#dailyprompt1875 — Public Fediverse posts

A twin to The Days of the Dreams.

The black fog slid across the terracotta floor of the tea shop like a living river of ice. Every glass jar on Moira’s shelves began to frost over, the dried herbs inside freezing white. The warm, comforting smell of chamomile and old paper was completely swallowed by the bitter scent of deep winter and ancient dust.

Toe, the black cat, stood on the very edge of the oak counter. He hissed, a sharp, angry sound, while Ashwaganda stood tall beside him, his orange fur puffed out like a shield.

“Stay behind me, Elio,” Moira whispered. Her breath was a thick white cloud in the freezing air.

Elio walked slowly out of the back kitchen. He was holding the heavy wooden bowl with both hands. The ossobuco and the fresh, golden pasta were steaming perfectly, radiating a deep, rich heat. The smell of the roasted meat, the sweet tomatoes, and the old wine fought against the cold fog, creating a wall of warm air around the chef.

“Where do I put it?” Elio asked, his teeth chattering from the sudden, unnatural cold.

“On the counter. Right between the two books,” Moira ordered.

Elio stepped forward. The shadows on the walls seemed to reach for him, long black fingers stretching out to grab the bowl. But the heat of the traditional food pushed them back. Elio placed the wooden bowl carefully onto the heavy oak wood, right between the dusty blue cover of The Days of the Dreams and the pristine white cover of its newly found twin.

The moment the bowl touched the wood, the black fog stopped moving along the floor.

Slowly, the fog began to rise. It gathered in the center of the room, pulling itself up into a tall, towering pillar of pure darkness. It had no face and no eyes, but Moira and Elio could feel it looking at them. It felt like a bottomless, starving void—an emptiness that had not been warm in a thousand years.

Elio took a step back, terrified.

Moira did not move. She stood tall, placed one hand on her blue book, and looked directly into the dark shadow.

“We offer you the memory of the hearth,” Moira said in a loud, clear voice. She remembered the words of the riddle. “We bring you the marrow of the bone, slow-cooked in the tears of the hills. We bind it with the golden sheet, stretched only by human hands.”

The towering shadow let out a sound. It was not a voice, but a low, hollow wind that rattled the teacups on their shelves.

The dark shape leaned forward, hovering directly over the steaming wooden bowl.

Elio grabbed Moira’s arm, ready to pull her away. But Moira shook her head. “Watch,” she whispered.

The shadow did not eat the food like a person or an animal would. Instead, it opened wide and breathed in. The thick, rich steam rising from the hot pasta and the roasted marrow was pulled straight up into the darkness.

As the shadow swallowed the heat, the smell, and the soul of the carefully cooked meal, something amazing happened. The pure black fog began to turn gray. The terrible, freezing cold in the room began to soften.

The shadow breathed in again, drinking the human effort, the patience, and the tradition that Elio had rolled into the pasta dough. The darkness turned lighter and lighter, until it looked like ordinary morning mist.

With one final, quiet sigh that sounded almost peaceful, the mist evaporated completely into the air.

The desk lamp flickered and turned back on. The frost on the glass jars melted into tiny drops of water. The fire in the back room roared back to life, filling the tea shop with warmth once again.

Ashwaganda stopped puffing his fur and let out a long, happy purr. Toe jumped down from the counter and started to wash his paws.

Elio slowly walked up to the oak counter and looked into the wooden bowl.

The ossobuco and the pasta were still there. But they had completely changed. The rich red tomato sauce was totally gray. The golden yellow of the egg pasta was dull and white. The meat looked dry as dust. There was no steam, no smell, and no heat.

“It took the life out of it,” Elio whispered, staring at the bowl in shock. “It ate the essence of the food.”

“It ate the memory,” Moira corrected gently. She closed the covers of both the blue and white books. “It was starving for warmth. You gave it a meal made with care, patience, and human hands. A machine could never have made a meal that could defeat a shadow, Elio.”

Elio looked at his flour-covered hands. He had always cooked for awards, for speed, and for modern perfection. But tonight, he had cooked to save a village.

“I understand now,” the chef said softly. He looked at Moira with true respect. “Tradition is not just about the past. It is about keeping the warmth alive for the future.”

Moira smiled. She took the wooden bowl of gray, empty food and tossed it into the trash bin.

“Now,” Moira said, tying her apron back on. “Since the shadow ate your dinner, how about we go into the kitchen and make another batch of that hand-rolled pasta? Just for us this time.”

