Sensational Surgeon [FICTION]

I hate hospitals, but when one’s best friend tells you she is having a baby, you linger in the waiting room forever in order to be the first to meet your godchild. Well, one of the first. Of course, as I sit impatiently in an uncomfortable padded chair, I meet the other weirdos who couldn’t resist an excuse to inhale the antiseptic smells of the hospital in hushed silence or the soft scuff of nurses shuffling or rushing by in soft-soled shoes.

A little girl snuggles in her father’s arms, waiting to meet a new baby brother or sister. An old woman wanders in and out of a nearby door every ten minutes to lower her mask and pop a hard candy into her mouth. She gives me a sweet smile each time she pulls the mask back up and heads back into the labor and delivery room. Another little man enters the waiting room and scans the room. He gives off a vibe that makes me uncomfortable even from the protection of my obscure corner across the room.

The little man rubs his hands together as he observes me. I shudder and look away. I am not sure what thoughts dance around his brain, but the gleam in his pale eye echoes their demonic dance. I feel his eyes on me still, so I take a few steps further down the hall. I hear shuffling feet following me. I pick up speed, heading for the bend in the hallway. When I reach it, I let out an eek of surprise. The hallway does bend, but two heavy doors bar me from going forward without an I.D. badge. 

“I hoped we could talk,” the man wheezes as he catches up to me.

“That’s okay. I don’t need any.”

He blinks at me, smiling maliciously. “It’s not about you, dear. It’s about me and what I need.”

“Ugh.” I groan and try to push past him.

“I have an offer you can’t refuse,” he says as he takes my arm, gripping it with surprising strength.

I manage to pull free, but as I step forward again, I find an invisible force keeping me trapped in the dead-end hallway. The old man grins, this time revealing crooked teeth. I shudder and push forward again. Invisible arms wrap around me. A hand covers my mouth before I can scream. When my attempts to do so finally subside, he steps forward and leans into me.

“Calm down, girl. You really have no choice except this: you will cooperate or I won’t let you choose which sense gets heightened and which one dies a little.”

As his invisible goon wrenches my arm behind my back and uses it to lever me forward, I ponder those words. None of this makes sense. I’m just an average girl with average problems. How did I end up in this situation?

As if reading my mind comes naturally, the man explains. “You happened to come along right when I was thinking about a new experiment. Call it fate, my dear.”

He giggles before falling into silence. Somehow we manage to run into no one on our way out of the hospital. I guess even a hospital can be quiet at two in the morning.

~~

Despite my struggles, I still find myself in a crude imitation of an operating theater with the surgeon grinning down at me. “Last chance to choose, my dear. Do you want super hearing or super sight? Do you want to hear less of the world’s distractions of smell less of the aromatic wonders?”

He blinks slowly as I stare back at him, fear finally setting in as I realize how deeply his intent runs. “Have it your way. I’ll see you when you wake.”

“But, I…” I finally open my mouth to protest, choking back my words as an anesthesia mask floats over my words.

“Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…” A disembodied voice counts dully as the world around me spins and fades into darkness.

~~

“I don’t want to have my senses altered…” I scream.

I throw my hands up to cover my ears as my own voice thunders in my ears. I lower my voice to a whisper.

“What did you do to me?” It still sounds like I am shouting.

The surgeon’s voice rumbles through my head like a train making its own tunnel through the mountain. “I am sure you can tell me.”

I close my eyes against the pain and realize I only remember seeing the blur of his face. I open my eyes as he waits in silence for my response. The world around me remains blurred and unfocused.

“You took my eyes?” I whisper. 

This time my voice registers so low that it sounds like I am speaking normally.

