Waking to the intoxicating aroma of bacon and eggs sizzling on the stove, a contented smile curled the edges of my lips. Jamie was already up, crafting his signature breakfast—simple in composition, yet unrivalled in its ability to satisfy. The familiar, comforting smell was a silent promise of the modest yet profoundly gratifying moments life occasionally offered.
"Smells delicious!" I mumbled, my voice heavy with the remnants of sleep, as I shuffled into the kitchen. My arms stretched towards the ceiling in a languid, awakening stretch, muscles slowly unknotting from the night's rest.
"Your favourite," Jamie responded, his lips curving into a smile that lit up the room. He stood before the stove, his muscular frame outlined against the morning light filtering through the window, a testament to the many hours spent at the gym. It was a view that effortlessly dispelled the lingering fog of sleep from my mind. Despite the undercurrent of tension threading through our relationship lately, the sight of him—so familiar yet always breathtaking—reaffirmed the undeniable physical allure that had first drawn me in. But, as life had taught me, the magnetic pull of physical attraction was merely one piece of the intricate mosaic that comprised human relationships.
"Oh, I spoke to Paul yesterday afternoon," I ventured casually, attempting to steer my thoughts away from the complexities of our relationship. I leaned against the expansive island bench that demarcated the boundary between the newly renovated kitchen and the airy living room beyond. The stone surface was cool against my bare skin, an invigorating contrast that nudged me further towards wakefulness. Absentmindedly, I scooped a generous teaspoon of instant coffee into my mug, the anticipation of its energising bitterness a beacon towards full consciousness.
"And?" Jamie's voice cut through my reverie, a hint of impatience threading through his tone. He was clearly expecting more than the scant details I had offered.
"And," I began, drawing out the word as I braced myself to navigate the treacherous waters of the conversation ahead. I was acutely aware that the news I was about to deliver would not be well-received. Jamie's disposition towards interruptions, especially those encroaching upon our already limited time together, was frosty at best. Yet, the situation left me no choice. "He's having some family issues and is flying to Hobart from Adelaide on the first flight this morning. I need you to pick him up, please," I said, the last word hanging between us, heavy with the weight of my plea. I laced my request with as much sincerity and earnestness as I could muster, hoping to temper the impending storm. My eyes locked onto Jamie's, searching for a flicker of understanding, of acquiescence. In that moment, our kitchen—a sanctuary of culinary delights and morning routines—transformed into a silent battleground of wills, the outcome of which remained uncertain.
"Is he paying for it himself this time?" Jamie's voice brimmed with an undertone of accusation. I could feel his gaze on me, sharp and expectant, but I found myself unable to meet it. The question wasn't unexpected; the history between us and Paul was a tumultuous one, littered with financial aid and broken promises.
I shifted uncomfortably, the coolness of the stone benchtop a stark contrast to the heat rising in my cheeks. We had indeed spent a considerable sum on Paul several years ago, offering him a reprieve from his troubles with an all-expenses-paid holiday to visit us over the Christmas period. Jamie had been clear afterward, his words etching a firm boundary I had vowed not to cross again. Yet, here I was, on the precipice of breaking that promise.
"You're paying again, aren't you?" Jamie's tone hardened, his disappointment slicing through the air. "I thought we agreed after last time we weren't going to pay for him again."
"I know," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. "But this time it’s different. He really needs me." The justification felt hollow, even to my own ears, a feeble attempt to bridge the chasm between our agreement and my actions.
"Do I still have time to eat?" Jamie's question was curt, his frustration manifesting in the rough handling of the breakfast he had so lovingly prepared moments ago. The bacon landed on his toast with a slap, a noticeable departure from his usually meticulous presentation. His actions were a vivid display of his irritation, a silent rebuke of the situation.
"Of course," I replied, my voice strained as I rummaged through the cupboard for a plate. The normalcy of the task did little to ease the tension. By the time I turned back, the food was gone, swept away by Jamie's swift and silent protest.
"Where's mine?" The question hung in the air, a feeble attempt to grasp at the remnants of our breakfast together.
