Love is a Prevalence Game (Original Story)

Echoes of the Jazz Age

In the heart of New York City, it was 1932, and the city thrived in a whirlwind of contradictions. The Great Depression had cast a heavy pallor, yet life pressed on with fervor, echoing through the vibrant streets.

Ava Sinclair's mansion was an opulent oasis in this gritty world. The polished marble floors of her parlor gleamed, kissed by the soft glow of crystal chandeliers. Guests gathered eagerly, drawn by the enigma of Ava's notorious séances. The air was thick with anticipation, a heady concoction of delicate, flowery perfumes intermingling with the promise of unearthly encounters.

"Welcome, dear friends," Ava purred, her voice like a siren's song, her eyes shining with enigmatic promise. As the guests leaned in, their breaths held in suspense, the room seemed to pulse with energy, anticipation, and a certain undeniable mystique.

However, Ava wasn't the one conducting the séance; it was Madame Lefevre, the mansion's resident so-called witch. The room trembled with an eerie aura as the séance began. A worn Ouija board lay in the center, a fragile bridge to a world less affected by the economic turmoil.

As the séance intensified, the room's temperature seemed to drop, mirroring the economic chill that had swept through the nation. Shadows danced eerily across the walls, like the specters of lost dreams.

Yet, Ava sat at the head of the table, her eyes twinkling with a kind of delight that only the Jazz Age could produce. "Do not be afraid," she reassured her guests. "The spirits we summon tonight are old friends, yearning to share their wisdom."

While others shivered and their hearts raced, she remained ecstatic, her laughter a defiance against the fear that gripped their hearts.

The séance had always been a tantalizing game for her, a flirtation with the supernatural, a brief escape from the weight of the Depression era. The eerie occurrences that unnerved her guests only heightened her enjoyment.

One of the guests gasped as the planchette moved, spelling out messages from the beyond. Ava clapped her hands in delight, her laughter as bold as the jazz notes that wafted from nearby clubs. "Ah, dear spirits, what secrets do you hold tonight?"

As the séance continued, Ava's laughter blended with the ethereal, and the room became a blend of mystique and macabre, where the supernatural danced with the living. Ava's mansion, a refuge for secrets and mysteries, unfolded against the backdrop of a city alive with dreams and desires, offering a glimpse into the echoing heart of the Jazz Age, where laughter and defiance found their place amidst the hardships of the era.

Meanwhile, a world away, nestled in the bustling heart of the city, Cillian O'Connor's tattoo parlor beckoned those seeking to etch their stories in ink. The air was laced with the sharp, acrid scent of ink, the hum of tattoo machines creating an intoxicating, almost primal, ambiance.

Hours had passed since her latest séance and Ava was wandering the streets. 
Amid the grandeur of Ava Sinclair's mansion, she was dressed in a manner that defied the somber backdrop of the Great Depression. Her gown clung to her form, a shimmering emerald that harked back to the extravagance of the Roaring Twenties. Its neckline was daring, a nod to the audacious flappers who'd embraced boldness in an era that demanded conformity.

Her makeup was striking, her lips painted a deep rouge that could stop a man's heart in its tracks. Her raven hair, fashioned into finger waves, evoked the essence of a woman who knew how to command attention, even in an age where such extravagance was often frowned upon.

But it was her eyes, a mesmerizing shade of green, like hidden emerald forests, that held an enigmatic glow. They seemed to harbor secrets, as if they had witnessed the rise and fall of empires, and they were defiantly unafraid of the economic hardships of the era.

Venturing outside her mansion, Ava took a leisurely stroll through the dimly lit streets of New York. The city bore the heavy weight of the Depression, and its streets were a stark reminder of the economic struggle. The faint scent of desperation and destitution hung in the air, underscoring the harsh reality that many faced.

Jazz notes drifted from nearby clubs, a testament to the resilience of the people, an anthem of hope in a world fraught with despair. Neon signs flickered, casting an ethereal glow that seemed to pulse in time with the wavering economic prospects.

As Ava walked, her attire and demeanor seemed to challenge the grays and blues of the era. Her attire and posture were a declaration, a sign that she refused to be subdued by the economic turmoil. She embodied the spirit of an era when people sought solace and escape through music, dance, and art.

And then, she came across a shop window bathed in neon lights and bold signage, indicating a tattoo parlor. It was a stark contrast to her life of opulence, a vivid reminder that even in the darkest of times, art and expression thrived.

Within the window, a single red rose, plucked from a dream, caught her eye. It was a symbol of passion, of enduring love, whispering to her like a voice from a bygone era. The very essence of her existence, a love that could weather the ravages of time, etched in petals and thorns. It was a poignant reminder that in a world grappling with financial hardship, beauty and passion could endure.

Ava's decision was swift, and she pushed open the door of the tattoo parlor, her eyes holding the emerald promise of an age unwilling to surrender to despair, ready to be forever marked by a symbol of love and beauty, defiantly alive in the face of hardship.

Ava entered Cillian's shop, the atmosphere a stark contrast to her gilded mansion. It played out as if she brought color to a black and white movie scene while entering. She was enveloped in the authentic scent of ink, her senses sharpening as she met Cillian's gaze. "I want a rose," she declared, her voice both soft and resolute as she settled into the leather chair, her shoulder exposed.

Cillian paused, his ink-stained hands resting as he appraised her. "A rose that endures," Ava confirmed with a faint trace of melancholy in her gaze. The moment hung with an unspoken understanding.

The needle began its rhythmic dance, punctuated by the subtle sting of ink embedding itself into her skin. Pain and pleasure mingled in the exquisite agony, a symbol of her desires, blooming eternally on her shoulder. In this act, as the rose took form, Ava's mind drifted to another world.

A world of dimly lit stages, where sultry jazz notes poured from the instruments and filled the air. Ava, transformed into a glittering vision of sequins and feathers, moved with a grace that transcended the struggles of her era. Her performance was a beguiling story of yearning, a story that beckoned with glimpses of the eternal, a narrative hidden in the roses that adorned her body and etched in the very core of her soul.

The audience, an amalgamation of dreamers and escapists, was entranced by Ava's dance. Their desires surged, laid bare beneath the dimmed lights, and they watched her with fervor, hoping to capture even a fragment of the secrets that danced within her. Their applause, like a roaring tempest, acknowledged the seductive enigma of the Jazz Age, where secrets were concealed in ink, spun into sequins, and unveiled in the spotlight.

The transitions between these worlds were as seamless as the interplay of light and shadow in a captivating performance. Ava's life, a juxtaposition of mystique and vulnerability, unfurled against the backdrop of a New York City alive with dreams and desires, offering a glimpse into the echoing heart of the Jazz Age.