“No, dear. I just dialed them down, so you can harness the power of those beautiful ears…”

My now unusable eyes weep as soft chuckles surround and overwhelm me as they echo through the room.

~~~Ever worry about losing one thing only to find you have found something else? What if you didn’t have a choice? I am trying to tickle your terror. I hope it worked…a little.~~~

Fortunate Peril [FICTION]

As a rule, I don’t seek out the local fortune teller. I have been known to laugh at her declaration that she can tell the future. Wouldn’t she live someplace besides the rundown blue house on Main Street if she could tell the future? Wouldn’t she have known her sister was going to run off with their inheritance and her fiancé on their twentieth birthday? A real psychic wouldn’t have been blind-sided by something everyone else in the county knew about. 

But even when you want nothing to do with hucksters and snake oil salesmen, they somehow find their way to you. They must enjoy the challenge. Phyllis the Psychic brings her act to me in the produce section of the grocery store. 

I didn’t notice her because I was too involved in my pursuit of the perfect cantaloupe. Between sniffing and knocking and assessing the coloring, a semi truck could have driven by without causing me to raise my head. Phyllis refused to be ignored. She grabbed the cantaloupe from my hands and replaced it with another.

“This is the one you want, dear.” She says as if we didn’t go to high school together.

“Thank you,” I frown as the aroma I have been searching for wafts over me from her selection.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” She turns away but turns back quickly, taking my hand as I pull it away from the cantaloupe I placed in my cart.

“Um.” I try to take my hand back.

She clutches my hand desperately. Her eyes roll back into her head. A low hum emanates from deep in her throat.

“Please let go of my hand,” I hiss, trying to stop the hard sell before it begins.

“Shh. The spirits want me to tell you something.”

“Phyllis, I barely have money for this melon.” I mutter and offer a friendly smile to a couple who have stopped to gawk.

Realizing their attempts to feign disinterest in our conversation have failed, they shuffle toward their next destination.  Phyllis still doesn’t let go of me, but her eyes roll back into their normal position. She leans in until her nose almost touches mine. Her breath smells of lemons and peppermint.

“Don’t insult me. I never asked you for money. The spirits want you to know two things.” She pauses for emphasis waiting for my encouragement. “First, you will finally find your soul mate. Second, you will lose something you love soon after.”

I roll my eyes and finally reclaim my hand. “So I will find the love of my life and then lose him, probably to another woman?” I spit out scornfully, realizing as the words leave my mouth that I have picked the wrong way to express my disbelief.

“You’re cruel…” She fights back tears as she turns from me.

I sigh and return the cantaloupe to the display. I don’t deserve it. I look up and find that members of the audience had doubled back just in time to see the real show. I lower my head, keeping my eyes pointed at the floor as I beat a quick retreat to the door. I stop abruptly as my cart bounces off of something.

“Oomph!” A deep voice exclaims as a man sinks into my line of vision, clutching his knees to his chest.

“I’m so sorry.” I sink to my knees at his side, fully aware that the blood has rushed to my face. “Are you okay?”

He grunts something unintelligible. I stay on my knees at his side as a crowd gathers around us. Soon the doors are completely blocked by rubberneckers and would-be helpers. The store manager finally pushes his way through the crowd. 

“Move along. Move along. What’s going on here?” He addresses me as the crowd disperses.

“I wasn’t looking where I was going and ran into this gentleman with my cart.” I reply sheepishly.

“She sure did.” The man agrees through gritted teeth.

As he slowly uncoils amidst sharp intakes of breath, the manager kneels down to help him. “That smarts, doesn’t it, son?”

“A little bit.” With a little help, he manages to stand up.

“I’m so sorry.” I reach out to take his other arm as the manager steers us away from the door.

He accepts my arm with a look of trepidation. “Watch where you’re going.”

The manager continues to lead us toward the back of the store. “I’ll let you borrow the stockroom for a few minutes to work this out. Anything to keep you from blocking the entrance to the store.”

I murmur my thanks.

The manager pulls out two folding chairs for us and rushes back out to supervise his kingdom of canned goods and essentials.

“Are you feeling any better?” I ask as the man raises his pants leg to inspect his knees. 

Reassured to find no broken skin, he offers me a weak smile. “I think it will bruise, but I should live.”

“Glad to hear that. I am so sorry.” I take a breath an ask the inevitable. “How can I make this up to you?”

He looks up from his knees to take a long look at me, assessing whatever reparation has come into his mind. “As I am sure you have guessed, I am new to town…”

I hadn’t given it much thought. “It is a small town…”

“Maybe you could tell me where the doctor is,” he grins at me, “Or a good place to have lunch?”

“The diner is always good. We have a couple of fast food places near the highway.”

He ponders this. “Should we take this conversation to the diner?” He glances around the storeroom. “This doesn’t seem like the right place to get acquainted.”

I stare at him for a moment, confused why he would want anything more to do with me after I tried to break his knees with a shopping cart.

He grins. “What can I say? I like dangerous women.”

