The Saturday Spell

Every Saturday morning, just before the clock struck nine, Bramblewick could be heard muttering to himself in the cozy confines of his cluttered kitchen: "Let us see if I can survive another brew without catastrophe." This self-deprecating mantra was as much a part of the ritual as the brewing itself, an ancient art, in Bramblewick's opinion, that kept his spells from exploding quite as frequently as they had in the past. He often recalled the infamous brew that once leveled half the lane with a rueful chuckle and a formidable resolve to avoid repeating that particular misadventure.

The ritual began, as all serious magical undertakings should, with a dramatic flourish of the robe. He spun once, tripped slightly over the hem, and pretended it was intentional. The robe was a faded plum colour and covered in scorch marks, which, he believed, gave it character.

Next came the setup. The cauldron was placed in the centre of his cluttered kitchen, surrounded by carefully labelled jars. “Essence of Organisation,” “Spirit of Calm,” and one suspiciously dusty bottle marked “Probably Basil.” The rule was simple: everything must be added in perfect order, and under no circumstances should anyone, living or otherwise, interrupt.

He muttered under his breath as he worked. “Stir sunwise twice, moonwise thrice, then counterclockwise for luck.” His wooden spoon obeyed, floating in slow circles through the shimmering liquid. A puff of lavender smoke rose and twisted into the shape of a question mark.

“Do not start questioning me already,” Bramblewick warned it.

The flat was quiet except for the soft bubbling of the cauldron and the occasional clink of bottles. Outside, sunlight glimmered through the curtains, warming the scattered spellbooks and half-melted candles. It was, by all accounts, a perfect morning for magical precision.

He checked his list: powdered starlight, a splash of dew, a pinch of patience (difficult to come by). Everything gleamed, aligned, and orderly. Bramblewick clasped his hands, proud.

“Right. No distractions today.”

He said it with the confidence of a man who believed he could control the universe by sheer will. Unfortunately, the universe and his immediate neighbours had other plans. Noisy Doris, already rattling pans next door, seemed intent on a more literal interpretation of chaos. Just then, the concoction in the cauldron quivered almost imperceptibly, sending a tiny ripple across its surface, as though laughing at his certainty.

A faint scratching came from the window. Bramblewick frowned. “No. Not again.”

He turned just in time to see two yellow eyes and a twitching tail slide through the open gap.

Ms. Whiskerfen had arrived.

Ms. Whiskerfen landed gracefully on the counter and immediately began inspecting the ingredients. Her fur shimmered with faint sparks of residual magic, proof that she had once wandered too close to the summoning circle.

“Out,” Bramblewick said, waving a wooden spoon at her. “You know the rules. No familiars during sacred rituals. You shed, and then the potion becomes unpredictable.”

The cat ignored him completely. She sniffed the powdered starlight, batted the cork off a vial of dew, and flicked her tail into the bubbling cauldron.

The mixture hissed. A faint blue spark popped from the surface.

“See? This is what I mean.” Bramblewick lunged forward, trying to scoop her up, but Ms. Whiskerfen darted away, propelled by a memory of last week's moonlit spill, where she tasted a drop of pure midnight magic. She leapt across the room, sending a small tower of grimoires crashing to the floor. Dust clouded the air, and a single enchanted bookmark fluttered down, glowing faintly like an offended firefly.

The wizard coughed. “I will not lose another ritual to feline interference.”

He reached for the wand he kept tucked into his robe pocket and muttered a containment charm. A golden shimmer appeared around the cat. Ms. Whiskerfen paused, watching the light flicker around her like a bubble.

For a moment, Bramblewick thought he had succeeded. Then the bubble popped, and the kitchen window flew open with a violent gust of wind.

A loud, cheerful voice called out, “Morning, Bramblewick! Do you still have that whisk I borrowed last winter?”

It was Doris, his neighbour from three doors down, a woman whose curiosity was rivalled only by her lack of self-preservation.

Bramblewick’s jaw tightened. “Not now, Doris. I am in the middle of a sacred ritual.”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” she said, stepping through the window as if it were a doorway. “I just thought I’d drop by. Your place always smells so... smoky. Are you cooking?”

Ms. Whiskerfen purred loudly, pleased to see her favourite intruder.

“Not cooking,” Bramblewick muttered. “Summoning.”

