This Wine is Cursed (Or, We’re Hexausted)

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in

This Wine is Cursed
(Or, We’re Hexausted)

Story Conjured, Written, & Told by
Veda Thorne & Lira Vexley

Imagery, Magic, & Visual Alchemy by
Veda Thorne, Lira Vexley, Thea Quinnell,
Zadie Calder, Brie Halloway,
& Scott Bryant

With care and reverence, their story is shared by
Scott Bryant at the request of Veda Thorne & Lira Vexley

A Note from Veda Thorne & Lira Vexley

We’re not witches in the fairy tales you’ve read. We don’t cackle over cauldrons or wait around for someone to call us ‘enchanting.’ We don’t need broomsticks to make an exit or princes to make a point.

Besides, we’re hexhausted.

This isn’t a story about love spells or happily-ever-afters. It’s about the beautiful disasters we call friendship, the kind of magic that doesn’t need a wand—just a wink, a wine glass, and a willingness to dive headfirst into chaos.

We didn’t summon this mess on purpose. (Okay, Lira didn’t summon this mess on purpose.) But if magic’s going to break loose, you better believe we’ll be the ones holding the spellbook, the wine, and the last word.

Here’s what you should remember: Magic isn’t in the potion; it’s in the people bold enough to pour it, the world doesn’t need saving by heroes in capes—it needs women in sweaters and hoodies with snacks, and when everything spins out of control, the best thing you can do is laugh, grab your best friend’s hand, and rewrite the rules.

We’re Veda and Lira. We didn’t come here to play nice. We came to stir the cauldron, spill the wine, and make sure no one forgets our names.

This isn’t just our story. It’s yours too—if you’re ready to join the chaos.

And to Scott Bryant—who lovingly handled our story with care and reverence, refusing credit because he knew this was ours—we say: nice try. But even the best chaos needs someone to press ‘record.’ You contributed to the spell without centering yourself. You earned your place in the credits, whether you wanted it or not. Unless you wanted to be turned into an owl or crow.

—Veda & Lira

The Night of February 13th

Veda Thorne

A horizontal, photorealistic, cinematic image set inside a dimly lit, cozy apartment at night. Through the windows, the sky is a deep, rich blue-black, signaling late evening. The room is softly illuminated only by scattered candles and gentle string lights, which cast warm golden pools of light across a slightly messy, lived-in space. At the center, a young woman with natural, relatable beauty — not a supermodel — is carefully arranging a rustic cheese and charcuterie board on a wooden coffee table. She has expressive eyes and wavy, shoulder-length dark brown hair, and she wears an oversized, slightly worn dark gray poet-style sweater that looks cozy and lived-in. Her posture is focused but relaxed, and there’s an authentic, slightly messy quality to her movements as she places crackers delicately around a wedge of creamy brie, surrounded by salami, grapes, and other small bites. Behind her on a crowded shelf, a battered, ancient spellbook hums faintly, its weathered cover glowing with a subtle, cool blue light — not enough to dominate the scene, but just enough to hint that something quietly magical is present. Nearby, wine bottles catch and shimmer under the soft lights, blending into the rich textures of the room: rustic furniture, old books, and small, personal clutter. The entire atmosphere feels warmly cinematic, tinged with mystery and mischief, as if something unseen is gently stirring in the air. The image should be emotionally rich, grounded, and real — with no stiff posing — capturing the quiet intimacy of a young woman unknowingly surrounded by sleeping magic.

The spellbook should have been a red flag.

It sat on my coffee table between the wine and the cheese like it belonged there — cracked leather, illegible ink, faintly humming to itself like it was bored.

No couples whispering sweet nothings that sound more like tax deductions, no awkward dates pretending they love jazz, and definitely no overpriced prix fixe menus.

Just me, Lira, cheap wine that could double as paint thinner, overpriced cheese that screams aspirational living, and the ancient spellbook we bought from a flea market witch who probably cursed us for fun.

I arrange the brie on the cutting board with the precision of someone trying to control one small corner of a life spiraling into chaos. If I can’t fix my future, I can at least make sure my cheese is aesthetically pleasing.

Somewhere near the wine bottles, a faint hum vibrates the air—so soft I tell myself it’s just the fridge… even though the fridge hums in F.

This sound? Definitely a low, mischievous C minor.

“Ding dong! Your fellow sister witch is finally here. I brought the wine—and by wine, I mean emotional support in liquid form,” Lira yells as she bursts through the door, nearly toppling my carefully curated snack spread.

“Salem Witch Mirlot No. 1692. Aged like a fine wine coven. Just for us!”

“Careful! That cheese board is the closest thing I have to inner peace,” I say, rescuing it from her whirlwind entrance.

She kicks off her boots, sprawling onto my couch like a woman who’s declared war on structure.

“Tonight’s vibe? Beautiful disasters and decisions we’ll laugh about until we regret them. Abracadaba fuck yeah!”