"You don't get any," came Jamie's cold response, his focus on his meal rather than the rift forming between us. The finality in his voice, punctuated by the sight of him devouring what was meant to be a shared meal, felt like a physical blow.
"Whatever," I muttered, defeated, as I turned back to the stove. The crack of eggs against the hot pan was a small rebellion in the face of our morning's undoing. Yet, as the yolks broke and spread across the surface, their golden promise tarnishing in the heat, a heavy sigh escaped me. The simple act of cooking, once a source of comfort, now seemed an insurmountable task. I can't even get my eggs right this morning. The thought was a bitter echo of my earlier optimism, a reminder of the complications my decision to help Paul had wrought. Maybe inviting Paul wasn't the best idea after all. The morning's events, a microcosm of our larger issues, left me questioning not just my actions, but the very fabric of our relationship and the choices that led us here.
"Right. I'm off then," Jamie declared, his voice laced with a cocktail of frustration and resignation. The sound of his plate clattering into the sink resonated through the kitchen, a jarring note in our morning symphony. I half-expected to hear the ceramic shatter, a testament to the tension that had enveloped us. But, miraculously, it remained intact—much like the fragile truce that hung between us.
"Okay," I replied, my attention unwavering from the task at hand. The eggs in the pan had long since abandoned any pretence of becoming anything other than scrambled. I could sense Jamie's presence behind me, thick with unspoken words and simmering anger. Yet, I couldn't bring myself to face him, to confront the storm I had invited upon us.
Then, in a gesture as unexpected as a break in storm clouds, Jamie closed the distance between us. The soft touch of his lips against my cheek was a balm to the morning's abrasions. It was a small act, fleeting and tender, leaving a warmth that lingered long after he had withdrawn. Then, as silently as a shadow recedes with the advancing day, he was gone. The soft click of the front door marked his departure, a punctuation to our morning's tumultuous sentence.
A smile found its way to my lips, unbidden yet sincere. It was true—despite the tempests that occasionally raged between us, our capacity to forgive, to move past grievances, remained unweathered by time. Ten years together had woven a tapestry rich with love, challenges, triumphs, and forgiveness. Reflecting on the journey brought a sense of awe; each year a testament to our resilience, our growth, and the unpredictable adventure that love had proven to be.
Encouraged by Jamie's unexpected gesture of affection, my spirits lifted. I reached for another egg, this one a beacon of hope, and gently tapped it against the edge of the pan. The egg surrendered its contents gracefully, the yolk performing a delicate ballet before coming to rest, whole and unbroken, amidst the whites. A sign, perhaps, of the day's potential for redemption.
Perhaps today will turn out fine after all, I mused. My thoughts reached out, casting a net of optimism into the day ahead. In that moment, I allowed myself to believe in the possibility of reconciliation, of laughter shared over dinner, of hands finding each other in the quiet of the evening. With each stir of the pan, I sent my hopes skyward, a silent plea for the universe to echo back the promise of peace, understanding, and a reminder of the love that had endured a decade's worth of challenges.
After swallowing the last mouthful of toast and egg, I wiped at the golden yolk that dribbled down my stubbled chin, a testament to the haste and hunger that had driven my meal. The question of what to do first lingered in my mind, a familiar crossroads between the day's potential adventures and the ingrained routines of daily life. Despite the allure of Clivilius, a realm that promised the kind of escapades one only dreams of, the weight of habit was a grounding force. With a sigh that spoke of both resignation and comfort in the familiar, I stacked the plates in the dishwasher, the clink and clatter echoing in the quiet of the morning. The remaining dishes met their fate in the sink, washed in a ritual as ingrained in me as breathing, a habit fostered from my teenage years. Yet, in a small rebellion against the mundane, I left the dishes to air dry, a concession to my impatience.
Taking a blue washcloth, I dampened it under the tap, the cool water a stark contrast to the warmth of the kitchen. The benchtops, witnesses to my culinary ventures and late-night indulgences, required attention. The vindaloo chicken sauce from the previous night had transformed into a stubborn relic, a reminder of my voracious appetite before the world as I knew it was upended. The sauce resisted at first, but a determined scrub later, it relented, leaving behind nothing but the gleam of clean surfaces.