Doris peered into the cauldron. “Oh, that’s nice. What are you summoning?”

He hesitated. “Peace. Order. Control.”

The mixture burbled ominously, and suddenly a chill swept through the room, creeping up Bramblewick's spine like icy fingers. The previously comforting aroma of herbs and spices shifted jarringly, replaced by a sharp, metallic tang that caught in his throat.

“Smells like lavender,” Doris said, and poked it with a spoon.

The cauldron growled.

The growl deepened into a wet, gurgling rumble. Purple smoke began to seep from the cauldron, twisting through the air like a living thing.

Bramblewick froze. “Doris, please tell me you did not just stir the brew.”

“I might have given it a little nudge,” she said innocently, holding the spoon as if it were evidence of her good intentions.

The surface of the mixture rippled. A single bubble swelled, then burst, releasing a noise somewhere between a sigh and a hiccup.

“That is not normal,” Bramblewick whispered.

The smoke thickened, forming a vague outline. Two eyes blinked open within the haze, glowing a soft green. The entity that emerged looked confused, as if it had just woken from a long nap.

“Greetings, summoner,” it said in a voice that echoed faintly inside Bramblewick’s skull. “You have called forth... me.”

“Oh dear,” Bramblewick said. “Who exactly are you?”

The spirit frowned, its translucent form swirling with colours. “I was not expecting to be asked that. I am... perhaps... Steve.”

“Steve,” Doris repeated brightly. “Lovely name. You don’t get many supernatural Steves.”

The spirit nodded politely. “Thank you. I was in the middle of something, though. A rather peaceful nonexistence.”

Apologies," Bramblewick said. "My ritual was meant to refine concentration, not summon sentient smoke." Steve swirled thoughtfully, his translucent wisps forming curious spirals. "Honestly, I came hoping to find a cozy corner for a good nap," Steve admitted, a hint of longing in his voice. "Maybe a book or two to pass the infinite time could be nice too. It's not often I get moments away from the bustling chaos of the ether."

Steve looked around. “You have succeeded in concentrating on something. Mostly chaos.”

Ms. Whiskerfen sneezed, and sparks shot from her fur. The smoke flinched.

“Oh dear,” Bramblewick said again. “That was cat hair in the brew.”

The spirit trembled, its green eyes flickering. “That explains the itch.” It began to swell, its form expanding until it filled half the kitchen. Bottles rattled on the shelves, and the air shimmered with static.

“Steve, calm yourself,” Bramblewick said, hands raised. “I can fix this.”

Doris coughed into the smoke. “He can barely fix a sandwich, let alone you.”

Steve glared, insulted. The floorboards shuddered.

“Right,” Bramblewick muttered. “Containment plan number thirty-four.” He grabbed a nearby candle and flung wax in a circle. It splattered unevenly.

The lights flickered. The cat hissed. The smoke spirit hiccupped again and grew larger still, bumping its head on the ceiling.

Plan cancelled. New plan: scream and improvise.

Steve was now enormous, a towering swirl of smoke and light that pulsed like an indecisive storm cloud. Bramblewick’s kitchen looked as though a small cyclone had moved in and decided to redecorate. Papers fluttered in circles, herbs scattered across the floor, and the cauldron rattled violently on its stand.

“Steve,” Bramblewick said, trying to sound calm, “I command you to return to your own realm.”

Steve blinked, looking puzzled. “Which one was that again?”

“The one without cats or neighbours,” Bramblewick snapped.

Ah. Peaceful realm. Yes, that sounds familiar. Steve swayed uncertainly, then hiccupped again. Each hiccup sent out a burst of glittering smoke that coated the walls in sparkling dust, prompting Doris to exclaim, 'Mystical Interior Design! Guaranteed to add sparkle to even the dullest HOA meeting! Eco-friendly, reality-bending décor solutions!'

Doris clapped her hands. “Well, that is quite pretty. You could market this, Bramblewick. Mystical Interior Design.”

“This is not a product line,” he said through gritted teeth.

Ms. Whiskerfen, unimpressed, leapt onto the counter and began lapping the potion residue from the rim of the cauldron. The cat’s eyes glowed momentarily pink, and then she meowed, sounding suspiciously like she was saying the word “Steve.”

