Disastermath
You can’t clean up emotional fallout with a mop
Welcome to Day #11. Earlier episodes are listed below.
This little series intersects with other tales based in the world of Nevicata devised by Maryellen Brady 💗📚 for her 24-Day ADVENT-ture 2025. She’s invited us all into her world.
PROMPT (#11): How will your Nevicata character find & utilize the Light of Persistence?
Day 1: Welcome to Nevicata
Day 2: A Light Snack
Day 3: Breakfast of Impolite Champions
Day 4: Case of the Nightmare Scarf Lady
Day 5: Ferrel versus the Princess Posse
Day 6: Life Takes Practice
Day 7: Hide-and-shriek
Day 8: Happiness is a Warm Bath
Day 9: Open Mic, Open Heart
Day 10: Disasterpieces
Ferrell woke up with glitter in his mouth.
Not metaphorical glitter.
Actual glitter.
He spat out a sparkle, blinked blearily, and realized—slowly, painfully—that he was not in his blanket pile.
He was on the café floor.
Under a table.
Wrapped in someone’s discarded scarf, and lying next to a puddle that he really hoped was hot chocolate.
The room looked like joy had exploded and died at the same time.
Snow drifting from the rafters.
Tables crooked.
Chairs overturned.
A frost hare slept inside a teacup.
The Espresso Golem slumped forward over the counter like a titan felled in battle.
Glitter everywhere—embedded into the wood, floating in the air, now a significant component of Ferrell’s bloodstream.
He groaned.
Somewhere nearby, a soft voice said, “Oww… my soul.”
Solaine was facedown on a couch, one shoe missing, her braid half undone, and three Frost Mice asleep in her hair like glitter-dusted dumplings.
Tessela lay behind the counter, curled around a stack of broken cups like a dragon defending treasure.
Her painted eyelids cracked open. “Tell me,” she croaked, “that we died.”
Ferrell shook his head. “We didn’t die,” he whispered hoarsely. “I checked. I still feel shame and regret.”
Tessela sighed the sigh of a woman who had witnessed too much.
“What… happened?” Solaine mumbled into a cushion.
Ferrell’s eyes widened.
Images flickered across his memory like traumatic flashcards:
—Mairead rising from her seat like a herald of doom.
—The lanterns dimming.
—Everyone freezing.
—Him retreating so far under Solaine’s chair he nearly transcended reality.
The wail.
The world-ending, spine-loosening, my-soul-left-my-body wail.
He shuddered so hard his fur puffed out.
“Did she…?” Solaine asked, sitting up woozily.
“Yes,” Ferrell whispered.
“And the audience?”
Tessela rubbed her face. “All alive,” she muttered. “Except for possibly….” She pointed. They all glanced toward the corner, where a melted hat and carrot lay in what remained of Chilbert.
A single, solemn bubble blorped.
Ferrell swallowed. “Do you remember the reaction after she finished?”
Solaine frowned. “The stunned silence?”
“Yeah,” Ferrell said. “Then the brownies melted into actual brownies and nobody questioned it.”
Tessela nodded grimly. “Followed by applause. I’ve never seen creatures panic-clap before. Then the snowmen formed a slosh pit, the pixie sticks puked glitter everywhere, and three crows followed her out the door trying to sign her to a record deal.”
Ferrell groaned. “One of the kittens asked if she had merch. MERCH.”
A plate slid off a shelf, crashed to the floor, and a faint, delayed echo of Mairead’s shriek vibrated through the glass.
Tessela whimpered.
Solaine rubbed her temples. “My head feels like I swallowed a thunderstorm.”
Ferrell nodded miserably. “Mine feels like she’s still shrieking.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“Do you think she’ll come back?” Ferrell asked softly.
Solaine considered. “Well… she did enjoy the coffee.”
Tessela suddenly bolted upright, one painted eye spinning half a turn before snapping back into place.
“NO. No. Absolutely not. We are CLOSED. Forever. Tell the papers. Tell the mayor. Tell the gods.”
Ferrell stared at the wreckage again—the glitter, the broken mugs, the scorch marks, the emotional devastation soaked into the carpeting.
“Um,” he said, “should we… maybe… clean?”
The three of them looked at each other.
Looked at the disaster.
“No,” they said in unison, collapsing back where they sat.
In Nevicata’s most avant-garde coffee shop, it was going to be a very long, very sticky morning.
Ferrell was on paw-and-knee duty beneath a table, scraping something pink and elastic off a chair leg with a butter knife.
It stretched.
It refused to detach.
