It all started with a touch.
Here, against better judgment and everyone's loudly whispered, “Don't do it!”, reached out and laid a hand on the blue umbrella.
Instantly, the air shifted. The rain stopped mid-drip. The walls of the shack shimmered.
Then: “Oh no. Not again. I knew this umbrella was cursed.”
Now: “OH YEAH. I LOVE WHEN THINGS GET PORTALLY.”
There: “Brace yourselves for nonsense.”
And then—whoosh.
A vortex opened. Not a classy one. A swirly, sparkly, low-budget portal that smells vaguely of paprika and regret.
With a slurp and a thud and one dramatic “WHAAAA—”, they were gone.
They landed in a pile of straws. A big one. Slightly itchy, questionably scented, and very much in the middle of a plaza.
People were yelling. Music was loud. The energy was chaotic. Festive. Terrifying.
Someone ran past them screaming. Followed by... a bull.
Then another.
Then seven more.
Now popping out of the straws like an excited meerkat “OH MY GOD. ARE WE IN A PARTY?! IS THIS MEXICO?! IS THIS A STAMPEDE?! I AM THRIVING!”
Then buried up to their ears in straws “We are going to die. Trampled. In a country we don’t understand. Wearing metaphorical clothes.”
Here: “It’s Spain. I’ve seen this! The Running of the Bulls!”
There: “Perfect. Just what we needed. Existential dread and large, angry livestock.”
They scrambled out of the straws just in time to narrowly avoid being steamrolled by a man in tight white pants and the raw panic of someone rethinking their life choices.
Now: “OKAY. Change of plans. Let’s NOT run with the bulls. Let’s run... away from the bulls.”
They dashed down a cobblestone alley, weaving between panicked tourists and enthusiastic locals, the thunder of hooves close enough to feel in their metaphysical tailbones.
Then: “WHY ARE THEY SO FAST?! WHO GAVE THEM THAT RIGHT?!”
There: “I blame the Writer. This has her dramatic signature all over it.”
Here: “We need to find a safe spot. A café. A chapel. A dimension without horns.”
Now turned a sharp corner, only to skid to a stop. “GUYS! THERE’S A COSTUME SHOP!”
Then: “We are not doing disguises.”
Now: “But what if we dress like bulls and blend in?”
There: “Yes, let’s become one with the chaos. What could go wrong?”
They finally dove behind a tapas stand, panting, covered in sweat, straws, and emotional debris.
The bulls thundered past in the distance.
Here: “Okay. So, we’re in Pamplona. During the Running of the Bulls. Because of a haunted umbrella.”
Then: “This feels personal.”
Now: mouth full of jamón “I say we stay a while. There’s fire in the air. And snacks.”
There: sipping sangria he definitely didn’t pay for “Also, I think we’re being followed. Look.”
They all turned.
A woman, across the plaza. Wearing a sunhat. Writing in a notebook. Watching them.
Here’s heart skipped.
Was it her?
Was it the Writer?
The bulls were gone. But the chase, clearly, was not.
