel his heavy heart. He put the lid back on the box and I felt myself being carried away. 

The next time the lid was removed I was in a shop. An older woman, her gray hair curled on top of her head, scrutinized every inch of my fabric through her tiny glasses. She wore a name tag that read “Vera’s Vintage” with the name “Vera” spelled out underneath. The woman carefully placed me on a mannequin and carried me to the window. What joy it was to bask in the daylight, to watch people on the street walking back and forth, colourful shopping bags in hand. It amazed me how different everyone looked; clothed in bright patterns, women with short hair, men with long hair... even the cars came in all different colours! The world had changed completely since I had last been out of the box. One day, a young blonde woman with a pixie cut and large hoop earrings stopped in front of the window to look at me. I heard the chime of the doorbell as she entered the shop. 

Next thing I knew I was being removed from the mannequin and packed into yet another box that in turn was placed into a paper bag which the blonde woman happily carried on her arm as she left the shop. She wasted no time taking me out of the box and getting to work. The first thing she did was cut me down to nearly half my length. She used the fabric from the bottom part of my skirt to make sleeves and add to the neckline. She added some feathers to the cuffs and the bottom of my now much shorter hem. When she was finally finished, she put me on and stepped in front of a mirror. I couldn’t believe what had happened. I was unrecognizable! I instantly wondered, what would the woman think, the very first one, who collected my parts and put me together?

This time there was no aisle to walk down. The wedding was outside with only a handful of people. The blonde woman did not carry flowers. This time, I got to attend the reception. There was live music and laugher, food and drink. I got a stain on my sleeve from a stray cherry that fell off the black forest cake. After the wedding I was placed on a hanger and tucked to the back of a long closet. I watched as the other clothes came and went over the years. First the short dresses gave way to long dresses, then to dresses with shoulder pads and wild, angular patters. Then one day the woman grabbed all the clothes and tucked them into a suitcase. Packed her shoes in a box, gathered her jewelry, books, and trinkets, and walked out the door. I stayed at the back of the closet, left behind once again. What happened?

Eventually, the man from the wedding came by and brought me outside. He slipped my hanger onto a clothing rack where I got to blow in the soft summer breeze. People came and went, leaving with various household items, books, trinkets. The things the woman had left behind. The man seemed happy to that the items were leaving with other people. Finally, a woman with chin-length black hair took me off the rack. She gave the man some money, then placed me delicately on the back seat of her car and we drove away. I found myself brought, once again, to a seamstress. The woman with the black hair asked to have a wide blue sash added to my waist, with a large bow at the back. The feather trim was removed from my cuffs and hem, and lace added to my hemline, so I found myself once again to be a full-length dress, though sheer on the bottom half.

This time, the wedding was quite large. Standing in front of the woman with the black hair was another woman, in a finely tailored white suit, its lapels made of a satin similar to mine. They looked incredibly happy. I was left hanging on the back of a dressing room door while they went to the reception, a plastic bag draped over me, and eventually I was tucked to the back of yet another closet when they got home. I wondered then, in those long stretches of time when I was not needed, whatever became of my missing parts? The parts that had been cut off, refashioned, discarded? I tried to see if perhaps I could feel them, those parts of me, somewhere out there in the world... but no.

Several years later, the woman who had donned the white suit pulled me off the hanger and shoved me roughly into a plastic bag. I heard muffled conversation about sparking joy as I felt myself being carted off yet again. I eventually ended up dumped out on a table with piles and piles of other clothes. After going through some kind of sorting system I got strung up onto a rather uncomfortable, wobbly hanger and placed on a rack, tightly sandwiched between another wedding dress and a peach-coloured party dress. I spent weeks and weeks on that rack, watching the seasons change through the window at the end of the huge, cluttered space. Winter gave way to spring, then summer, and finally the leaves started to change colour. 

That’s when the girl with the bright orange hair showed up.

She unhooked my hanger from the rack and waved excitedly to her friend. They giggled and turned me over in their hands. I wondered if they would see my cherry stain and hang me back up. Abandon me. But no. They carried me to the checkout counter, where I once again got shoved unceremoniously into a bag, and took me home.

That very night, the most bewildering thing occurred. The girl with the orange hair took a bottle of red liquid, drizzled it onto my neckline and let it trickle down. I ended up with streaks of red down my front and back. I was slipped onto another hanger and hung up to dry. That evening, the girl put me on, laced up some tall black boots, put on some ghastly makeup, and we went outside. Over and over, she rang doorbells and was given candy. A strange ceremony indeed! No flowers, no guests... I was left very confused at the end of the night as I sat in a pile on the floor next to her boots and a handful of stray candy wrappers.

The girl eventually rolled me up into a ball and shoved me on the floor in the back corner of her closet. A few years later I was pulled from my hiding space by a woman with auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. The room that had housed the girl with the orange hair looked completely different. Her posters had been taken down and replaced with paintings of mountains and lakes. The small bed with its bedding haphazardly strewn on top had been replaced with a larger, perfectly made bed. As I was walked through the house, I saw photos on the walls of the woman who was carrying me, a man I’d never seen, and the girl with the orange hair looking far more grown up than the last time I’d seen her. 

The woman with the auburn hair took me outside and placed me in the center of a circle made of bricks. She added other items alongside me; more clothing, pieces of cardboard, sticks, wood... then walked away. I waited patiently as the day wore on, wondering what this strange assortment of objects was going to lead to. My answer came with the night, and the strike of a match. Within a matter of minutes, I could feel my fabric singe as flames melted my lace and licked at my frayed edges. I felt myself disintegrate as I burned, lifting into the night sky in a cloud of ash. I felt myself fall back to the ground, landing on the wildflowers, mixing with the dirt. 

How fitting that I should once again find myself in scattered pieces.

I started out as satin, pearls, and thread, and I became a wedding dress. 

Thank you so much for listening.  Join me next week for a very special episode featuring a pre-recorded Q&A that will cover everything about The Skylark Bell, from its unusual origins to where the story is headed and more.

Before I go, I’d like to thank Phaeton Starling Publishing for this story as well as the use of the music composed and performed by Cannelle.

If you enjoy listening to this podcast, please consider leaving a rating or a review. If you’d like to make a financial contribution to support my work – you can visit my website http://www.theskylarkbell.com for more information, or simply reach out via the contact form there if you have any questions. I'm

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