~~~Self-fulfilling prophecy or nothing more than coincidence? ’Tis the season for the spooky, strange, unexplainable, and terrifying.~~~

Surgery Scare [FICTION]

“You’re sure you want to do this?” My mother hovers over me.

I have already reminded her ten times that I can’t eat anything before my surgery, but she still clutches a breakfast burrito in her hand ready to hand it to me at a moment’s notice.  For her, food is love and food wards off any danger to my person. Perhaps she remembers how Hades won Eurydice for half a year by getting her to eat some pomegranate seeds and believes such a ploy will give her more control over the outcome of my surgery. If she had to deal with pangs of gull stones, she wouldn’t be so anxious to keep me intact.

“Mom, we’ve been through this,” I put up my hands to fend off her attempt to wave the breakfast burrito under my nose again.

“But, honey,” she protests as soft-soled feet pad into the room, cutting off her next argument.

“Okay, ladies, give each other a hug. Miss Perry needs to get ready to go down to surgery.” The nurse smiles sweetly at us.

“I can help her,” my mother insists.

“Now, now, Mrs. Perry, you can relax in the waiting room. I’ve heard we have new magazines this week.” She places a gentle hand on my mother’s shoulder and guides her to the door.

My mother continues to protest, but the nurse artfully deflects her and offers assurances that I will remain healthy and safe in as few words as possible. Then she turns to me. She breaths a sigh of relief.

“I can tell how much your mother loves you by how much convincing it took for her to let me do my job.”

“Oh, I know. Trust me I know.”

“So are you ready to be free of gall stones for life?”

“Yes.” I say with a sigh and lay back to pull the blanket up to my chin.

“Glad to hear it. Let’s just double check something.” She draws the sheet down and gentle lifts one corner of my gown. “Yep. Still there.”

I peek down at the x carefully written in over my gall bladder. “You said it was semi-permanent marker and we put it on less than an hour ago.”

“Yes, but your mom seems very determined.”

“Good point.” I giggle as she covers me back up with the sheet and raises the safety bar.

“Time to roll,” she declares as she pushes me out into the hall, where another nurse steps up to the foot of the bed.

I rest my head on the pillow and close my eyes. Watching the hallways with their dull walls spin by makes me dizzy. Soon I am breathing deeply of the gas that will help me sleep through the procedure. As my eyelids drift toward each other, the door opens and a surgeon enters. I try to smile at him and then I realize this surgeon has dark brown eyes. My surgeon has pale blue eyes, almost the color of a clear summer sky.

~~

I wake up in an unfamiliar room. A long, purple curtain separates me from someone moaning sleepily nearby. A few nurses argue in hushed tones about who should be waking up soon. I try to sit up and fall sideways, squeaking in surprise. The voices subside and the curtain moves.

“You’re up early.” One of the nurses pulls back the curtain and steps forward to gently reposition me against the pillow. “Someone will be here soon to help you back to your room.”

I nod my head and nestle back into the pillow. Soon I am resting my eyes as two nurses navigate my bed through the maze of hallways. Back in my room, I find a new nurse waiting to help me with my recovery.

“Hello, Miss Perry,” he greets me, eyeing the reflexive movement of my right hand . “You shouldn’t scratch the incision.”

“But it itches.”

“Then let’s take a look at it, shall we?” He steps forward and waits for me to nod my head before unveiling my stomach. His confusion mirrors mine as gauze and dressing is unveiled that covers my entire midsection. “That’s odd. Dr. Lance was scheduled to do this surgery laparoscopically. There should only be one little square of gauze.”