Lira Vexley

HORIZONTAL CINEMATIC IMAGE — INTIMATE PRESTIGE REALISM A horizontal, photorealistic cinematic still set inside the same cozy, candlelit apartment at night. The room glows with warm amber light from scattered candles and soft string lights. Outside the windows, deep blue-black night presses gently against the glass. Foreground / Right — Lira Vexley: Captured in a medium shot as she flops sideways into the couch cushions, mid-collapse. Her body is relaxed, loose, unapologetic — one leg bent, shoulders sinking into the sofa. She wears her dark hoodie and ripped jeans, hair slightly wild from motion. Her expression is openly mischievous, satisfied, and expectant — eyes turned toward Veda, not the camera — like someone who has arrived expressly to cause low-grade havoc. Her hands have just released two wine bottles onto the coffee table in front of her. The bottles rest unevenly, one still gently rolling, catching candlelight along the glass. Midground / Left — Veda Thorne: Partially in frame, slightly out of focus or cropped at the shoulder or torso. Veda leans over the coffee table, carefully rearranging a cheese board with near-reverence. She wears her dark cable-knit sweater and cuffed jeans, sleeves pulled over her hands. Her posture is meticulous, intent — clearly treating the cheese arrangement with seriousness bordering on devotion. Her expression suggests restrained irritation mixed with fond resignation. Environment & Details: The coffee table is cluttered: brie, crackers, grapes, salami, crumbs, napkins. Candlelight pools across the wood grain. Fairy lights blur softly behind the couch. The ancient spellbook rests nearby — closed for now — faint blue light barely leaking from its seams, unnoticed in this moment. Camera & Mood: Medium shot, eye-level or slightly low. Natural motion blur implied in Lira’s landing, contrasted with Veda’s stillness. Shallow depth of field. Cinematic warmth balanced with subtle cool shadows. No posing, no stylization — this feels caught, not staged. Emotional Tone: Playful disruption. Domestic intimacy. The quiet certainty that chaos has just arrived and is very comfortable here. Style Constraints: Photorealistic. Natural skin texture. Soft candlelit shadows. No exaggerated magic effects. No direct eye contact with the camera.

Veda’s place smells like vanilla candles and silent existential panic. Comforting, really.

I drop the wine bottles on the table and flop into the cushions, watching her fuss over the cheese like it’s her firstborn. She’s in that oversized sweater that screams “moody poet,” which tracks—Veda’s basically the human version of a half-finished poem scribbled on a coffee-stained napkin.

“Spill, sis,” I say, pointing a wedge of gouda at her. “Who or what is ruining your will to live this week? What bare-minimum Merlin do we have to hex? You know — black cat, ladder, done. Turning people into toads is such a bore.”

She groans.

“If my boss circles back to circle back one more time, I’m applying to be a lighthouse keeper.”

“Honestly, V? You’d crush the whole ‘mysterious woman in a lighthouse with a tragic backstory’ aesthetic.” I grin. “But that’s future Veda’s problem. Tonight? We’re summoning chaos.”

She laughs, finally loosening up. “Fine. Chaos it is.”

Veda Thorne

HORIZONTAL CINEMATIC IMAGE — PRESTIGE FILM REALISM A horizontal, photorealistic cinematic still set inside a cozy, dimly lit apartment at night. The atmosphere is intimate, warm, and slightly chaotic, lit only by candles and soft string lights. Outside the windows, the sky is a deep blue-black, signaling late evening. Two young women sit barefoot on the floor, leaning close to a cluttered wooden coffee table between them. Left — Veda Thorne: Veda wears a dark cable-knit sweater with sleeves slightly covering her hands and cuffed jeans. She leans forward with a skeptical, focused expression, her posture grounded and thoughtful. Her brown curls catch the warm candlelight, and her gaze is fixed on the woman beside her — observant, cautious, and quietly intrigued. Right — Lira Vexley: Lira lounges more casually, wearing a dark hoodie and ripped jeans. Her wavy hair is slightly wild, catching glints from the string lights behind her. She holds an ancient, dusty leather-bound spellbook in both hands, angled toward Veda. The spellbook hums faintly, its weathered cover emitting a subtle, cool blue glow etched with arcane symbols. Lira’s expression is mischievous and delighted — she is smiling directly at Veda, not the camera — as if daring her into trouble. Environment & Props: The coffee table is cluttered and lived-in: a rustic charcuterie board with brie, crackers, grapes, and salami; half-drunk wine glasses; a few open wine bottles; crumpled napkins; scattered crumbs. Candles cast warm pools of light across the wood grain, contrasting with the spellbook’s cool glow. Fairy lights sparkle softly in the background, and shelves of books and personal clutter add texture and depth. Camera & Mood: Low, wide camera angle at floor level, creating intimacy and immersion. Shallow depth of field with gentle background bokeh from candles and string lights. Cinematic color grading — warm amber highlights balanced against cool blue magical accents. No stiff posing, no glamour styling. The scene feels candid, emotionally grounded, and alive — capturing the exact moment before magic quietly spirals out of control. Style Notes: Photorealistic, prestige-film realism. Natural skin texture. Soft candlelit shadows. Subtle atmospheric shimmer in the air. No artificial posing, no exaggerated fantasy effects, no direct eye contact with the camera.

Two glasses in, and Lira’s already rummaging under my coffee table. She pulls out the spellbook—the one that looks like it might have cursed at least three people before it ended up with us.

The cover gives a faint shiver under her hand, like it’s holding its breath and waiting.

“Do you think this thing actually works?” she asks, flipping through its ancient pages like she’s skimming a gossip magazine.

“Considering the last spell we tried was supposed to give me flawless skin, and I woke up with a zit that had its own Wi-Fi signal? No.”

Lira cackles, pointing at me with a baguette chunk. “That was user error, babe. You sneezed mid-chant.”

“Didn’t realize bodily functions invalidated magic,” I mutter.

