Swamp Gossip: Lilac Season and Other Omens Issue: May #002
As transcribed, reluctantly, by Miss Bogbean
What is Swamp Gossip?
If you’re new here (or mildly disoriented), Swamp Gossip is a monthly magical newsletter from deep inside the chicken-legged suburbs of Forest Glen Condominiums.
Each issue contains:
-A short story starring mythical neighbors and mildly illegal enchantments
-A local gossip column straight from the cursed streets
-Cryptid classifieds (because yes, ghosts need roommates too)
-Miss Bogbean’s personal notes, warnings, and occasional spells
You're reading Issue #002, and this month we're digging into the cursed dirt surrounding Linda’s suspiciously well-attended garden party—the day the lilacs bloomed too bright and not everyone came back...
Previously on Swamp Gossip...
In our April issue, Forest Glen was rocked by the arrival of Baba Yaga at Unit 6B—a chicken-legged hut with an attitude and a very flexible zoning code.
The HOA president, Linda of Unit 3A, confronted the legendary witch over:
Enchanted wind chimes,
Porch teeth,
And a lawn that hissed at her poodle.
After a brief scroll-related standoff, a mildly magical compromise was reached. Linda backed off. Baba Yaga promised to hex only “seasonally and tastefully.”
All was calm...
Until the invitations arrived.
Lilac Season and Other Omens Issue: May #002
Spring Has Sprung Something Awful
A Neighborhood Report from the Swamp Side
I don’t usually go to Linda’s events.
It’s not personal—though she did once accuse me of “moss-based boundary issues”—I just prefer gatherings with less tulle and fewer passive-aggressive chants. But this time, the invitation was hand-delivered by a disgruntled goose wearing a flower crown and a tiny messenger bag. Which, let’s be honest, is hard to ignore.
“Spring Gathering & Garden Party,” it read.
“For Healing, Closure, and Refreshments.”
(The font had glitter.)
Baba Yaga didn’t want to go either. “Last time I attended a healing circle we accidentally summoned a disgruntled Roman centurion,” she said, already putting on eyeliner. “But fine. Let’s show face. I’m wearing the snake earrings.”
Linda’s garden looked like someone had wished on a cursed Pinterest board. Fairy lights tangled in the willow branches. Bees buzzed suspiciously in perfect harmony. There was a kombucha bar and three different “emotionally infused” hummus options. Someone had brought an ocarina.
The neighborhood turned out in full force, of course. The new dryad couple from Unit 9B arrived fashionably late in a cloud of lavender and beeswax. Tilda, our local conspiracy theorist, had a clipboard and a parasol covered in protective sigils. And the long-lost ghost of Councilwoman Drake was spotted hovering over the shrimp cocktail, muttering about tax reform.
Baba Yaga parked herself by the deviled eggs and immediately began fielding questions like she was hosting a press conference. (Sample response: “No, I will not hex your ex. Unless they’ve stolen a family heirloom or a cat. I have standards.”)
And then, in a gust of glittery pollen and theatrical timing, Sporella made her entrance.
She emerged from beneath the hedge arch like a cryptid debutante—lace parasol cocked at a perfect angle, her gown a riot of moss and fungal lacework that pulsed slightly in tune with the music. Her perfume smelled of petrichor and ancient tombs, and her hair was pinned with bracket fungus like a crown. A hush fell across the garden.
“Well,” she said to no one in particular, “I almost didn’t come. I had to cancel a very promising decomposition ceremony.”
Linda twitched visibly but offered Sporella a tiny glass of glitter wine and a tense smile. “So glad you could make it.”
“I’m sure,” Sporella replied, already turning toward the scone table. She passed Monty and his mysterious fog-date and offered a knowing wink. “Good to see you with someone corporeal…-ish.”
By tea time, tensions rose. Sylvia from Unit 2F confronted Linda about the community herb spiral being mysteriously “reclaimed by toads.” Linda deflected by announcing a new committee: the Swamp Wellness Cohort. Everyone clapped, except for the toads, who were loudly holding a counter-meeting under the lemonade table.
Meanwhile, Sporella had gathered a devoted little circle of admirers near the koi pond. She was describing her latest research in emotional mycology (“Mushrooms that absorb regret, dear, it’s cutting-edge.”), while one of the dryads quietly fed her tea cakes like she was a mossy queen bee.
I caught Baba Yaga watching with something between amusement and wariness. “If she starts growing mushrooms in your crawlspace again,” she said, “you’re not borrowing my runes this time.”