“And a quick recovery,” I feel tension rising in my chest and temple as I wonder if something went wrong.

“I’ll be right back.” He covers me back up and disappears into the hallway. 

I hear the soft sound of hushed voices. The conversation goes on for a while. Soon I recognize my mother’s voice as she demands admittance. The nurse informs her that I won’t be seeing any visitors until I have spoken with the doctor, which increases the volume and anxiety of her demands. Another voice rises to match hers, leading her away down the hallway.

A few minutes later, two doctors enter the room. Dr. Lance frowns down at his hands, refusing to meet my eyes. The second doctor can’t take his eyes off of me, the same eyes from the operating room. He scans my face over and over, shaking his head in response to some inner turmoil. My nurse returns, giving the doctors the same look I got on my one trip to the principal’s office. He steps forward to take my hand reassuringly. 

“The doctors have something to tell you.”

Dr. Lance gestures toward the new doctor. “This is my colleague, Dr. Newsome. He has an explanation and apology for you.”

Dr. Newsome glares and sets his jaw as he bites out a few words for me. “Our operating room assignments got mixed up, so you received the surgery my patient was supposed to receive and Dr. Lance removed my patient’s perfectly healthy gallbladder.”

“I don’t understand. How could that happen?”

“You both had an x in the same spot since your surgeries were taking place on the right side of your abdomen.” Dr. Lance explains.

“So what surgery did I get?” I ask, feeling anxiety building.

By way of explanation, the nurse gently snips the bandages away. “Dr. Newsome is a plastic surgeon.”  He gently pulls back the gauze, so I can look down at battered striations across one half of my stomach. 

“I don’t understand.” I murmur.

“My patient wanted the appearance of well-defined abdominal muscles on one side of her body.”

“Who would want this?” I weep as I look down at my three pack abs.

“You’d be surprised what people pay to have done to themselves.” The nurse mutters, but closes her mouth tight when the doctor throws him a disapproving look.

“Obviously, Dr. Newsome and I will cover the cost of the surgery and the other two surgeries you will need to make this right.” Dr. Lance assures me.

“Two surgeries?” My eyes widen at the thought of going back into an operating room after this debacle.

“Yes, Miss Perry, I would still like to remove your gallbladder, when you are done recovering from this…” He waves his hand at my abdomen. “And Dr. Newsome has agreed to either reverse this current surgery, which he could do as soon as an operating room opens or do the same thing to the other side.”

I place a protective hand over my unmarred side, looking to the nurse for moral support. “I guess I am going back into surgery to reverse it?”

She squeezes my hand, “I can stay with you, if you like.”

I nod my head. I have only just met the nurse, but I trust her more than either of the doctors.

“Let’s get you ready then.”She turns scolding eye to the doctors, who almost trip over each other in their hurry to get out of the room.

