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The Bong Cloud stretched toward her, curious. It had never seen her before. It swirled, colors churning—deep indigo, a flash of chartreuse.
"Show-off," Mr. Elara murmured, sweeping a pile of dead leaves. The cloud pulsed a lazy pink in response.
The cloud puffed once, happily, and went back to growing its moss. Outside, the school bell rang. Inside, a thousand quiet revolutions were just beginning.
It enveloped her, not cold, but a thick, honeyed warmth. And then she saw . the bong cloud
"What is that?" she whispered, eyes wide.
"That's a lie," she whispered. "I can't do that. I can barely draw a straight line."
Then it was over. The cloud retracted, panting softly (if a cloud could pant), and dimmed to a worried gray. The Bong Cloud stretched toward her, curious
Maya reached out a trembling finger.
She was older. In a sun-bright studio, not a classroom. Her hands were covered in clay up to the elbows, and before her was a sculpture—not a vase or a bowl, but a twisting, impossible thing that looked like a wave caught mid-crash, frozen in porcelain. A gallery owner with silver hair was nodding, saying, "It's the best thing you've ever done, Maya."
He wasn't supposed to be here. The greenhouse was condemned. But Mr. Elara had a key, and the Bong Cloud had a secret: it could show you things. Not the future, not the past, but the potential . The quiet what-ifs. "Show-off," Mr
"That's not a lie," Mr. Elara said, leaning on his mop. "That's a possibility . A big, scary, beautiful one. The cloud doesn't show you what will happen. It shows you what could , if you stop being afraid of the clay."
Today, it was creating a tiny thunderstorm. A miniature rain shower pattered on the cracked terracotta pots, growing a forest of moss.
The old janitor, Mr. Elara, was the only one who knew about the Bong Cloud. It lived in the disused greenhouse behind the high school, a shimmering, opalescent mass the size of a beanbag chair, smelling faintly of sandalwood and forgotten dreams.
He’d found it years ago, a wisp left behind by graduating seniors. Most days, it just hung there, a silent, gentle ghost. But on certain afternoons, when the light slanted just right, the Bong Cloud would do things.