Elio smiled back, his fear finally gone. “Only if you let me show you how to chop the wild mallow for the salad.”

“It is peaceful, Just like good cooking should be.”

Elio jumped back in fear. His flour-covered hands hit the wooden shelves behind him, knocking over a small jar of dried apple slices. The jar hit the floor, but neither of them looked at it.

The icy blue light from the white leather book grew brighter. It filled the dark tea shop, making the shadows on the walls look long and strange.

“Moira,” Elio whispered, his voice shaking. “What is happening? Books do not glow.”

“Stand back, Elio,” Moira said. Her voice was very steady, even though her heart was beating fast. She did not look away from the rusted iron box.

Toe, the black cat, let out a loud, angry yowl. He jumped down from the top shelf and stood on the counter next to Moira. Ashwaganda joined him. Both cats stared at the white book. Their fur was standing up, making them look twice as big.

Suddenly, the heavy cover of the white book flipped open all by itself.

Elio gasped and grabbed Moira’s arm. “Did you see that? There is no wind in here!”

Moira gently pulled her arm away. “I saw it. Do not be afraid. But do not touch it.”

She leaned over the counter to look at the open pages. The pages inside the white book were not yellow or creamy like her own book. They were completely black, like the night sky.

As they watched, glowing silver letters began to write themselves across the dark paper. The writing moved quickly, spelling out a message in the cold blue light.

Moira read the words out loud:

The twin wakes from the dark earth. The cook was called to the water. The old hunger returns to the hills.

Elio stepped closer, his eyes wide. He looked at the glowing words, then he looked at Moira. “The cook was called to the water? That means me. I went to the water to find the wild mallow. Are you telling me this… this magic book made me want to go there?”

Moira looked at him sadly. “Magic is like a magnet, Elio. It pulls things to it. It pulls people to it. You thought the wild mallow was your own idea for a new recipe. But the book was waiting to be found. It used you to wake up.”

Elio rubbed his face with his hands. He looked like he was trying to wake up from a very strange dream. “This is crazy. This is a quiet village in Italy. We make pasta and drink tea. Magic is not real.”

Moira knew it was time to share her biggest secret. If Elio was part of this now, he needed to know the truth.

She reached under the heavy oak counter. She pulled out her own book, The Days of the Dreams, with its dusty blue cover and the silver sleeping cat.

Elio stared at it. “There are two of them?”

“Yes,” Moira said quietly. “Mine is the blue book. I found it years ago. It helps protect Speranza. It warns me when danger is coming. But I did not know it had a twin.”

Moira placed her blue book on the counter, right next to the rusted metal box that held the white book.

As soon as the two books were close to each other, the air in the room felt heavy. A warm, golden light began to glow from Moira’s blue book. It mixed with the icy blue light of the white book.

The silver letters in the white book faded away. New words began to write themselves, but this time, the words flowed across both books at the same time. The writing started on the black pages of the white book and finished on the yellow pages of the blue book.

Light and shadow meet again. The gates of the old hunger are open. You must feed the shadow, or it will eat the village.

The light from both books flashed brightly, and then, suddenly, they both went totally dark. The glowing stopped. The shop was quiet again.

Elio was breathing heavily. He pointed at the black pages of the white book. “Feed the shadow? What does that mean, Moira? Feed it what?”

Moira looked down at her hands. They were shaking just a little bit. She thought about the warning. The old hunger returns.

“I don’t know yet,” Moira admitted, looking up at the worried chef. “But I think your cooking is going to be very important, Elio. And I think we are going to need more than just wild mallow to save Speranza this time.”

MY PLANS!!!

https://mindwealth123com.wordpress.com/2026/05/19/my-plans/

Superstitious? Me? Pfft… Unless the Universe is Listening.

Are you superstitious?

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Am I Superstitious? Let’s Just Say… It’s Complicated.

This morning, my son and his buddies threw out a dangerous question: “Are you superstitious?”

Now, logically, I want to say no. I don’t walk around tossing salt over my shoulder or fearing black cats. But if we’re being honest… I also refuse to say things like “Wow, nothing has gone wrong today!” because I know the universe is listening.

So, am I superstitious? Let’s just say I respect the possibility of unseen forces—but I’m also not afraid to test them.

Let’s break it down.

1. The ‘Don’t Jinx It’ Rule (AKA, I’m Not Stupid)

You ever confidently say something, only for life to immediately slap you in the face?