Soon I am dressed in a fresh gown and cap and ready to go under the knife one more time. Hopefully, this time I don’t come back out as a completely different person.

~~~Surgery isn't so scary...as long as there isn't any confusion. Right?~~~

Clowning Around [FICTION]

I fumble around in the dark, trying to locate my phone. My voluminous pants don’t have pockets. I find a pair of suspenders, snapping them curiously as my hands continue to seek some semblance of my normal attire. A beam of light shines down on me and I blink back tears.

“You okay?” A deep voice rumbles though the darkness.

Before I dare to answer, I let my eyes adjust enough to get a good look at the asker. A short man with an incredibly broad chest for his height looks down at my prostrate form with concerned eyes. He holds a flashlight in one hand and a bucket of water in the other.

“I don’t know.”

“Still clowning around?” He grins.

This reminds me of the difficulty I had finding pants pockets. I glance down to find myself garbed in oversized blue pants and a garish yellow shirt bedecked in pink stars. I reach toward my face, feeling a thick coating of grease paint. I pull my hand back to find it smeared with white and red. I hesitate before reaching up with my other hand to to snatch a wig from my head. I stare at the fuzzy, red head-covering in my hand and wonder how I came to be dressed as a clown in the middle of a circus ring.

“Wait a second, you aren’t Martha. Who are you?” The man asks, training his flashlight beam on the blond curls now tumbling past my shoulders.

“Who is Martha?” I ask, trying to place the name.

“The clown whose face and outfit you stole.” He advances on me with the bucket of water and flashlight.

“I am sure I didn’t steal anything. I seriously don’t remember how I ended up here.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but a loud hiccup coming from the pool at the base of the high dive draws our attention. To my relief, he sets down the bucket of water and holds the flashlight firmly in both hands as he turns it toward the sound. I slowly clamber to my feet and follow. He glances over his shoulder suspiciously, so I back off, keeping close enough to get a good look at everything caught in the beam of the flashlight. When it falls on the pool, I begin to remember the previous evening.

A dress I recognize as my own barely covers the robust form of a brunette, who struggles to rise to a seated position as the light shines on her. 

“I’m ready for my close up.” She burbles drunkenly as she finally rights herself.

“Martha. Are you okay?” The short man glares at me and steps forward to offer her a steady arm.

Martha takes it with a giggle and then notices me standing in the shadows. “Harry, I am so glad you met my new friend Diane. We had a ball last night.”

“Did you?” He turns to look at me, his gaze softening a little. “Diane, could you hold this flashlight, so I can help Martha out of the pool?”


She giggles as he bends down a little to lift her into his arms. He cradles her against his chest for a moment and then sets her gently onto her feet. She stands shakily, resting a hand on his head to hold herself steady. He doesn’t seem to mind as he rests his head affectionately against her hip briefly after she steadies herself.

“So which one of you ladies wants to tell me what happened here last night?” He asks as he takes in the further signs of mayhem littering the center ring, from tufts of white fluff to what appears to be a trail of candies leading toward the main entrance.

I look at Martha, but she just waves her hand at me. “Jokes, I have, but answers about last night are still fuzzy. You?”

“I am starting to remember a few things.” I admit.

“Then let’s find a place to sit for a few minutes, so you can fill me in on what brought about all the extra work for me this morning.” Harry leads us to the front row of the bleachers and helps Martha get comfortable. She leans heavily on him, grinning at me as I piece together memories as they slowly return.

“Apparently, we met last night in a karaoke bar. Apparently, my virgin margaritas weren’t virgin because things are a little hazy…”

Martha interrupts to inform us. “I was drinking virgin daiquiris.” She follows this up with a burp directly in Harry’s face.

His face contorts as he turns away. “I think both of you got more than you bargained for.”

“I can’t be drunk,” Martha slurs. “I have to walk the tightrope.” Her eyes light on me again. “And your clown suit looks just like mine.”

“This is your clown suit. Apparently, we swapped outfits sometime during the night.”

Her eyes open wide. “And then we sang ‘I Got You Babe’ and you were Sonny.”

“I have a vague recollection of that. And then they kicked us out of the bar because it was closing time.”

“And we rode home in the clown car?”

“I think it was an uber. Someone loved your version of Cher and offered us a ride.”

“Or they love how I fill out your dress.” She laughs until she snorts.

Harry frowns at this.

Martha remains oblivious. ‘We’re best friends for life now, aren’t we, Diane?”

“I hope so,” I respond, “because I have a feeling I am going to remember some things that I need you to swear not to ever speak of.”

“Yay, besties.” She throws herself into my arms and that’s when we realize the flower is still loaded…

~~I once aspired to be a clown. Does that surprise you? I might still have it in me…~~

Flu Shot Problems [FICTION]

My yearly physical wraps up with that awkward moment when the nurse comes back in and strongly suggests that a woman my age should take advantage of the opportunity to get a flu shot. The doctor never asks himself. He knows I find reasons to say “no” to getting a shot. He values his time too highly to let me waste it with my explanations, no matter how valid.