With the kitchen restored to its gleaming state, a sense of satisfaction washed over me. It was a small victory, perhaps, but one that set the stage for the day ahead. My steps then carried me into the study, the heart of my home where countless hours had been spent in pursuit of knowledge, entertainment, and on occasion, escape.
Standing before the bookcase, I closed my eyes, a ritual of sorts to prepare myself for what was to come. A deep breath in, the air held within as if it could steady my racing heart, then released in a loud exhale, a feeble attempt to quell the torrent of excitement and apprehension. My eyes fluttered open, scanning the titles that lined the shelves, each a familiar friend, until they landed on the gap. The absence of the book from last night was a glaring void, the polished wood of the backboard shining through like a solitary star in the vastness of night. It was a beacon, calling me to the adventure that lay ahead, a silent testament to the threshold between the known and the unknown. The sight of it, that obvious vacancy, was both a promise and a challenge, igniting a flame of curiosity that no amount of routine could extinguish. The adventure was calling, and I, Luke, was ready to answer.
With trembling hands, I extracted the strange new device from the pocket of my shorts. Its unfamiliar weight and texture were a striking contrast to the mundane fabric. Pointing it directly at the blank study wall, the plain backdrop of many an ordinary day, I felt a surge of anticipation. "Here we go," I whispered into the silence, my voice a mix of excitement and trepidation. The prospect of what lay beyond, a mere button's press away, consumed my thoughts, narrowing my world to the wall before me. The echo of Welcome to Clivilius, Luke Smith in my mind was both an invitation and a validation, a call to adventure that was uniquely mine.
The sudden clang of the small doggy flap, a quirky addition by Jamie that had brought much joy and chaos into our lives, shattered the moment's intensity. My heart leapt, an instinctive reaction to the unexpected intrusion. The silence that followed, brief yet laden with anticipation, was abruptly ended by the comical struggles of Henri, our lovably overweight dog, as he endeavoured to follow his more agile brother through the flap. His short growl, a mix of determination and indignation, was a humorous interlude to the high stakes of my current endeavour. Once the flurry of activity settled, leaving behind a tranquil silence, I couldn't help but chuckle at the domesticity of the scene. "Well, that's two of them," I mused, the normalcy of the moment grounding me, even as I stood on the brink of the unknown.
With the dogs now entertaining each other outside, a bubble of solitude enveloped me, offering a moment of clarity. My finger hovered over the small button, a seemingly insignificant action poised to unlock worlds beyond imagination. Pressing the button gently, the flicker of the light above, a precursor to the extraordinary, sent a shiver of anticipation through me. The familiar hues of the Portal enveloped the wall, a kaleidoscope of colours that promised wonders and dangers alike. In a gesture of disbelief, I pinched my arm, the pain a sharp contrast to the ethereal beauty unfolding before me. This ritual, a bridge between reality and the beyond, was my tether to the tangible even as I ventured into the unknown.
Eyes wide with a sense of awe that never diminished, no matter how many times I embarked on this journey, I stepped forward. The swirling technicolour of the study wall, once a barrier, now beckoned as a gateway. Each step was a leap of faith, a surrender to the call of Clivilius, and with a heart full of hope and a mind alight with curiosity, I crossed the threshold into the beyond. The breathtaking transition from my world to another was a journey of the soul as much as of the body, each visit a chapter in an unfolding saga that was mine to explore.
The sun, a brilliant orb of unfettered light, bathed the landscape in a warm, golden hue, its rays piercing through the clarity of the cloudless blue sky to kiss the shifting sands below. I stood there, a solitary figure amidst the vastness of this orange wasteland, and took a deep breath. The air was a revelation—crisp, invigorating, untainted by the pollutants that choked the atmosphere back on Earth. Its almost sweet purity was a distant memory from a world I once knew, now seemingly a fantasy against the backdrop of Earth's desolation. Here, in this moment, the stark contrast between the world I had left behind and the one that lay sprawled before me was overwhelming. This new world, unmarred by human folly, seemed to offer a silent promise—a chance for redemption, for a beginning anew. A do-over, but with the wisdom of past mistakes whispering caution.