The party wrapped as the sun dipped low and the cicadas tuned up. Baba Yaga left with a mason jar of kimchi, a hexed muffin, and someone’s ex-boyfriend’s phone number (she claimed it was an accident, but she was smiling). Sporella glided out with a parasol full of business cards and one of Linda’s fairy lights tucked into her handbag “for research.”
Linda stood at the garden gate waving goodbye like a benevolent witch-priestess in capri pants.
It was one of her better events, honestly. No fires, minimal weeping, only a light haunting. Spring, it seems, has officially arrived.
And yes, Monty’s fog-date did vanish when the breeze picked up.
But you didn’t hear that from me.
Miss Bogbean’s Personal Note
If your lilacs start humming, don’t panic.
Or do. Honestly, I’m not your mother.I’ll be in the garden, whispering sweet nothings to my moss and pretending I don’t smell dimensional bleed.
Stay tuned for what happens next.
Until then, darlings… stay strange.
— Miss Bogbean
HOA Shenanigans:
Linda has submitted fourteen formal hex complaints about Baba Yaga’s “decorative violations.” Each was returned glitter-bombed and enchanted with what the HOA has dubbed “aggressively cheerful energy.”
The pond applauded during the biannual Pond Polishing Ceremony. We’re unsure who it was clapping for.
Gerald from Unit 4B insists his lawn gnome is a changeling. The changeling insists Gerald is just boring now.
Magical Malfunctions:
The clubhouse Keurig now grants brief clairvoyance. Please stop scheduling three meetings at once.
A rainbow formed over the dog park. Several dogs now speak fluent French and have strong opinions on brie.
The HOA suggestion box is sentient. It suggested Linda take up pottery or “stop fighting the inevitable.”
Cryptid Classifieds:
FOR SALE: One slightly sassy cauldron. Says things like “that soup lacks depth.” $40 or best enchantment.
WANTED: Witch-compatible yoga buddy. Must enjoy aerial broom poses and post-savasana potluck.
FOUND: A left shoe, a right glove, and a note that reads “Nice try.” Claim them before they start talking.
JOB POSTING: Seeking brave soul to water Linda’s lilacs. Must not whistle. Must not hesitate. Must sign waiver.
Need the real tea? Here’s what didn’t make it into the official garden party recap…
Seen & Hexed: Whisperings from the Spring Garden Party
Spotted:
Monty (Unit 5, bridge goblin) with a date who may or may not be mist in a hat. She didn’t blink once. He looked very relaxed the whole time. Coincidence? We think not.
Councilwoman Drake’s ghost lingering suspiciously near the shrimp cocktail. Was she haunting the horseradish? Or is she finally ready to pass the budget amendment she died filibustering?
Sporella dazzling the koi pond crowd with fungal wisdom and unsolicited aura readings. (Note: at least two koi now sparkle when emotionally validated.)
Linda pretending to enjoy feedback. Sporella noted her aura “twitched like a cursed spiderweb.” Baba Yaga refused to comment.
Overheard:
“You can’t just declare yourself chair of the Swamp Wellness Cohort, Linda. That’s not how democracy—or cauldron rotation—works.” – Anonymous dryad
“I thought her date was a fog elemental. But then I saw it take a cookie. I think it’s a metaphor.” – Tilda
“I haven’t felt this spiritually exfoliated since the 1997 Moonquake.” – Sporella, sipping glitter wine through a basil straw
“Honestly, if you’re going to hex me, just say it to my face, Margaret.” – Margaret, to her reflection
Garden Party Superlatives:
Best Dressed: Tie between Sporella (decay couture, obviously) and the small raccoon in a tuxedo t-shirt who crashed the event and left with three sausages and someone’s clutch.
Most Likely to Accidentally Start a Cult: Baba Yaga (again).
Least Likely to Leave the Hedge Maze with Their Dignity Intact: Rolf from Unit 3C. Still humming “Defying Gravity.”
Most Suspicious Dish: The cucumber sandwiches that rearranged themselves into a spiral rune. We watched it happen. No one’s admitting who brought them.
Updates & Omens:
The community herb spiral is now a registered sovereign amphibian zone. All attempts to relocate the toads have ended in interpretive dance and mild possession.
Linda’s tulle stockpile has mysteriously vanished. A trail of sequins leads toward the old mine shaft.
Sporella reports the moral humidity of the swamp has risen by 4%. “We’re one emotional outburst away from a sentient fern uprising,” she warns.
A cryptic message carved into a garden gnome reads: “Ask not for whom the frogs ribbit—it’s you.”
That’s all for now, gossips. Remember:
If it squelches, shimmers, or side-eyes you at a garden party—
It’s probably one of us.
Spell of the Month:
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