Sparks and Scribbles
Scene: The Festival of Lust & Desire – Late Evening
Warm candlelight flickered in every corner of the velvet-draped tent, painting golden shadows across curvy statues, half-finished paintings, and mysterious booths that smelled faintly of sandalwood, wine, and suggestion.
Bumbly sat on a soft stool, a large goblet of something fruity and expensive in his paw, and a very calm, very contented expression on his face.
Across from him, Zippy sat on a cushion, legs crossed, notebook open and furiously scribbling.
She didn’t even look up as she muttered, “Do you think it's too cliché if the sculptor in my story falls in love with their own model during a midnight candle session, or should I lean into it?”
Bumbly took a sip of his drink. “Definitely lean in. It's the Festival of Lust and Desire, not the Festival of Subtle and Reserved.”
Zippy giggled, still writing. “You’re right. More body oil. Less hesitation.”
Around them, couples wandered between sensual art installations and soft-spoken workshops. In one corner, someone was sketching with their eyes closed. In another, two figures posed dramatically backlit by rows of candles, their silhouettes frozen in an embrace that might’ve been tender… or just part of an interpretive dance.
Zippy’s eyes sparkled. “I love this. I love this. It’s like every sensual scene I’ve ever written just lit a candle and offered me wine.”
Bumbly smiled. “And I love watching you like this. Your brain’s glowing.”
Zippy paused her scribbling long enough to glance up at him. “You’re not even blushing at the name of the festival anymore. I’m proud of you.”
“Growth,” Bumbly said with mock solemnity. “Also, I’m just vibing. This chair is heated.”
Zippy snorted and looked back at her notebook. “So, in chapter seven, the tension breaks when they both reach for the same silk blindfold...”
She trailed off, lost again in the zone.
And Bumbly just watched her quietly—content in the glow, the murmured music, and the strange, flickering intimacy of a night dedicated to boldness and fantasy.
He didn’t need to write the stories.
He just needed to be there when they were born.