A few steps ahead, the book that I had brought to this surreal landscape lay where I had last placed it, its presence a bridge between worlds. With a sense of purpose fuelling my steps, I moved towards it, the sands whispering beneath my feet, a testament to the solitude and serenity that enveloped me. Picking up the book, I noted the light dusting that spoke of the passage of time, however brief. The act of brushing it off felt symbolic, as if I were wiping away the last remnants of doubt and disbelief.
The book felt solid and reassuring in my hands, its weight a tangible link to the reality of Clivilius. I turned it over, inspecting it with a scrutiny born of a need to confirm its—and by extension, my own—existence in this place. The pages fluttered under my touch, each one a silent witness to the truth of this world. Tugging gently at the spine, I found everything as it should be, the integrity of the book unchallenged by its journey through the Portal.
"It’s real," I whispered to myself, a declaration of acceptance. The realisation settled within me, a profound acknowledgment of the extraordinary leap of faith that had brought me here. Clivilius, with its untouched landscapes and air of possibilities, was not just a figment of imagination or a dream woven from the threads of desire for a better world. It was real, a tangible testament to the existence of worlds beyond our own, each with its own stories, challenges, and chances for redemption. The weight of the book in my hands anchored me to this reality, its presence a constant reminder that what lay ahead was a journey not just of exploration, but of transformation.
Enveloped in the profound silence of this untouched world, a light breeze played across my skin, its gentle caress bringing the orange sand to life around my feet. It was a moment of serenity. For the first time since that visionary experience that had catapulted me into this adventure, a wave of calm washed over me, soothing the restless edges of my mind into a tranquil peace. It was a feeling so profound, it felt as though the very landscape and I were breathing as one.
But then, the quiet was punctured by a faint, persistent hum, a whisper of sound that seemed to beckon from beyond the rolling dunes. Shielding my eyes against the relentless glare of the sun, I peered into the distance. The horizon was a tapestry of undulating hills, a sea of brown and orange dust that seemed infinite, undisturbed except for the mysterious call that now tugged at my curiosity.
Driven by an impulse to uncover the source of this anomaly, I began to move. With each step, the sound grew, morphing from a soft hum into a distinct roar, a promise of something more, something other than the endless sands. As I crested the peak of a particularly steep dune, the vastness of the landscape unfolded before me, and there, stretching into the horizon, was a sight that arrested my gaze.
It was long and unlike anything else in this barren expanse—strikingly not orange, not brown, but shimmering with an allure that was impossible to ignore. The realisation that this anomaly was distinctly different from the monochromatic world around it sparked a surge of excitement within me. My heart raced, and without a moment's hesitation, the book slipped from my grasp, forgotten in the rush of discovery.
I ran, driven by a blend of excitement and an insatiable need to know, to understand what lay before me. The sand beneath my feet offered little resistance, seeming to propel me forward towards this anomaly. And then, as I reached the source of the sound, a reverence took hold, slowing my pace until I dropped to my knees before it.
Here, in the midst of an endless desert, was something that defied the sameness of the landscape, a beacon of difference in a world that, until now, had been defined by its uniformity. The noise, now a powerful roar, filled the air with a presence that was almost palpable, enveloping me in a blanket of awe and wonder. The realisation that I was on the cusp of discovering something truly extraordinary in this new world sent shivers down my spine, a mixture of excitement and a deep, resonating sense of belonging. This was more than an adventure; it was a journey of discovery, of understanding not just this new world, but also myself.
Bending over the edge of the dust-smothered banks, I felt a sense of reverence as I extended my hand toward the river. The moment my fingers brushed against the surface, the coolness of the water was a shock to my system, sending a delightful shiver through me that was equal parts chill and thrill. The thought of immersing myself fully into its embrace was tantalising—a call to abandon that was hard to resist. After all, dressed as I was in nothing but my pyjama boardshorts, the leap from contemplation to action was but a small step. The idea of shedding the last vestiges of my attire and surrendering to the river's caress was compelling.