“Okay, skeptic,” she teases. “What about this one?” She holds up a page titled Desiderium Revelare. Beneath it, in ominous lettering: Reveal the heart’s truest desire.

I narrow my eyes. “You want to play genie with people’s deepest desires? Feels like the start of a documentary about our mysterious disappearance.”

“Risky is eating gas station sushi. This?” She grins, wild and unbothered. “This is foreplay for the universe.”

I sigh, knowing I’ve already lost this argument. “If this backfires, I’m putting it in your eulogy.”

“Fair.”

Lira Vexley

I knew she’d cave.

She’s all “responsible adult” on the surface, but deep down? She lives for the drama.

I pour more wine, raise my glass like I’m toasting destiny, and start reading. The words feel strange, sticky, like honey and static electricity—but I power through, ending with a dramatic flourish.

Veda raises an eyebrow.

“So… now what?”

I shrug.

“Unless my truest desire was another glass of wine, I think we’ve been scammed.”

“Shocking,” she deadpans.

We laugh, clink glasses, and move on.

Until the next morning.

What Did We Do?!

Veda Thorne

I wake up to a noise that sounds like someone strangling a cat. I peel open my eyes, stumble to the window, and—

Oh no.

Carol Peters from the neighborhood over is in her yard, belting out Broadway numbers in full sequins, jazz hands flashing wildly.

And…cartoon cats.

Five of them. Tap-dancing in a chaotic swirl around her makeshift stage, tails spinning like they choreographed this fever dream.

Pedestrians stare — some horrified, some…weirdly into it.

VERSION B.3 — EMBODIED COLLISION & DIVERSE REALITY (Use as-is. This is a tightening, not a softening.) HORIZONTAL CINEMATIC IMAGE — 16:9 — PRESTIGE MAGICAL REALISM — EMBODIED, CROWDed, UNRULY BLOCKING A gorgeously lit, photorealistic cinematic image set in a sunlit suburban neighborhood, where accidental magic has erupted before anyone had time to organize space or etiquette. At the center, Carol Peters performs atop a cramped, makeshift wooden stage in her front yard, built from uneven, weathered planks that are visibly too small for the number of performers now occupying it. A crooked, hand-painted sign above her reads “STAGE”, its faded letters leaning slightly, as if hastily nailed in place. Carol wears a dazzling gold sequined dress that catches the morning light unevenly. She beams with determined joy, arms thrown wide in triumphant jazz hands — but her body language shows adjustment: one shoulder raised defensively, her stance widened for balance, her smile just barely strained as she continues performing while being bumped and crowded. She is not breaking character. She is managing the chaos while performing through it. The stage is overcrowded with a troupe of animated vintage cartoon cats, inspired by Who Framed Roger Rabbit–era animation. They are hand-painted with bold black outlines and colorful, slightly worn tones — but they vary noticeably in size and build: One tall, skinny cat with long limbs and jittery movement One short, round, heavier cat with a bouncing gait One average-sized cat with oversized feet One smaller, scrappy cat darting between legs Their exaggerated old-Hollywood tap-dance poses clash awkwardly with the limited space. FORCED SPATIAL COLLISION (MANDATORY): A large, round cat bumps into Carol’s hip mid-dance, forcing her to shift her weight without losing her smile A skinny cat steps partly behind Carol, its head and hat visible over her shoulder while its body disappears behind her dress Two cats overlap mid-dance, bodies intersecting and outlines partially obscured One cat teeters at the edge of the stage, one foot slipping halfway off a plank A cat’s tail disappears behind Carol’s sequined dress, re-emerging on the other side Another cat is cut off by the frame edge, only partially visible The cats remain visually flat and hand-painted, but they interact physically with the environment: their shadows fragment across plank gaps, nails, and stage edges; the boards flex unevenly under their combined weight, releasing irregular puffs of dust that hang briefly in the warm morning air. THE CROWD — DIVERSE, TOO CLOSE, UNPLANNED A racially and ethnically diverse group of suburban neighbors has pressed in too close around the stage — Black, Latino, Asian, white, and mixed-race neighbors of varying ages, builds, and styles. They are no longer arranged neatly. Their reactions vary: Some clap enthusiastically Some laugh in disbelief Some lean back instinctively to avoid collision Some lean in, fascinated HUMAN–CARTOON NEAR-COLLISIONS: A Black neighbor leans forward mid-clap, his hands nearly colliding with a dancing cat’s face A child crouched near the stage edge (Latino or mixed-race) pulls back slightly as a cartoon cat’s foot lands inches from their knee An Asian neighbor’s arm cuts through a cat’s outline, partially obscuring it from view No one appears frightened — only surprised by how physically close everything has become. ENVIRONMENTAL TRUTH Morning dew sparkles unevenly on trampled grass Dust motes float chaotically, disturbed by too many feet A brief lens flare glances off Carol’s sequins, slightly blown out The sunlight is warm and directional, but shadows are broken, messy, and inconsistent, fractured across overlapping bodies, planks, and figures. Some characters are partially cropped by the frame, as if the camera operator was struggling to contain the scene. COMPOSITION RULES (NON-NEGOTIABLE): Avoid symmetry Avoid clean spacing Avoid uniform character sizing Avoid perfect visibility Prioritize overlap, occlusion, imbalance, and adjustment Tone: sincere, joyful, slightly stressed, unplanned Style: cinematic, observational, restrained magical realism under bodily pressure No parody. No satire. No visual cleanup. The magic arrived first. Everyone else is adapting.

My phone buzzes. Lira.