🔹 Example: “Ugh, I never get sick.” Boom—suddenly, I’m drowning in tissues and self-pity.
🔹 Pain Level: 9/10. Because why does the universe have to be so petty?

✅ How I Handle It: I knock on wood. Every time. Even if it’s fake. Even if people are watching. If I forget? You best believe I’m mentally whispering “no jinx, no jinx, no jinx” to undo the damage.

2. The ‘Something Feels Off’ Rule (My Sixth Sense is Real)

I don’t know if it’s energy, instinct, or just years of experience with people being sketchy, but if something feels wrong, I listen.

🔹 Example: Walking into a place and feeling an immediate, unexplainable sense of nope.
🔹 Pain Level: 10/10 if ignored. Because the ONE TIME I brushed it off, I ended up in a situation I never should have been in.

✅ How I Handle It: If my gut tells me to leave, I leave. No debating, no justifying. The last thing I need is to become the main character in a bad horror movie.

3. The ‘Ghosts? Prove Me Wrong’ Rule (I’m Ready for This Fight)

Unlike most people, I don’t fear ghosts, Ouija boards, or haunted places—I’m fascinated by them. Do I believe in spirits and the paranormal? Not really.

But am I willing to test it? Hell yes.

🔹 Example: While some people refuse to step foot in a haunted house, I’m the one saying, “Alright, if something’s here, show yourself.”
🔹 Pain Level: TBD. But honestly, if a ghost did prove me wrong, I’d be more excited than scared.

✅ How I Handle It: If the supernatural wants my attention, it better bring receipts. Until then, I’m keeping my skepticism and my curiosity wide open.

So, Am I Superstitious?

Let’s put it this way—I don’t live in fear of bad luck, but I also don’t poke the bear (except when it comes to ghosts, apparently).

If knocking on wood, trusting my instincts, and challenging the unknown keeps things interesting, then I’m all in.

Now, tell me—are you superstitious?

Or are you the type to laugh in the face of fate?

Drop your thoughts in the comments… but if your luck suddenly changes, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

NSFW Ink Dreams: Where Would You Put Yours?

What tattoo do you want, and where would you put it?

Some people want a discreet infinity symbol on their ankle.
Others want angel wings between their shoulder blades.
Me?

I want the Joker and Harley Quinn… tangled in sin… on my inner thigh.

Yes, you read that right. I already have six tattoos—each one a slice of my story—but this?
This one’s going to be my masterpiece.

Why settle for basic when your thighs are prime real estate for chaos, colour, and the promise of a little danger?

Why the Inner Thigh, though?

Well, darling, that’s easy.

It’s hidden… until it’s not.

It’s intimate. Naughty. A secret meant to be earned.

And every time I cross my legs or shift in bed, I’ll know there’s a beautiful madness resting just beneath my skin.

The Joker, smirking with toxic charm.
Harley, wide-eyed, wild, loyal in all the wrong ways.
The ultimate ride-or-die pair—etched into my flesh, just inches from all the fun.

Honestly? If you’re going to mark your body forever, make it interesting.
Make it tell a story… or whisper one between parted thighs.

More Tattoos. More Mischief. More Me.

My body is already a canvas of secrets and symbols.

Not just to look.
But to wonder.
To imagine what else might be hiding underneath the lace and leather.

So, yes—my Joker and Harley thigh piece is still in the works.
But the rest of my skin? Hungry. Ready. Waiting for the needle to tell another scandalous tale.

📌Disclaimer: Please note if you click on the button below and make a purchase through the link, I will be receiving a small comission!📌

God Above, My Family, My Voice — No Superstition

https://aarya045.com/2026/03/12/god-above-my-family-my-voice-no-superstition/

Between Karma and Monsters

This is a great question, and it was the most intriguing for me out of all the Daily Writing Prompts for the week. For someone like me, who writes literary horror and often uses monsters as objects of karma or divine justice in certain situations, I think about superstition often. I write in superstition a lot as well, in my settings and plot devices. I rely a lot on fear of the unknown as an object in my writing. Monsters are a great metaphor for this fear.

We are all trying to avoid hardship, and if we can find a somewhat unexplainable pattern or ritual that our certain and specific patterns of behavior might help and suspend pain or trauma, we’re going to seize them. Ironically, in these areas of avoidance, well sometimes that is where monsters themselves fester. Sometimes creating patterns to be safe cause the unresolved pain to outgrow the avoidance. That is another blog post and monster.