“So how about it?” She smiles sweetly and holds out a release for me to sign.

I offer a slow sigh, not reaching for the paper as I formulate the correct confluence of words to get me out of this sticky situation. “You will never believe this, the last time I got a flu shot, it turned me into a banshee.”

“Pardon me?” The clipboard slowly lowers as her eyes run along my face, assessing my sanity with every micro movement of her eyes.

“A banshee is a screaming woman who announces the imminent death of a member of the family. And the last time I got a flu shot, that is what I became to my family, a banshee, a harbinger of death. I guess it is my Irish blood. It doesn’t respond well to science. It prefers the mysticism of the old country, so instead of protecting me, it made me know terrible events were coming.”

She lifts the clipboard again, flipping past the release to peer at something in my medical history. Apparently, she doesn’t find what she is looking for because she goes back to listening to my story with incredulous eyes and defensive posture. In fact, she holds the clipboard up like a shield, fending off the inanity of my words. 

“For about a week, the only sound I could make was high-pitched wail. If I opened my mouth more than a straw required to offer liquid sustenance, the sound escaped. Three family members expired at family dinner that Sunday, just because I tried to take a few bites of pie that I didn’t run through a blender first.” I can see her getting annoyed with my story, so I decide to wrap it up for her before she poked me with a needle just to make the words stop.

“I don’t have a lot of family left and I would hate to change the course of their fates, bringing them to an early end just so I could avoid a few chills and pains.” I finish. “And that’s why I can’t get a flu shot today.”

She nods her head and tucks the clipboard under her arm. “A simple no would have been fine, dear.”

“Hmm.” I remark to myself as she closes the door behind her. “That’s a first.”

I hurry up and pull my coat on, grabbing my paperwork before making a quick retreat. After a story like that, I don’t completely trust that she didn’t rush off to find someone to haul me away to the nearest insane asylum.

~~I wrote this way before the vaccine controversy. Do not assume that I feel one way or another about the vaccine. Be an adult. Make your own decision. And please be respectful of everyone else’s right to do the same.~~

Dog Food [FICTION]

“Where is it? Where is it?” My anxiety rises with each repetition, but I repeat this mantra with increasing desperation as I look under and in everything.

At last, I sit down on the floor and accept the fact that I have misplaced my English essay. I thought I left it on the kitchen counter, but when I came downstairs this morning, it was nowhere to be found. As I am pondering the age old solution of childhood, summoning my mother to find it for me, Fido comes over to rest his head in my lap. As I gently pet his head, I realize something protrudes from each side of his mouth.

“What do you have there, buddy?” I ask, reaching for it.

My hand closes on a wad of wet paper. Fido opens his mouth to release his prize. I gasp as I recognize the sodden mass as my English paper, hand-written as per the teacher’s unconventional request, and now unreadable compliments of the drool monster begging for more affection in my lap.

“Sorry, buddy, I have to go find my last rough draft of this masterpiece,” I offer him one more pat on the head before racing up the stairs. 

A quick dig through my trashcan reveals nine of the ten pages of my previous draft. I sigh and return downstairs with both unacceptable submissions. I grab a large plastic bag to put my finished draft in, complete with Fido’s attempt to edit. 

I seek out my English teacher before school. She sits with her stocking feet up on her desk and a thick novel in hand. I shudder as I realize she is reading “Don Quixote”, which she informed us was her favorite book on the first day of school. She assured us that anyone who had read it would guess this fact from the donkeys and windmills strewn about her room like disturbing Easter eggs. I hesitate on the threshold.

“I know you are there, Miss Finer. Do you need something?” She slowly lowers the book, peering at me over the top of the book as she pushes her glasses up on her nose.

“I need to talk to you about my essay…”

“You had two weeks to finish it.” She closes the book and sets it down on her desk, so I can clearly see her frown.

“Well, Mrs. Abernathy, my dog got ahold of…”

“You are going to tell me your dog ate your homework?” She sneers. “Surely, you can do better than that.”

Irritated by her disbelief in my story, I pull the plastic bag with the sodden mess that I am sure was a coherent A+ paper out of my bag and hold it out to her. “Well, if you want me to lie to you, I can. So here is my alternate ending, I was so excited about this paper that I couldn’t stop reading it and rereading it. I was reading it in the bathroom and it slipped into the toilet.” I held out the bag to her.

She shied away from it in disgust.

“I brought my rough draft, but I lost a page somehow,”

She peers at me suspiciously. “That explanation was even worse than the first one. Good thing I am not grading that.” She holds out her hand.

I hand her the loose pages and the plastic bag. She peeks at the former quickly before opening the other for a closer inspection of the contents. She closes it quickly.

“Your dog needs a milk bone. I will look at what you have here and try to be kind…” She shakes her head at the bag of drool, paper, and ink. “…considering.”