“Please tell me you see this,” she says, equal parts amused and panicked.

“Oh, you mean Carol’s unsolicited audition for America’s Got Delusions? Yeah, I see it.”

“Babe, it’s not just Carol…”

I blink. “We didn’t—”

“Oh, we did,” Lira interrupts. “Turns out, the spell worked.”

“Shit.”

Lira Vexley

Okay, so maybe dabbling in magic without reading the fine print wasn’t my best moment.

But also? Carol’s living her sequined truth (though sorry, Carol, RuPaul does it better), and June the barista’s really committing to the mermaid aesthetic.

Honestly? Respect.

I throw on yesterday’s hoodie, grab my keys, and head to Veda’s. The town’s… a vibe.

I turn the corner—and nearly walk into Mrs. Donnelly from Donnelly’s Hardware store. She’s wearing a cape, a wizard hat, and solemnly chanting to a flock of – cartoon blue birds?!

The birds? They rise into the air in perfect synchronized formation, against the morning sky. Well, almost.

Honestly? Ten out of ten commitment.

ANIMATED–LIVE HYBRID IMAGE 02 PIGEON SPELL FAILURE — VERSION A.1 HORIZONTAL CINEMATIC IMAGE — 16:9 — PRESTIGE MAGICAL REALISM — MID-FAILURE HYBRID COLLISION A cinematic, photorealistic, gorgeously lit image set in a sunlit suburban neighborhood still unsettled by accidental magic. At mid-ground, Mrs. Donnelly stands firmly planted on a cracked sidewalk, dressed in a flowing black cape and an oversized, slightly crooked wizard hat. She chants solemnly toward the sky, hands raised with ritual seriousness, fully committed to the spell she believes is working. Above her, a flock of animated vintage cartoon pigeons, inspired by Who Framed Roger Rabbit–era animation, attempts to form a synchronized aerial word — but the formation collapses mid-air. FORCED MID-AIR FAILURE (MANDATORY): Two pigeons collide chest-first, wings tangled One pigeon spins upside-down, eyes wide, feathers flying A heavier pigeon plows through the formation, knocking others aside One pigeon flaps desperately while stuck sideways against another The half-formed word in the sky dissolves into unreadable chaos The pigeons remain visually flat and hand-painted with bold black outlines and worn, colorful tones, but obey physical rules: their collisions cause visible disruption, uneven spacing, and loss of altitude. Feathers burst outward in exaggerated cartoon puffs that drift briefly before falling. FOREGROUND — LIRA VEXLEY (CANONICAL LOCK) In the foreground, Lira Vexley doubles over with uncontrollable laughter, clutching a takeaway coffee cup as liquid sloshes dangerously close to spilling. Her posture is unbalanced, one knee bent, shoulders folded forward as she struggles to breathe through laughter. She wears her dark hoodie and ripped jeans, hair wavy and slightly wild, eyes squeezed shut in disbelief. This is not posed laughter. This is loss of composure. SPATIAL COEXISTENCE A pigeon passes dangerously close to Lira’s head A feather drifts between her and the camera Another pigeon is partially cut off by the frame edge ENVIRONMENTAL DETAIL Behind them, the suburban setting is vivid and specific: A colorful hotdog mural painted on a nearby wall Cracked sidewalks and patchy lawns Golden morning sunlight filtering through trees The light is warm and directional, but the sky is cluttered with overlapping pigeon bodies, broken shadows, and chaotic motion. Some pigeons are cropped by the frame, as if the camera operator struggled to follow the disaster. Tone: whimsical, chaotic, sincere, unplanned Style: cinematic, observational, restrained magical realism under aerial failure No parody. No mockery. No cleanup. The spell began confidently. The pigeons disagreed.

Chaos at Veda’s

Lira Vexley

When I get to Veda’s, she’s pacing, already on Google like,

“How to undo accidental witchcraft without selling your soul.”

“Morning, sunshine,” I chirp, flopping onto her couch.

She glares at me.

“This is your fault.”

I smirk.

“I prefer co-conspirator.”

“Lira, Carol built a stage in her yard. A stage.”

I shrug.

“Good for her. Honestly, if you’ve got a dream, build the damn stage.”

“Focus. What if someone’s deepest desire is, like, world domination?”

“Then we really need that counter-spell,” I say, grabbing a chip. “Otherwise, someone could take over the world. Oh wait… too late. Humans already beat them to it.”

Suddenly one of the cartoon birds slams against the window.

I blink. “I feel like Tippi Hedron in a phone booth.”

Another bird slams into the glass, leaving behind glitter.

“Correction,” I mutter. “Tippi Hedren in a Lisa Frank reboot.”

