SPIN, RINSE, WEAVE

The laundromat smelled like detergent and burnt dime-store coffee. Livia sat by a row of whirring machines, pretending to scroll through her phone, though her eyes kept drying to the floor. She could feel it—that primal power—threading itself through the air and sinking deep beneath the cracked linoleum tiles, hidden in the static hum of the dryers, the gentle churn of the washers. This place had old magic, raw and forgotten and twisted in its neglect, an overgrown garden waiting to be tended.

Once, places like this weren’t all too rare: a sort of crossroads for the pattern channelers like Livia reshape to work their magic—where the magi of old would perform their miraculous rituals. Now, most were drained by poachers or le to rot, buried beneath nine-or-so-feet of concrete and dirt.

Livia steadied her breath, reaching out for a foothold in the untamed wild of this place. Beads of sweat formed along her brow. The fingers on her free hand twitched in her lap, unseen and graceful, threading her will through the air as she began to unravel the gnarled mass. The currents beneath the laundromat responded, thin, silvery threads of power rising and twisting together under her command. It felt like holding a spider web in her hands, thrumming with potential—if she pulled too hard, it would snap; too so , and it would slip away. There was a rhythm to it, like coaxing a stubborn knot loose though precise, deliberate motion. With each pass, her strand grew thicker, stronger. She split the threads, weaving them in an intricate pattern. Outside, shards of shattered golden sunlight began to peek through the autumn gloom as Livia worked her magic.

She was almost there, almost had it—

“Hey.” The voice cut through her concentration, sharp as a blade. She blinked, the weave slipping from her grasp.

Warren.

Livia’s pulse quickened, her heart sinking as she turned to see him standing behind her, smirking, a predator on the prowl. He wore a faded hoodie, the hood pulled low over his face, but she could still see the hunger in his eyes, already half-drunk on the possibility of what lay beneath this place. She knew him once, but not anymore. He was one of them—a poacher. A hedge-witch with barely enough power to light a candle on his own, but still a channeler. Likely deemed too weak to undergo classical training at one of the universities. Unlike Livia. Like her, but not like her.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. He looked around the laundromat, a smile toying at the corner of his hydropathic lips. “Thought you had better spots for… you know. This.” He gestured vaguely at the machines, though they both knew what he meant.

Livia tightened her grip on the armrest, forcing her voice to stay level. “There’s nothing here for you.”

He stepped closer, his presence like a chill wind against her skin. “Isn’t there? I can feel it, Liv. It’s been calling to me for days. You’re not the only one who knows shit, doll.”

Livia’s gaze hardened at the prospect of what a parasite like Warren might do with a power like this.

His grin widened, and she felt the gentle tug in the air as he reached for the same threads she had been pulling. He wasn’t delicate, though. He yanked on the weave like a cat swatting at loose strings, and the whole thing wobbled, threatening the delicate tapestry of magic beneath the floor. The fluorescent lights flickered, casting harsh, jagged shadows across his face.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Livia said, standing now. “You’ll tear it apart.” “Maybe,” Warren said with a shrug, “but maybe that’s exactly what needs to happen.

Why should you get all the power? You think you’re the only one who can handle it?” Livia swallowed hard, watching as the threads trembled under his fumbling grip, chaotic and fraying. The laundromat had become a pressure cooker, the front windows moaning in the heat. If Warren kept pulling, the threads would unravel completely, and the power beneath them—the power she’d been so carefully controlling—would ignite and burn through everything around them like wildfire.

More than that, she couldn’t let him steal what belonged to the land itself—power beyond the grasp of any one man's petty greed, the very lifeforce of the earth.

Without thinking, she reached out, grasping the loose threads he’d yanked at, trying to weave them back together. It was like trying to sew with barbed wire. The power fought her, slipping and sparking under her touch, and the air grew thick, charged with static. Fire and ice filled her veins. Her vision blurred as she focused all her energy on stabilizing the weave, each strand twisting tighter, more fragile.

Warren laughed, sensing her struggle. “Come on, Livie. Just let go. You can’t hold it all by yourself.”

He pulled harder, and the weave buckled. The air in the laundromat crackled with raw, untamed power. The washers groaned, their spinning cycles slowing, then speeding up, out of control. The fluorescent lights sputtered, casting the room in a sickly strobe.

Livia felt the threads slipping, her control unraveling. The weave was going to collapse, and when it did, the surge of power would tear through them both.

But she couldn’t let go.

Livia steadied her breath once more and seized the power. It filled her all at once like rushing water and speeding light. The threads snapped taut under her command, coiling tighter and tighter, until the air was thick with shimmering energy.

Warren’s smirk faded as he realized what she was doing. “You’re going to burn yourself out,” he hissed, stepping back. “No one can hold that much.”

“Watch me,” Livia whispered, her hands trembling as she pulled.

The weave snapped back into place with a violent rush of air, the power swirling around her in a tight, controlled vortex. Sinuous arcs of lightning lashed against the ceiling tiles, charged particles dancing on her skin. A tempest of incandescent fibers, and she was its eye. The calm amidst the storm. Warren stumbled, caught off balance, his connection to the weave severed as Livia absorbed the raw energy, threading it into something stable, something she could control. A pattern renewed.

For a moment, the laundromat was still. The machines slowed, the lights stopped flickering. The weave hummed, vibrating through the floor, but it was neater, more measured. Livia’s pattern managed to untangle the threads and restore the natural flow of magic in the area.

Livia stood there, her breath shallow, her body buzzing with the power she had just embodied. Warren was gone—fled, or more likely, collapsed somewhere outside. He had tried to pull too much, and the backlash would leave him crippled by fever for hours, if not days.

She looked down at the floor, where the faintest shimmer of threads still danced beneath her feet. The laundromat, quiet now, held its breath.

The magic of this place could slowly seep back into the bones of the city, into the earth, the bay, the clouds and the people. With time, the land would heal.

As she gathered her things and stepped out into the night, Livia couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t over. Warren would be back. Or others would come, drawn by the scent of magic.

Cillian H. D’Arcy was born and raised in Houston, Texas, and is currently pursuing a bachelor’s degree in creative writing, with aspirations of earning a PhD in related fields. His love of literature was fostered by his grandmother, a dedicated teacher of American literature. However, this author's own interests are in classical European literature and high fantasy. Cillian has been reading and writing from an early age, and he views the consummation and proliferation of literature as a sacred practice: libraries are his cathedrals, prose his scripture, and great authors his prophets. With the hope of joining the ranks of immortal high fantasy novelists, he dreams of one day publishing a seminal series of epic novels, following the footsteps of those who have shaped the genre.