The smoke spirit turned toward her. “You called?”

The cat meowed again, and this time her tail flickered like a candle flame.

“Oh no,” Bramblewick muttered. “She has absorbed some of your essence. That is very bad. She is allergic to everything except tuna.”

The two beings stared at each other, one made of smoke, the other of fur and questionable decision-making. Then, with a loud pop, Ms. Whiskerfen sneezed. A miniature puff of smoke shot out of her nose and began orbiting Steve like a small, glowing moon.

Steve beamed. “I have a child.”

“No,” Bramblewick said quickly. “You have an allergic reaction.”

Doris was doubled over laughing. “This is the best Saturday morning I have ever had.”

“Glad you are enjoying the apocalypse,” Bramblewick muttered. As if the chaos had a mind of its own, his spellbook flew open like a startled bird, pages flapping wildly. Desperation etched in every motion, he lunged for the book, papers tearing in his grasp like frantic wings. “If I reverse the brew, maybe it will...” He hesitated for a fleeting moment, an unexpected thought crossing his mind: perhaps the universe prefers improvisation after all. Before he could finish, Steve inhaled deeply. The air shimmered, and suddenly the entire mess began to collapse inward. Smoke, glitter, cat fur, and even Doris’s laughter swirled into the cauldron in one great whoosh.

Then, silence.

Bramblewick blinked. His kitchen was spotless. The cauldron sat still, steaming faintly. Ms. Whiskerfen sat on the counter, licking her paw. Doris was gone. Yet, amid the eerie calm of the tidy room, an upside-down teacup slowly spun in place on the countertop, hinting at the lingering mischief beneath the polished surface.

“So,” he said weakly. “That worked.”

The cat burped, and a small puff of glitter escaped her mouth.

“Mostly.”

Bramblewick surveyed his kitchen in disbelief. Everything sparkled faintly, as though the air itself had decided to stay decorative. Even the clock ticked more politely than usual.

“Well,” he said to no one in particular, “that was moderately catastrophic but surprisingly tidy.”

He flipped open his spellbook and jotted a note in the margin beside the recipe for the Perfect Brew of Precision.

Note to self: Never let Doris near the cauldron. Keep the cat outside. Avoid summoning anything named Steve.

Satisfied, he closed the book. A faint hum came from the cauldron, almost like a snore. He leaned closer, squinting.

Inside the liquid, something small and round shimmered. It bobbed to the surface and blinked at him.

“Hello,” said a very tiny Steve.

Bramblewick sighed so deeply that the candles flickered. “Of course. You could not just leave peacefully, could you?”

Tiny Steve floated in the centre of the brew like a smug bubble. “I thought I might stay for tea. I enjoy this realm. It has cats.”

Ms. Whiskerfen purred approvingly and dipped her paw into the cauldron, fishing him out like a jellybean. She placed him gently on the counter beside her bowl.

Bramblewick rubbed his temples. “I am going to regret every decision I have made today.”

The front door creaked open, and Doris stumbled in, covered in glitter and looking delighted. “That was amazing! One moment I was swirling through space, the next I landed in my shed. Do you think we could do that again next week?”

“No,” Bramblewick said flatly.

“Oh, come on. You could turn it into a community thing. Summon-a-Smoke Saturday.”

“Out,” he said, pointing at the door.

She laughed and left, humming cheerfully as if she had not just witnessed a minor magical disaster.

Bramblewick sat at his kitchen table, staring at the sparkling mess, the smug cat, and the pint-sized spirit now making himself comfortable inside a teacup.

He sighed again. "Next Saturday, I am doing something simple. Pancakes, perhaps," he said, the glint of curiosity twinkling in his eye. "What could possibly go awry with pancakes, I wonder?" This small question lingered in the air, inviting the mysteries of magical mornings yet to come.

Tiny Steve raised his cup like a toast. “I shall assist.”

The cat meowed her approval.

Bramblewick groaned. “Wonderful. A team effort.”

Outside, the sun climbed higher over the bustling city lane. Birds sang. The air shimmered faintly, just a touch too magical for comfort.

Inside, Bramblewick’s spoon began to stir itself again. A faint whiff of burnt batter mingled with a distant, questioning meow drifted through the air, hinting at a new brewing misadventure. He didn’t notice.