ANIMATED–LIVE HYBRID IMAGE 03 WINDOW IMPACT — VERSION B.1 (GRAVITY ASSERTS ITSELF, APARTMENT ELEVATION LOCKED) HORIZONTAL CINEMATIC IMAGE — 16:9 — PRESTIGE MAGICAL REALISM — INTERIOR HYBRID CONSEQUENCE (TIME & GRAVITY) A cinematic, photorealistic, gorgeously lit interior scene set inside a cozy, sunlit suburban apartment several floors above street level, still buzzing with lingering magical residue that is now slowly settling. FOREGROUND / INTERIOR — TWO WOMEN, EVOLVED REACTION Left — Veda Thorne (Canonical Physical Lock) Veda Thorne stands rigid near the window, posture tight, weight subtly shifted back as if bracing for something she knows cannot be avoided. She has shoulder-length, softly waved brown hair, natural and slightly frizzed from residual magic. Her features are realistic and unstyled — no glamour, no exaggeration — expressive eyes carrying thought before emotion. She wears an oversized, earth-toned cable-knit sweater, sleeves half covering her hands, and cuffed, ripped jeans. Her presence is grounded, observant, quietly strained. One hand grips a glass of red wine, now steadier, the spill mostly stopped. The other holds her phone, screen dimmed mid-search, forgotten. Her eyes are locked on the window — not shocked anymore, not panicked — processing consequences, cleanup, and responsibility. This is not fear. This is acceptance. Right — Lira Vexley (Canonical Lock) Lira lounges sideways on the couch, relaxed to the point of irresponsibility. She wears a messy oversized dark hoodie and ripped jeans, one leg tucked beneath her. Her wavy, slightly wild hair frames a reckless grin that has softened from explosive laughter into breathy, lingering amusement. She is mid-laugh — quieter now — catching her breath. Her wine glass wobbles dangerously in her hand, liquid hovering near the rim. She is watching the window. Not worried. Just curious. MIDGROUND — INTERIOR MAGIC RESIDUE (SETTLING) The apartment is warm, cluttered, and lived-in: Potted plants crowd the windowsill, leaves catching drifting dust An open pizza box sits on the coffee table, a single cartoon feather barely shifting with air movement Scattered books and notes suggest frantic, unfinished research Behind Veda’s shoulder, a magical spellbook floats upside down, glowing faintly — lower than before — its hum reduced to an unstable murmur. Golden magical sparkles are fewer now, drifting downward instead of swirling. A small, shimmering crack in the ceiling pulses once… then dims. BACKGROUND / WINDOW — GRAVITY TAKES OVER Outside the large apartment window (single clear glass pane, no center bar), the exterior view drops away noticeably: Rooftops, treetops, and the tops of parked cars are visible below, reinforcing the apartment’s height above the neighborhood. Morning sunlight washes the scene in warm gold. Pressed against the glass is a 1950s-style animated cartoon pigeon, still pancaked completely flat — but no longer static. THE MOTION (CRITICAL): The pigeon has slid slightly downward from its original impact point Its flattened body stretches unevenly, leaving a faint cartoon smear trail One wing has slipped lower than the other Its beak drags against the glass, tongue lolling, eyes unfocused One cartoon impact crack has subtly widened The pigeon remains visually flat and hand-painted with bold black outlines and worn vintage color, while the glass behaves realistically: Reflections warp along the pigeon’s slow descent Light bends through the distorted smear A faint interior reflection of Veda’s face overlaps the pigeon’s body, visually merging consequence and cause Outside, the last few cartoon feathers drift downward slowly, catching the golden light. LIGHT, TIME & TONE Warm sunlight still fills the room — but the energy has changed. Dust, sparkles, and feathers move downward, not chaotically. The magic is no longer expanding. It is settling. Tone: warm, hilarious, uneasy, consequence-laden Style: cinematic, observational, restrained magical realism No parody. No escalation. No cleanup yet. The magic already happened. Physics remains. Correct the window pigeon to emphasize discomfort and time passage: Shift the pigeon lower in the window, no longer centered Stretch the flattened body unevenly downward, with one wing hanging significantly lower than the other Elongate the smear trail to show several seconds of sliding already occurred Make the face asymmetrical and unfocused — one eye drifting, expression slack rather than cute Break the impact cracks irregularly; avoid clean or decorative symmetry Reduce charm: the pigeon should look inconvenienced, stuck, and gravity-worn, not playful Reduce magical prettiness: Fewer sparkles, heavier dust All motion trends downward, not floating Goal: The pigeon should feel mid-failure and uncomfortable, not framed as a visual gag. The humor should come from inevitability, not cuteness.

Veda

“Great. Now we’ve got animated birds trying to get in. Like Hitchcock’s The Birds. It’s bad enough we have to deal with men—now it’s cartoon pigeons?”

Lira

“Aww, but look at him. Can we keep him? Call him Chirps?”

Veda (deadpan)

“I’m going to kill you, Lira.”

Lira (grinning)

“After we fix this. Then you can totally haunt and hex me. No reservations required.”