~~~Hope you are all enjoying back to school time, whatever that looks like for you. I know my children will eventually regret that we do not own a dog for exactly this reason. Maybe they can say their uncle ate their homework? He might. You never know...~~~

Future Problems Now [FICTION]

I take a deep breath, savoring every nuance of aroma that speaks of fall and the county fair. My mouth waters as the scents of candied apples, cotton candy, and deep-fried dreams mingle in the crisp air. I turn my head from side to side, trying to see everything at once. As Artie pulls me toward one of the tents, I focus on our direction. I let out as derisive snort as I read the name attached to the tent: “Oracles Den.”

“Really? You want to know our future?” I laugh.

“Don’t you?” He looks slightly offended that I am not falling all over myself with joy to have a charlatan take a wild guess at what my future holds.

Artie lifts the flap for me and I step into a sweetly perfumed circle filled with vibrant colors, sparkling sequins, and a haze induced by incense. A tiny woman with silvery grey hair and dark, penetrating eyes smiles up at us from a cushion.

“You wish to know your future. You wish to know your dreams. You wish to know they shall become one.” She waves a tiny hand toward two round cushions in a dark orange fabric that sit just inside the door. “Please sit. I will tell what you need to know.”

I struggle to hold my face neutral to avoid offending the believers in the tent with me. She glances at Artie as we sit before focusing those eyes on me.

“You don’t believe I can see your future, child?” The grin widens as she places her hands in the middle of the table and slowly raises them, revealing a crystal ball. “Let us see what your future holds.”

She closes her eyes and breathes deeply of the murky air. She waves her hands over the magic ball. Words pour from her mouth, an almost imperceptible song in a language I do not know. Soon the crystal ball goes from clear to murky. Then images appear. I lean forward to peer at them as they come into crisp focus. A young woman in her early twenties smiles back at me from within the arms of a broad-shouldered man 

“That looks like you,” Artie smiles, “I bet those are my shoulders.”

The image scrolls, revealing the face of the man wrapping me in his arms. He has the same blue eyes as Artie, but rich dark curls spill down his cheeks and the right one dimples as he smiles back at me.

“I’ve never seen that man before.” I say, unable to take my eyes off of the unfamiliar face.

I look at Artie to gage his reaction, surprised to see how pale he is as he mutters. “That looks like my cousin Chip?”

“Seriously, aren’t we supposed to meet him here?”

“Not anymore,” Artie mumbles.


“What?” I jump up from the cushion. “Because of some digital image she conjured up somehow.”

The woman laughs and I turn to see that the crystal has returned to a clear ball again. The woman grins at me, pointing at me with one of her surprisingly long fingers with an even longer nail stretching out toward me.

“I did conjure up an image, but it is not digital, it is yet to come.” She turns her freakish finger and dark eyes to Artie. “And you can not stop the future from happening. Trying to do so will bring it to pass sooner and with a lot more heartache for you.”

“Let’s get out of here,” I reach for Artie’s hand.

He doesn’t take it. Instead, he grudgingly puts a few tens in the open palm of the fortune teller. I shake my head and step outside right into the arms of the younger version of the man from the crystal ball. He laughs as he places a hand on each shoulder to keep me from falling to the ground. And that is how Artie finds us, me gazing into Chip’s face mystified while he smiles down at me in a pleasantly surprised kind of way.

~~Ah. The romance of pumpkin spice season. I know many of my friends are so excited to drink and eat their way through hundreds of servings of pumpkin spice before peppermint season starts. Since I made a delightful amount of apple butter yesterday, I have to wonder where apple season is in all this.~~