He sniffed it once and recoiled. “That’s not marshmallow,” he announced.
“Don’t narrate it,” Tessela said from across the room, where she was prying hardened candy out of the grain of the bar with a chisel she normally reserved for very stuck espresso grounds. “Just remove it.”
Solaine stood ankle-deep in a sticky constellation of glitter, syrup, and what appeared to be crystallized tears, scrubbing the wall with a towel that had once been white.
“Who brought taffy?” she muttered.
“No one,” Tessela said flatly. “That’s what happens when you scare a sugar pixie.”
She grimaced. “Don’t ask where it comes from.”
Nearby, the Espresso Golem had been reduced to a low, rattling wheeze, its steam wand drooping like a wilted flower. Someone had jammed a kazoo between its teeth. It wheezed softly in protest.
Tessela removed it, held it up to the light, then slowly crushed it in her palm.
“No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”
They worked in silence for a while—scraping, lifting, muttering apologies to the furniture.
A snowman-shaped puddle continued to drip mournfully into a bucket. Chilbert’s hat sat on a chair like a memorial.
Then the bell over the door chimed.
All three froze.
Ferrell dove instinctively under the nearest table.
Solaine straightened, towel in hand.
Tessela turned slowly, eyes dead.
The woman who entered did not belong to the wreckage.
She was tall, thin, and impeccably dressed in a charcoal suit pressed to military perfection. Her shoes were polished. Her hair was pinned into a severe bun. Her expression suggested she alphabetized her thoughts.
A faint scent of old paper and chalk dust followed her in.
She surveyed the café.
The glitter.
The scorch marks.
The dented tables.
The glowing residue still faintly humming in the air.
She adjusted her glasses. “I see I’ve come at an… interesting time,” she said.
Tessela plastered on her customer-service smile. It twitched. “We are closed,” she said. “Forever.”
The woman nodded once. “Of course. I won’t take long.”
Her gaze flicked—precise, assessing. “Last night,” she continued, “did you host a banshee performance?”
Solaine stiffened.
Ferrell’s tail thumped involuntarily under the table.
The woman’s gaze dipped—brief, precise—toward the space where Ferrell hid.
One eyebrow lifted, but she made no comment.
Tessela did not blink. “Define host.”
“I heard the wail from three districts away,” the woman said calmly. “Several imps fainted. A junior succubus achieved emotional clarity and immediately requested a sabbatical.”
She reached into her bag and produced a crisp card, placing it delicately on the counter—avoiding the syrup.
DEAN MORWYN BLACKSCALE
Dean of Student Wellness
Nevicata Infernal Academy
Tessela read it twice.
“How can I help you?” Tessela asked. She paused. “Catering?”
“We have an opening in our therapy department,” Dean Blackscale said.
Solaine blinked. “Therapy? After last night, everyone in the building needs a referral.”
“It’s a new position,” the dean said. “Scream therapy. Grief resonance. Ethical bone-dice divination.” She paused. “All bone materials are responsibly sourced, of course.”
Ferrell peeked out just enough to see the dean’s shoes.
“We’re seeking an instructor with… presence,” the dean said. “Catharsis. Emotional excavation. Controlled devastation.”
She looked around the ruined café again.
Her lips twitched.
Almost a smile.
“Based on the state of this establishment,” she said, adjusting her glasses, “I believe we’ve found our candidate.”
Tessela swallowed. “She doesn’t… work here.”
“Good,” the dean said.
She slid the card an inch closer.
“If this banshee should return,” she said primly, “please inform her that the academy would be very interested in her talents.”
She turned crisply toward the door—then paused.
“Let her know we pay well. With benefits.”
Then one finger lifted.
“Open Mic Night,” she said. “Is that held every Wednesday?”
Solaine’s smile froze in place.
Ferrell stopped breathing.
Tessela looked up slowly. “Yes?”
The dean nodded once, as if confirming a schedule she had already written down.
“Very good,” she said.
She opened the door.
“Oh—and you may want to reinforce your windows,” she said, adjusting her cuffs. “We have a creepy clown program. Very experimental. I’d like to bring them by next week.”
She mimed an explosion.
Gave a small, approving nod, and left.
The bell chimed.
Silence returned.
Slowly, Ferrell crawled out from under the table.
Solaine stared at the card.
Tessela stared at the ceiling, eyes glassy.
“I’m raising prices—and adding a cover,” Tessela groaned.
Ferrell and Solaine nodded in agreement.
Holy 🌟 stars! I go from tears to giggles....you two are a blast!
Thank you!!!!