Later That Night…

Veda Thorne

HORIZONTAL CINEMATIC IMAGE — INTIMATE PRESTIGE REALISM A horizontal, photorealistic cinematic still set inside a cozy but tension-thick living room at night. The room is warmly lit by flickering lamplight and scattered candles, with soft string lights glowing in the background. Outside the windows, deep blue-black night presses gently against the glass. Foreground / Center — Veda Thorne Veda sits cross-legged on the wooden floor, hunched forward over an ancient, battered spellbook resting in her lap. She wears her dark cable-knit sweater with sleeves partially covering her hands and cuffed jeans. One hand flips furiously through the book’s thick, yellowed pages while the other jabs triumphantly at a specific passage, as if she has finally found something important. Her posture is tense and focused, shoulders drawn in with urgency. Her expression is intense and determined — brows knit, mouth slightly open mid-realization — fully absorbed in the task of undoing the magical disaster. The spellbook is visibly worn: cracked leather binding, uneven page edges, faint arcane markings etched into the paper. A subtle cool glow emanates from the open page, illuminating her fingers. Magical Environment Nearby on the floor, the remnants of a magical mishap linger: a faintly glowing puddle or residue emitting soft golden sparks. The sparks drift lazily upward through the warm air, catching the lamplight as they float, suggesting magic that is unstable but not violent — inconvenient, persistent, and ticking. Midground / Right — Lira Vexley Across from Veda, Lira lounges casually on the floor amid a chaotic scatter of snacks. She wears a dark hoodie and ripped jeans, her posture relaxed and unconcerned despite the situation. Her wavy, slightly wild hair frames her face as she grins with playful disbelief. She holds a fistful of chips halfway to her mouth, frozen mid-snack, clearly amused by Veda’s frantic energy. Her eyes are turned toward Veda — not the camera — radiating a mix of fondness, sarcasm, and “this is bad, but also hilarious.” Props & Grounding Details Between them and slightly to the side: Two wine glasses rest firmly on the wooden floor, their bases clearly visible The glasses cast soft oval contact shadows beneath the stems The glass catches warm candlelight along the rim and bowl Wood grain beneath the bases remains visible, anchoring them spatially Snacks are scattered casually: crumbs, crackers, cheese remnants, grapes, napkins — evidence that this was supposed to be a relaxed night. Camera & Mood Medium-wide framing at a low, intimate angle, close to floor level. Shallow depth of field keeps the focus on the women while the background glows softly. No stiff posing — the scene feels caught mid-moment. Color grading balances warm amber highlights with subtle cool magical accents. Natural skin texture, realistic fabric detail, soft shadows. Emotional Tone Desperate humor. Domestic chaos. Two best friends racing against a magical clock armed with snacks, sarcasm, and stubborn determination. Style Constraints Photorealistic, cinematic realism. No exaggerated fantasy effects. No glamour styling. No direct eye contact with the camera. Subtle magic only — grounded, believable, and inconvenient.

Later that night, I flipped through the spellbook like it’s a ticking time bomb, while Lira raids my pantry again like we’re not one bad wish away from disaster.

“Got it!” I shout, jabbing my finger at the page.

Lira jumps, mid-chip crunch. “Who’s there?!”

“It’s me, you gremlin. There’s a reversal spell—but it has to be done before midnight.”

“Sounds like a Cinderella spell. Magic and deadlines. Love that for us,” Lira says, mouth full of chips.

“What’s the catch? Please don’t tell me it involves men. I already unsubscribed from that particular brand of nonsense.”

I scan the text.

“We need something that holds the essence of our shared bond.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Weirdly flattering.”

“Less flattery, more action,” I snap.

She grins. “The Galentine’s wine glasses. We’ve used them every year.”

“Perfect. Let’s do this.”

“If this doesn’t work, I’m blaming you.”

She blinks.

“Honestly, V? Could be worse. You’d haunt me with passive-aggressive Post-its and Taylor Swift would write the soundtrack.”

Lira Vexley

LUMIVORE CONSTRAINT PROMPT — “CATASTROPHE ESCALATION” FORMAT: Horizontal, photorealistic cinematic still MODE: Prestige realism with restrained surreal distortion TIME: Night CAMERA: Low, wide, floor-level angle; observational, not posed DEPTH: Shallow depth of field; background instability softly blurred IDENTITY LOCK Veda Thorne: brown curls, dark cable-knit sweater, cuffed jeans; grounded, tense, horrified disbelief Lira Vexley: wavy, slightly wild hair, dark hoodie, ripped jeans; guilty panic, recoiling posture No glamour styling. Natural skin texture. Canon faces preserved. SCENE LOCK Familiar apartment interior warped by unstable magic Ceiling subtly sagging like softened plaster or molten bubblegum Checkerboard floor slightly tilted, perspective skewed but still physical Warm candlelight and string lights remain present but distorted MAGIC LOCK Toppled wine bottle spilling enchanted wine onto the floor Growing puddle ripples and shimmers with unnatural golden light Golden magical tendrils creep outward, visibly distorting floor reflections Soft golden sparks drift lazily through the air Magic feels inconvenient, spreading, and inevitable — not explosive PROP & GROUNDING LOCK Two half-full wine glasses rest firmly on the floor Bases clearly visible, casting soft oval contact shadows Reflections and floor texture remain readable beneath glass Makeshift ritual circle formed from scattered snacks (chips, crackers, crumbs, cheese) CHARACTER BLOCKING Veda: frozen or crouched, staring wide-eyed at the spreading puddle Lira: recoiling backward, one hand raised instinctively in guilt Both characters look at the disaster or each other — never the camera TONE LOCK Surreal panic. Guilty comedy. Rising dread. Still funny — but barely. STYLE CONSTRAINTS Photorealistic cinematic realism No exaggerated fantasy spectacle No floating objects No symmetry posing No direct eye contact Surreal elements must feel physically consequential

We set up our “ritual” (read: two wine glasses, questionable Latin, and a circle made from snacks).

Everything’s going fine—until I accidentally knock over half a bottle of enchanted wine.

Lira

“Way to go, V. Spilling the sacred Salem wine. We’re so getting hexed.”

Veda

“Too late. It’s disintegrated your stray potato chip.”

Lira (gasping like a Victorian widow)

“Oh no. My chip! Girl…look!”

The puddle shimmers. Ripples. Glows.

And then—
oh no.