Monsters can also be personifications of superstition. Some were born directly from them from various cultures and their mythologies. I have always found this lore intriguing. That being said, I wouldn’t say I’m necessarily superstitious, but I do believe in some perhaps related forces. The chief one being karma.

I for certain believe in karma. Whether it is something I have observed, or been judged upon, the universe has a way of remembering things and spinning them back at you. In my own life, for all the stupid and selfish mistakes I have made (and there have been plenty), if I ever refuse to take ownership over them, well, life, the universe, existence, and karma has done a more than adequate job of pointing out my misdeeds. Sometimes I feel like the mole in Whack-A-Mole, and karma has been the mallet whacking me whenever I emerge.

I’m hardly alone in that metaphor. I don’t challenge karma or the threads of justice that layer through the unseen world. Everything catches up with you. I suppose that is my biggest superstition. Granted, I don’t like breaking mirrors. It feels so unnatural.

One thing about karma that I think is interesting, is that time itself functions as karma. It makes negative or toxic behavior fester which causes bad outcomes to multiply. At least that’s my belief. Also, I think one thing I like to explore as a writer of monsters is that superstitions are given life, identity, and meaning, without any consent. This is easy to replicate with monsters in storytelling. Also, I don’t like walking under ladders.

Maybe I am superstitious.

The Caramelized Alibi

The new mystery in Speranza: Christmas murders with a tad of Caramel..

The autumn sun in Speranza was the color of aged parchment, casting long, lazy shadows across the village market as the first hint of December’s frost began to bite. In the heart of the village, the grand Christmas tree stood as a towering spire of green, but its festive beauty was eclipsed by a scene of magnificent chaos. Beneath the lowest branches, nestled amidst a dusty pile of forgotten histories and the vibrant silk wrappers of the season, lay the body of the visiting gourmet critic.

A Bittersweet Discovery

The air around the Piazza, usually thick with the scent of Anna’s roasted coffee and Altea’s fine tobacco, was now cloyed with the smell of burnt sugar and sea salt.

The victim was found slumped against the tree’s base, his face serene but his eyes wide and unseeing.

He clutched a “Caramel Gold” bar from Marisa’s Mint Chocolate house, the silver-wrapped treat half-eaten.

A faint, sweet, floral scent—reminiscent of hyacinth but with a sharp, chemical undertone—hung in the frigid air.

Ispettore Salomone arrived looking profoundly weary, his patience already thinner than a poorly brewed Earl Grey.

The Feline Sentinels

Back at La Pagina che Fa le Fusa, my sanctuary of rosemary and old paper, the atmosphere was one of quiet tension. My two furry proprietors, sensing a dissonant note in the village’s harmony, began their own investigation.

Toe, the sleek black Maine Coon, ignored the festive bustle and began an obsessive ritual of batting at a small, ornate silver sachet he had found snagged in the tree’s tinsel.

Ashwaganda, the ginger sage with amber eyes that held the wisdom of ages, sat pointedly in front of a new pot of calendula flowers, letting out a soft, insistent meow.

He stared directly at the “Caramel Gold” wrapper I had brought back, his “gold stare” signaling a truth hidden in the sugar.

The Wisdom of the Blue Book

I turned to my chair of bordeaux velvet and opened the strange book I had bought for a handful of coins: Days of your Dreams. Bound in faded peacock-blue leather and penned in shimmering silver ink, its pages rustled with a soft, dry scent of pressed flowers. I searched for an entry on “Gold” and “Salt,” and the script began to shift into a cryptic prophecy:

“Where the serpent eats its tail, the sweet gold is snared. Look not for what was taken, but for the ‘smoke’ that never burns. The truth is found where the earth is youngest and the fox hides its dye.”

The Shadow on the Threshold

The investigation took a chilling turn when the door to the shop—hidden under an ivy-covered stone arch—creaked open. A man stood there, as smooth and polished as river stones, holding a silver-stamped ledger that mirrored the emblem of a sleeping cat and a key.

“Signorina Hopes,” he boomed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling like a retired opera diva’s. “The caramel was a masterful forgery, a distraction for the real prize hidden within the tree’s heart.”

Moira felt a jolt go through her. This was not just a case of a poisoned critic; it was the violent beginning of a new story, one involving a contested inheritance, a forger’s touch, and the “lullaby of death” hidden in a scent of caramel.