As I observed the gentle flow, the river revealed its bed, a mosaic of multicoloured rocks that seemed to dance beneath the surface. The clarity of the water was unprecedented; it was as if I was looking through a lens that magnified the purity and beauty of nature, turning the river into a flowing conduit of liquid starlight. It was mesmerising, watching how the light played on the water, transforming it into a living, moving tapestry of light and colour.
Rising to my feet, I forced my gaze away from the captivating scene below to take in the river's grandeur. It stretched before me, a serene yet powerful force of nature, its width and depth a testament to its untamed spirit. The centre, where the calm surface gave way to churning currents, spoke of hidden strength and the complexities that lay beneath the serene façade. This river, even at its narrowest point, was a marvel, a ribbon of life cutting through the landscape.
The sun's warmth on my skin was a gentle persuasion, an unspoken encouragement to indulge in the river's welcoming coolness. Without further ado, I lowered myself into the water, the initial splash a playful herald of my entry. The sensation of the water enveloping me was exquisite, a silky caress against my skin that contrasted with the sun's growing intensity. The desire to plunge headfirst into its depths was strong, yet caution held me back. The clear waters made the riverbed appear deceptively close, challenging my judgment of its true depth. The risk of injury, however slight, tempered my impulse, reminding me that even in this seemingly idyllic setting, respect for the natural world's hidden dangers was paramount.
Standing waist-deep in the river, the water's current caressed my legs, its gentle force a reminder of the river's quiet strength. My shorts, now a part of this aquatic world, clung heavily to my skin, saturated with the cool, clear water. Above the surface, the breeze played a delicate dance across my chest, a sensation made all the more distinct by the absence of any visible signs of its presence. The landscape was devoid of grass or reeds, leaving the wind's touch on my skin as the sole testament to its existence. It was a curious isolation, to feel so connected to an element yet see no evidence of its passage but for the ripple across the water and the sensation against my flesh.
Compelled by a sudden impulse, I braced myself for full immersion. With a deep breath, I expanded my chest, embracing the anticipation of the river's embrace over my entire being. The decision to submerge was instinctual, a yearning for the complete envelopment by this new world's waters. As I sank, the cool embrace of the river consumed me, a sensation both exhilarating and serene. The contrast between the warmth of the sun and the cool depths of the water was a symphony of sensations, a physical manifestation of the adventure that had brought me here.
Beneath the surface, my eyes opened to a world of muted colours and shapes. The riverbed below was a tapestry of stones, their varied hues and forms a testament to the river's ancient journey. The sight was mesmerising—a vivid display of nature's artistry blurred by the motion of water over my eyes. My hand reached out, fingers trailing over a particularly large stone, its surface impossibly smooth under my touch. This tactile connection to the riverbed was a poignant reminder of the tangible reality of this world, a contrast to the ethereal beauty that surrounded me.
The urge to surface brought me back to the world above. Breaking through the water's plane, I took a deep breath, the air sweet and invigorating against my lungs. In an instinctive motion, I shook my head, scattering droplets around me, reminiscent of my dogs, Henri and Duke, in their playful exuberance. My hair, dark and short, clung to my head, each strand glistening in the sunlight, reflecting the day's brilliance against the backdrop of an electric blue sky.
This moment, suspended between the depths of the river and the expanse of the sky, was a reflection of my journey—a balance between the unknown depths below and the limitless possibilities above. The river, with its cool waters and vibrant riverbed, had become more than a physical presence; it was a symbol of the new beginnings and the discoveries that lay ahead in this world. The excitement that thrummed through me was a mixture of awe and anticipation, a feeling of being utterly alive in a world that was waiting to be explored.
In the embrace of Clivilius's crystal-clear waters, I found a moment of pure, unadulterated freedom—a fleeting taste of utopia in this alien yet strangely welcoming world. The joy of immersion, of being one with the element that had called to me so strongly, was a stark contrast to the responsibilities awaiting me back on Earth. The thought of Paul's impending arrival with Jamie pierced through my reverie like a shard of reality, compelling me to reluctantly withdraw from the river's comforting clasp.