That Didn’t Go As Planned

LUMIVORE PEAK SPIRAL CONSTRAINT — “REALITY LOSES COMPOSURE” FORMAT: Horizontal cinematic still MODE: Photorealistic surrealism (prestige realism under collapse) TIME: Night CAMERA: Wide to medium-wide, eye-level or slightly low; observational DEPTH: Shallow depth of field; distortion increases toward edges IDENTITY LOCK Veda Thorne: brown curls, dark cable-knit sweater, cuffed jeans; wide-eyed panic, loss of control Lira Vexley: wavy, slightly wild hair, dark hoodie, ripped jeans; manic delight, surfing the chaos Canon faces preserved. Natural skin texture. No glamorization. ENVIRONMENT LOCK Familiar apartment interior actively warping Ceiling sagging downward like softened plaster or drooping bubblegum Walls subtly rippling outward, as if reality has weight Checkerboard floor tilting and shifting but still physically present Warm candlelight and string lights stretched and distorted SIGNATURE SURREAL ELEMENTS (LIMITED — DO NOT ADD MORE) Couch-Cat: fur-covered couch floating slowly through the room, curled like a lazy cat, faintly purring Dancing Brie: round of brie with tiny legs tap-dancing on the coffee table, leaving faint melted footprints (No winged objects. No random transformations. No additional surreal gags.) MAGIC LOCK Golden sparks drifting lazily through the air Ambient magical hum; instability without explosions Surreal effects feel domestic, inconvenient, and physically present CHARACTER BLOCKING Veda: arms outstretched, struggling to balance, frozen between panic and disbelief Lira: riding the shifting floor with arms spread, grinning in exhilaration Characters react to the environment or each other — never the camera TONE LOCK Hilarious catastrophe. Friendship under strain. The exact moment where control is completely lost — and someone is enjoying it. STYLE CONSTRAINTS Photorealistic surrealism No cartoon physics No floating objects without weight or logic No symmetry posing No direct eye contact Surrealism must be emotionally earned and story-specific SEQUENCE NOTE This frame represents Peak Spiral. It must be followed by a crash, blackout, or quiet aftermath.

Veda Thorne

My living room starts melting.

The ceiling stretches like bubblegum. The walls ripple, like someone threw a pebble into reality. And the floor? Gone. Replaced by a swirling checkerboard that tilts and shifts under my feet.

“Uh… Lira?” I say, heart pounding. “What did you do?”

Lira grins, wide-eyed.

“Okay,” she says. “This is new.”

My couch floats past us, now covered in fur and purring. The brie from our cheese board grows legs and tap-dances across the coffee table.

“Oh no,” I whisper. “We broke my apartment. It’s giving full Salvador Dalí.”

Lira Vexley

I should probably be concerned. But honestly? This is the most fun I’ve had all week.

“Look!” I laugh, pointing. “Your self-help section is literally running away from you.”

Veda glares at me.

“This is a nightmare.”

“This is art, babe.”

The Blackout

Veda Thorne

The room jerks sideways, hard enough to knock the breath out of me. The sparks freeze midair. The floor snaps back under my feet. The noise—singing, laughing, humming magic—cuts off all at once, like someone yanked the cord out of reality.

For half a second, everything holds.

Then the light collapses.

No sound. No color. No time to think. Just dark—sudden and complete—like the universe decided we were done.

Sound comes back first. Then light—flickering, uneven, wrong. I’m still standing, somehow, in my living room, heart racing, walls breathing just enough to make me wonder if this is over — or just pretending to be.

LUMIVORE HARD CRASH / BLACKOUT CONSTRAINT — “THE MAGIC CUTS OUT” FORMAT: Horizontal cinematic still MODE: Prestige realism returning after overload TIME: Night (seconds after collapse) CAMERA: Locked-off, eye-level or slightly high; static DEPTH: Deep focus or neutral depth — no distortion INTENT LOCK (CRITICAL) This frame is not dramatic. It is the absence of drama after too much has happened. No motion. No spectacle. No humor foregrounded. The power has dropped out. ENVIRONMENT LOCK Same apartment interior, now physically intact but damaged Ceiling returned to normal — cracked, stained, slumped in places Checkerboard floor flat again, scorched or warped in patches Furniture grounded, displaced, overturned, or misaligned Warm lights mostly out; one dim practical light remains (lamp, candle stub, or hallway spill) No surreal warping. No floating. No magical exaggeration. MAGIC STATE No active magic No sparks No glow Only residue: scorch marks, sticky stains, ash, melted wax, damp wine Magic has burned itself out. SIGNATURE OBJECTS (AFTERMATH ONLY) Couch back on the floor, inert, fur singed or rumpled Brie slumped on the table or floor, legs gone, partially melted Wine bottle shattered or empty, wine soaked into wood or tile Ritual snacks scattered, crushed, trampled Everything reads as embarrassingly mundane again. CHARACTER BLOCKING Veda Thorne: seated on the floor or couch, slumped, arms resting uselessly; head lowered or tilted back in stunned silence Lira Vexley: nearby but still, posture deflated; grin gone; hands resting idle They are not looking at each other. They are not looking at the camera. They are simply there. EMOTIONAL TONE Shock aftermath. Adrenaline crash. The quiet after laughing too hard — when the room smells burnt and no one knows what to say. This is where comedy becomes consequence. COLOR & LIGHT Muted, desaturated palette Soft shadows Low contrast No golden glow No heightened color accents This frame should feel tired. STYLE CONSTRAINTS Photorealistic realism No surreal elements No dynamic poses No expressive gestures No symmetry posing No direct eye contact No “cinematic hero lighting” The image should feel like it was taken after everyone stopped performing. SEQUENCE NOTE This frame must immediately follow Peak Spiral. It functions as a visual full stop. If Peak Spiral was noise, this is ringing ears.