#AlteaSCigarsHouse #art #Ashwaganda #bloganuary #bloganuary202401 #bloganuary202402 #bloganuary202403 #bloganuary202404 #bloganuary202405 #bloganuary202408 #bloganuary202409 #bloganuary202411 #bloganuary202415 #bloganuary202416 #bloganuary202428 #bloganuary202429 #bloganuary202430 #books #culture #curiosity #dailyprompt #dailyprompt1804 #dailyprompt1805 #dailyprompt1806 #dailyprompt1807 #dailyprompt1811 #dailyprompt1812 #dailyprompt1814 #dailyprompt1819 #dailyprompt1832 #dailyprompt1851 #dailyprompt1852 #dailyprompt1859 #dailyprompt1860 #dailyprompt1875 #dailyprompt1880 #dailyprompt1886 #dailyprompt1890 #dailyprompt1891 #dailyprompt1892 #dailyprompt1896 #dailyprompt1901 #dailyprompt1911 #dailyprompt1932 #dailyprompt1975 #dailyprompt1976 #dailyprompt1978 #dailyprompt1981 #dailyprompt1982 #dailyprompt1983 #dailyprompt1984 #dailyprompt1985 #dailyprompt1986 #dailyprompt1987 #dailyprompt1988 #dailyprompt1991 #dailyprompt1994 #dailyprompt2007 #dailyprompt2008 #dailyprompt2010 #dailyprompt2011 #dailyprompt2012 #dailyprompt2013 #dailyprompt2014 #dailyprompt2017 #dailyprompt2022 #dailyprompt2041 #dailyprompt2089 #dailyprompt2099 #dailyprompt2112 #dailyprompt2113 #dailyprompt2115 #dailyprompt2124 #dailyprompt2125 #dailyprompt2126 #dailyprompt2127 #dailyprompt2129 #dailyprompt2132 #dailyprompt2134 #dailyprompt2137 #dailyprompt2138 #dailyprompt2145 #dailyprompt2146 #dailyprompt2152 #dailyprompt2153 #dailyprompt2159 #dailyprompt2167 #DaysOfYourDreams #Evernote #everyday #Facebook #facts #food #HISTORY #IFTTT #Instagram #LAPAGINACHEFALEFUSA #language #learning #Marigold #Mediterranean #MoiraHopes #mystery #photography #pictures #Pinterest #RECIPES #social #SPERANZA #taverna #technology #TheCaseOfTheSilentNightingaleAndTheEtruscanDeception #ThePurringPage #thePurringPages #THESPERANZASSISTERS #TOE #traditions #WithASummersimoSmile #writing

Chapter 1: The High-Contrast Crisis

The rain outside didn’t just fall; it “carried on like a pork chop,” hammering against the corrugated iron roof of the studio. Inside, the air smelled of burnt espresso and ozone. Liam, Dax, and Dev—the Three Best Friends—were locked in a battle against a deadline that felt like hard yakka on a Saturday arvo.

The Philosophy of the Studio

The trio didn’t just build websites; they built gateways. Their manifesto was simple: Writing for Web Accessibility wasn’t an afterthought—it was the foundation.

• Liam (The Content King): He believed that for each web page, one must provide a short title that describes the page content and distinguishes it from other pages. He was currently obsessing over the “Space Teddy Inc.” homepage, ensuring the page name came before the organization name.
• Dax (The Visual Architect): His monitors were filled with color wheels and luminance grids. He knew that foreground text needs to have sufficient contrast with background colors, a rule that applied to buttons and background gradients alike.
• Dev (The Logic Master): Dev lived in the “code order.” He was currently ensuring that the order of elements in the code matched the logical order of the information presented. He often checked this by removing CSS styling to see if the content still made sense.

“If we don’t get this right,” Dev muttered, “we’re just pulling a swifty on every user who relies on a screen reader”.

The Arrival of Elias

When the thud came at the door, it wasn’t the sound of a visitor; it was the sound of a warning. Elias, a retiree known to the boys as a frequent tester of their designs, stood in the doorway. He was a man who lived with low vision, hand tremors, and mild short-term memory loss.

“I couldn’t get through the ‘Space Teddy’ checkout,” Elias panted, his voice shaking. “It was the Shadow of the Raven’s Wing. It’s back.”

Dax went pale. “The Shadow? That’s just a myth developers tell to scare juniors.”

