by Malachite Shadowmend, Reluctant Roommate to Four Spectral Freeloaders
There are mornings when you wake with clarity, purpose, and a quiet resolve to seize the day.
And then there are mornings when your own shadow won’t stop yelling about the ethics of breakfast cereal.
Today was the latter.
Let me introduce you (against my will) to my companions. Technically, they’re magical byproducts of a youthful and entirely intentional shadow-binding experiment. I was seventeen. There was moonlight. I may have been trying to impress a witch. Don’t judge me—you’ve done worse with eyeliner.
My shadows have names. This was mistake one.
Dirge (Shadow One: Cloaked in Melancholy, Drenched in Drama):
“We rise again beneath the indifferent sun, knowing only the cruel monotony of granola. How bleak.”
Me: “It has dried blueberries. That’s practically joy.”
Dirge: “So do coffins. Doesn’t make them breakfast.”
Bram (Shadow Two: Overprotective, Overcaffeinated):
“This oat cluster looks suspicious. Possibly cursed. Throw it out.”
Me: “It’s oat milk, Bram. Not Oath Milk. No one’s sworn vengeance on me via beverage.”
Bram: “Have you checked?”
He has a point. Thaddeus does sell cursed condiments.
Quint (Shadow Three: Analytical, Probably a Spreadsheet in a Past Life):
“Statistically, your blood sugar drops by midmorning. I recommend a protein-inclusive option. Eggs, perhaps. With tactical toast.”
Me: “You’re literally a shadow. What do you know about eggs?”
Quint: “I read seventeen culinary grimoires last week while you were napping. I also now know how to summon a soufflé demon. You’re welcome.”
Blip (Shadow Four: Should Not Be Left Unsupervised):
“EAT THE TOASTER.”
Me: “We talked about this.”
Blip: “IT SINGS WHEN I LICK IT.”
Me: [Pinching the bridge of my nose] “You licked the toaster?”
Blip: “IT LIKED IT.”
At this point, I briefly considered abandoning the apartment, faking my death, and starting fresh in the Mirthful Thicket disguised as a fashionable shrub. But then the shrub would develop opinions, and frankly I’m emotionally unequipped for judgmental foliage before 9 a.m.
To be clear: I chose this life. I summoned these shadows. I thought, “Wouldn’t it be nice to have some company?” What I didn’t realize is that “company” becomes “committee” very quickly when your shadows gain sentience and a shared talent for sarcasm.
Still, they’ve saved my life more times than I can count. (Usually while complaining.)
They’re irritating, invasive, and absolutely insufferable.
But they’re mine.
And honestly?
I wouldn’t trade them for all the cursed jam in Thaddeus Wimbley’s pantry.
…Except maybe the plum one. That thing hums.
Next Week on “Malachite’s Muddled Mornings”: A brief detour into Sarepnok Forest, where the flowers offer dating advice, and I consider marrying a mushroom out of sheer spite.
Want more of this nonsense? Or maybe you’d like to hear Dirge recite existential poetry about socks? Let me know. The shadows read the comments. Quint even graphs them.