Baguette & Grimblewick

Veda Thorne

The walls are pulsing to an invisible beat, and the kitchen appliances are harmonizing like a barbershop quartet. Lira’s thrilled. I’m… spiraling.

“Forget the club, Veda—your kitchen’s got better vibes!”

“I swear—”

“Baguette!” Veda shrieks.

I duck just in time to avoid being clocked by airborne carbs.

“If we don’t fix this, I’m going to haunt you forever.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst roommate situation,” Lira shrugs, ducking as the toaster launches Pop-Tarts like confetti cannons.

“Where’s the spellbook?” I shout.

The spellbook—now clearly enjoying itself—slithers past us, giggling.

“Cool, Grimblewick’s sentient now,” Lira says, grabbing a pillow shield. “Why does he sound like he eats expired ink for fun?”

“You named it?” I gape.

“He named himself. Probably.” She shrugs. “Grimblewick vibes.”

Lira Vexley

I chase the spellbook across the room, dodging a chandelier. Veda’s behind me, wielding a baguette like a sword.

“Got it!” I yell, diving for the book as the floor tilts like a carnival funhouse.

Veda grabs my hoodie to keep me from face-planting into her now-glowing TV screen. Except my hoodie ripped itself apart.

“Quick! What’s the counter-spell?”

I flip through pages that wiggle and hum like they’re auditioning for The Voice.

“We need something that represents our bond!” I shout.

Veda holds up our Galentine’s wine glasses. “This counts, right?”

“Absolutely. Also, iconic,” I say, grinning.

Brie and Balance & What-Not

Veda Thorne

We stand in the center of the room, surrounded by flying books, floating furniture, and a cheese board doing the cha-cha.

“Ready?” I ask, gripping my wine glass like it’s a lifeline.

“Born ready,” Lira smirks.

But just before we start, I glance at her—really look.

Her hoodie is torn, hair a mess, cheeks flushed from laughter and adrenaline. And still, she’s here. Steady.

“Hey,” I say, quietly.

She looks at me.

“Thanks… for not letting me stay small.”

Lira’s expression softens. “You were never small, babe. Just waiting for the right disaster.”

We smile. Then we chant.

Veda and Lira (together):

“Brie and balance, wine and woe,
Spill the curse, let weirdness go!
By carbs and chaos, heart and spark,
Un-f*ck this house before it’s dark!”

Everything around us flickers. Pigeons harmonize. The cheese board moonwalks. The house groans—like it’s deciding whether or not to cooperate.

The room spins faster, colors blending, shapes melting, until—

—

POP.

Everything stops.

Everything stops.

My couch is back on the floor, no longer purring. The lamp is just a lamp. The wine bottle is upright.

Lira and I stand in the middle of my very normal, very unbroken living room.

We blink at each other.

“Did we… fix it?” I whisper.

She looks around.

“Unless your rug is secretly a snake now, I think we’re good.”

I nod, relief washing over me.

A beat of silence—then, from the kitchen:

clink.

We both freeze.

“Did… your wine glass just wink at me?”

I squint at it. It twinkles. Definitely twinkles.

Lira grins. “Oh, Grimblewick’s not done with us.”

I groan into a pillow. “Next year, we’re just doing charades.”

“Agreed,” she says, collapsing next to me.

A pause.

“I kinda miss the dancing cheese,” she grins.

I throw a pillow at her.

The Morning After

The next morning, everything feels… fine. Except for the faint smell of marshmallows in my living room.

Lira texts me: So, hypothetically… if you had one wish, what would it be?

I roll my eyes but smile. Hypothetically?

Yeah.

I hesitate, then type: To finally do what I love.

Her reply is instant. Then do it. What’s stopping you?

Me. I’m stopping me.

But maybe it’s time to change that.

Lira Vexley

Veda’s gonna hate me, but I submit her art portfolio to that gallery she’s too scared to approach. She’ll thank me when she’s famous.

Galentine’s next year? I text.

Always.

I grin. Magic or not, we’re unstoppable.

Magic fades. Spells break. But two women who dare to dream loudly?
Unstoppable.

The End.

Reflecting on The Wine is Cursed
By Veda Thorne & Lira Vexley

Veda Thorne
So, if you made it this far, congrats. You survived the chaos.

Lira Vexley
Barely. Honestly, if you’re reading this, you probably deserve a glass of wine and a nap.

Veda Thorne
Or at least a cheese board that doesn’t grow legs and dance.

Lira Vexley
Listen, we didn’t mean to rewrite reality with a half-baked spell and too much merlot. But if you’re waiting for an apology…

Veda Thorne
You clearly don’t know us.

Lira Vexley
Chaos is our love language.

Lira Vexley
So, what now? Maybe you’ll forget this ever happened.

Veda Thorne
But we won’t. And maybe we won’t either—for the first time in a long time, we remembered how it feels to be bigger than our fears.

Lira Vexley
And a little chaos? It’s just the universe making room for something wilder, better, louder.

Veda Thorne
And the next time someone tells you magic isn’t real…

Lira Vexley
Remind them: it’s not in the potion.

Veda Thorne
It’s in the people bold enough to pour it.

Lira Vexley
The ones who spill wine, cast spells by accident, and still show up the next day laughing.

Both
Chaos is our love language. Cheers to that.