“It’s no myth,” Elias said, leaning on a desk. “It’s a deliberate design to exclude. It’s when a site uses color alone to convey information, like marking required fields in red without an asterisk”. “But this was worse. It was a shroud.”

The Mystery of the Raven’s Wing

The Three Best Friends gathered around Liam’s main terminal. Elias pointed a weathered finger at a specific block of text that seemed to shimmer and fade.

The Raven’s Wing (Definition): A technique used by rogue developers to create “unnecessarily complex” content that bypasses the need for clear and concise sentences. It creates a “lack of headings,” making the document nearly impossible to edit or navigate for assistive technology.

“Look at the code,” Dev whispered. His fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard. “They haven’t just ignored the WCAG requirements. They’ve weaponized them. They’re using ambiguous link text like ‘click here’ to lead users into a loop”.

“And the images,” Dax added, his eyes narrowing. “There’s no meaningful text alternatives. For these informational images, they’ve used empty alt-text as if they were purely decorative”.

The First Clue: The “Superbear” Anomaly

As they dug deeper into the “Raven’s” source code, a name popped up that Liam recognized from a recent news article: Superbear.

“Wait,” Liam said, pulling up a local news site. “I just wrote about this. ‘Superbear saves the day… rescuing a young cat from a tree'”. He looked at the code Dev had unearthed. “The Raven is using the Superbear story as a mask. But look at how they’ve marked it up.”

Dev pointed to the screen:

• They used a <h2> for the title “Superbear saves the day”.
• They included a <time> tag for “7 Aug 2015”.
• But hidden inside an <aside> was a list of “Related Articles” that didn’t exist in the real world.

“Fair dinkum,” Liam breathed. “These links… ‘Superbear stands for mayor’. That never happened. They’re using WAI-ARIA roles like role="search" to hide a data-mining script”.

The Friends’ Vow

The “Shadow of the Raven’s Wing” wasn’t just a technical glitch; it was a digital wall built to stop people like Lakshmi, the blind accountant, and Ian, the clerk with autism, from accessing the truth.

“We need to audit this entire city’s infrastructure,” Dax declared. “Starting with the contrast ratios of every government portal”.

“And I’ll start rewriting the instructions,” Liam said. “No more unnecessarily technical language. We need to describe input requirements, like date formats, so even someone as stressed as Elias can navigate ‘no worries'”.

“I’ll handle the keyboard accessibility,” Dev added. “I’ll ensure every custom widget, from accordions to buttons, uses tabindex="0" to stay in the navigation order”.

They looked at each other. The task was heaps big, but they were the best in the business.

The Audit Checklist

Before they could head out into the “arvo” to confront the Raven, they had to prep their toolkit.

“She’ll be right,” Elias whispered, watching the Three Best Friends work. “As long as you keep the content clear and concise, the shadow can’t win”.

To Be Continued…

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First, allow me to let the great Jeff Beck answer this question (with some help from Rod Stewart and Ron Wood):

No, I am not superstitious. Sorry to let you down. Didn’t we just have to answer something about whether or not we believed in fate? Was that here or was that one of the 1000000 lame ass polls I’ve seen on Threads? I don’t recall.

Nope, I don’t believe in superstitions. I don’t believe in astrology. I don’t believe in fairy tales, especially ones about dudes who claim to be their own fathers. I don’t believe that walking under a ladder is going to cause me to have a bad day. I don’t believe in any of that stuff.

I do believe in Stevie Wonder though, and even more hero-worshipfully, I believe in Jeff Beck. I also believe that Jeff Beck did a session for a Stevie Wonder record and in payment Stevie wrote Jeff a song that he could use with his new metal band, Beck Bogert Appice. I believe that song was freakin’ epic.

While I believe in the epic nature of that song, I do not believe that the BB&A version was better than the Stevie Wonder version that Mr Wonder was asked to record by his label because they were afraid he had given away a potential classic… which of course he did. As big a fan as I am of the legendary Mr Jeff Beck, Stevie’s version is way better.

Both of those versions, however, are better than the version my band, Lizardfish, recorded at a rehearsal one day. Yeah, we played Superstition too.

So no, I am not superstitious, but I do know a couple of killer songs when I hear them.

https://robertjames1971.blog/2024/03/12/no-11/

#beckBogertAppice #dailyprompt #dailyprompt1875 #Guitar #JeffBeck #lizardfish #Music #stevieWonder #superstition