As I emerged, the ochre dust of Clivilius adhered to my wet feet, a warm, gritty welcome from the land itself. The dust, having soaked up the day's heat, felt oddly comforting against my skin, a natural blanket over the coolness left by the water. "I'll be back soon," I murmured to the river, a promise to both the water and myself. With a final splash, my hand danced across the surface, sending a shower of droplets arcing through the air, each catching the sunlight to sparkle like tiny diamonds before returning to their source.
Turning away from the river, the sight of my own knee impressions in the dust caught my eye—two shallow indentations that seemed almost forlorn against the backdrop of my exhilaration. They stood as silent witnesses to my earlier curiosity, yet their sombre appearance felt out of sync with the lightness of my heart. Compelled by a whimsical impulse, I crouched down and, with a gentle sweep of my finger, transformed them. Where there had been mere indents, now there were smiling faces, a small act of creativity that mirrored the joy within me.
With a sense of accomplishment, I began the trek back, the dust beneath my feet whispering tales of ancient secrets and new beginnings. Passing the book, I collected it, its presence a tangible link between worlds. It was more than just a book now; it was a beacon of possibility, a potential proof of the incredible reality that was Clivilius. The thought of sharing this discovery with Jamie and Paul was daunting, yet the book could serve as an invaluable ally in convincing them of the truth of this world. The challenge of bridging their skepticism with the wonder of Clivilius loomed large, but I was ready to embrace it, armed with the knowledge and experiences I had gained. The journey back was not just a physical return but a metaphorical preparation for the task ahead—sharing the magic of Clivilius and, hopefully, opening their minds to the extraordinary.
The sight that unfolded before me was both mesmerising and disconcerting. A vast, transparent screen towered in front of me, its dimensions dwarfing my own presence. It stood silently, a sentinel between worlds, its surface a clear window to the endless expanse of Clivilius's rolling hills. The tranquility of the scene belied the screen's extraordinary nature. Only the occasional glint of sunlight, reflecting off its surface in fleeting, shimmering patterns, betrayed its presence in this otherwise undisturbed landscape.
As I contemplated the oddity of the screen's dormant state, a sudden shift seized my attention. The familiar yet always startling image of the study room wall materialised on the screen, as if conjured by the world itself. The suddenness of the apparition caught me off guard, prompting a blink in disbelief. The image, however, remained steadfast, an anchor of vivid reality amidst the fluid uncertainty of Clivilius.
The soft whisper of Clivilius's voice, resonating within my mind, jolted me. Select your destination, Luke Smith. The words, though quiet, carried the weight of unseen power, distorting the image with their intrusion. My involuntary gasp marked the moment of realisation—the screen was no mere passive observer but an interactive portal, responsive to the very thoughts and desires that coursed through my mind.
As this understanding dawned upon me, the screen erupted into life. From the core of the projected image, a kaleidoscope of colours burst forth, painting the screen with the vibrant hues of imagination made manifest. The colours, alive with energy, seemed to dance and crackle, their sparks cascading down to the dust below, a spectacle of light and colour that defied the desolate backdrop of this alien world.
Driven by an impulse that felt as natural as breathing, I stepped forward, crossing the threshold of colour and light. The transition was seamless, a passage from one realm to another that felt increasingly familiar. The study greeted me with its unchanged reality, a comforting constant amidst the whirlwind of my adventures.
With scarcely a thought, I willed the Portal to close, and it obeyed, the colours receding as if they were mere figments of my imagination. The seamless integration of thought and action, of desire and response, left me standing in the quiet of the study, the portal's disappearance erasing any evidence of the extraordinary journey I had just undertaken.
The juxtaposition of the fantastical and the mundane was striking. Here, in the familiar confines of my study, the adventures in Clivilius seemed almost like a dream. Yet the vividness of the experience, the tactile memories of water and dust, the sound of the voice in my mind, all spoke of a reality beyond the ordinary. As I stood there, reconciling the worlds within and without, I was reminded of the boundless possibilities that lay beyond the mere perception of reality, each adventure a step into the unknown, guided by the unseen forces of Clivilius.
