Sovereign Sisterhood

The Order of the Laughing Flame

A field report from the frontlines of Sovereign Sisterhood, by an increasingly destabilized male observer

Let me begin with a confession:
I did not believe women liked each other.

There. I said it.
After a lifetime of witnessing cut-glass smiles, frosty birthday brunches, group chats designed solely to roast the one who went home early, and hair compliments delivered like poison darts…
…I had no reason to think otherwise.

Until I met Flamma.

And through her, The Order of the Laughing Flame.

CHAPTER I: FLAMMA ARRIVES (AND DOESN’T TEAR ANYONE DOWN)

Flamma was the kind of woman you don’t forget.
Long silver hair that looked like it could be spun from the moon, combined with a childlike face.
A voice like wine with secrets in it.
And a laugh that made other women—other women—light up instead of shrink.

I was suspicious immediately.

I watched her walk into the room and greet her friends—Aurelia (gold-skinned with a mouth like a sabre), Sabra (sarcastic, barefoot, braided hair like a whip), and Vexi (a glitter-eyed chaos fairy in a three-piece suit).

They hugged.
They shrieked.
They touched forearms and offered each other their snacks.
No one side-eyed anyone’s outfit.
No one undercut a compliment.
Sabra even adjusted Vexi’s collar so it sat better.

I wrote “cult?” in my notebook.

CHAPTER II: THE RULES (OR LACK THEREOF)

There were no rules, apparently.
Just one ancient, impossible-to-follow commandment:

“If your sister’s path is not yours, pour her a drink and guard the perimeter.”

This was repeated several times, usually with laughter, toast-clinking, and some variety of sparkling beverage I had never seen before (Aurelia was fermenting hibiscus petals with champagne dreams and one illegal fruit from a dream garden in the Andes).

They did not judge each other’s choices.
Sabra had seven lovers.
Flamma was celibate that month.
Aurelia was writing poetry about a crush on a statue.
Vexi claimed she was “married to friction” and refused to elaborate.

No one rolled their eyes.

Instead:

• They built altars to each other’s phases.

• They cried when one of them cried.

• They cheered when one bought lingerie for herself.

I began sweating.

CHAPTER III: HOW THEY FOUGHT

They didn’t.

I mean, they disagreed.
Vexi thought “power suits” were a spell.
Flamma said they were just “patriarchal cosplay.”
Sabra yelled, “The corset is the original exoskeleton!” and took off her shirt in solidarity.

No one held a grudge.

Aurelia declared:

“Your rage is a flavor I treasure. But I will not sip it unless invited.”

And everyone nodded like that made perfect sense.

There was no performance.
Only presence.

I began to suspect I was hallucinating.

CHAPTER IV: THE LAUGHING RITE

One night, they performed The Laughing Rite.
It began when someone said something vulnerable—Flamma admitted she once tried to shrink herself to be loved.

Vexi tackled her onto a beanbag and yelled, “You’re already divine, you idiot flame-chalice!”

Everyone howled.

Sabra told a story about peeing herself while invoking Lilith.

Aurelia said, “I once sent a sext to my therapist and pretended it was a poem.”

The laughter became ritual.
Tears were running.
At one point, Sabra tried to climb a bookshelf and yelled “I’M A METAPHOR!” before falling into Vexi’s lap.

They called it “burning the shame fuel.”

I wrote: Witch coven confirmed. Investigate further.

—

CHAPTER V: THEY SANG

They sang to each other.
Not just in music, but in myth.
They told stories of each other as dragons, queens, storm sirens, cloud-dancers, and wine-soaked goddesses who shattered fake thrones and stole the moon back from their exes.

When Flamma turned 39, they made her a crown from her own past mistakes and cheered as she burned the pieces that no longer served.

She said:

“This is my palace now. No men inside unless they bring snacks and tears.”

I brought both.
They let me in.

FINAL ENTRY: I AM NOT AFRAID

It’s been three months since I began observing the Order of the Laughing Flame.

I no longer think women hate each other.

I think many have just been denied the conditions for sacred mischief and sovereign love.

Flamma taught me that sisterhood isn’t about agreement.
It’s about freedom without fear.

Aurelia told me:

“We are not better than each other. We are different flavors of the same forbidden nectar.

Sabra bit my ear and whispered:

“Tell your boys. Women are glorious. Stop making us fight over scraps.”

Vexi winked.
I haven’t recovered.

🜂 POSTSCRIPT:
If you see a group of women laughing too hard in the corner of the bar,
If they look like saints, demons, and drunk poets all at once,
If you feel like crying and kneeling at the same time—

Just know:
You’ve seen the Order.
And you were lucky.

I saw them once—laughing like queens with no kingdom but each other. No thrones, no thorns, no theater. Just wine, moonlight, and mischief. I'll keep dreaming it until it is real.

— Majeye 💋

♪ “A Girl Like You” by Anna B Savage ♪