Kayla Curry's writing prompt made me smile and I immediately wrote a scene. Here's the gist: place one of your characters (published or not) in a scene with a fortune teller.
This is a moment with my protagonist Gillian from the not-yet-released Anonymous Blog of Mrs. Jones:
My friend Veronica meets me at the fortune
teller, bouncing like a puppy. “I’m so excited. I’ve heard this woman is really
good.”
I let a smile slip loose. She actually believes
this stuff. “All right, you got me here," I say. "Let’s get this over with.”
Being a TV addict, I have a clear vision
of how the room will look. Sheer cloths draped over lampshades, colorful rugs,
crystal fringe, and red velvet darkness — to juice the aura.
But the foyer lets me down. It’s hardwood floors,
wood trim, white walls and lots of light. It could be a law firm. The banister
is old, probably original to the house. A crystal pendant draped like a
necklace around the neck of the newel post redeems my expectations a little.
Madame Rena doesn’t disappoint. Her
flowing garment, a colorful arrangement of diaphanous hankies, billows away
from her body as if she’s a grandmotherly changeling. “Welcome. How can
I assist you today?”
She has a throaty voice, the requisite hush
tone and soothing alto.
Veronica answers first. “I’m dying to have my
palm read.”
Rena nods then turns to me and says, “And
you? What do you want?”
Like two magnets repelling, my eyes slip and
slide from Rena’s gaze. Are her eyes purple? They must be contacts.
“I guess I want, well, I think I’d like to do
the… um… palm reading. As well.” I feel so transparent I
could be a ghost.
“Excellent. Who will be first?”
“Can we go together?” asks Veronica.
“No.
I think we should respect one another’s privacy.” The heavy pull of her purple irises
lingers on my eyes. “The readings will be purer.”
“Well, then my friend should go first.”
The moment pauses as if we're all suspended, caught on the inhale of the Universe and held.
Never able to stay still long, Veronica says, “Her name is Gillian.”
Oh yes, my name. That would be good.
Rena motions for me to follow her. Through the requisite beaded curtain I discover my expectations — a round oak table and crystal ball. But instead of
red, the room is cool with blues and crystals. None hang as fringe or in ropes
like gaudy pearls. They’re groups of unfinished clusters. A sweet smell, not
cloying like incense, tickles a sneeze from me.
“It’s sage,” says Rena. “I cleansed the room
of negative energy.”
I don’t know how to respond other than to ask if
it’s organic so I keep my mouth shut and take a seat, waiting for her to begin chanting.
“I don’t have to look at your palm to know
you’re in love.”
I’m unimpressed. Love. That’s what she offers
me? “I’m getting a divorce,” I say.
“Tsk.”
She actually makes a sound with t s and k. I
can’t stop the eye-roll.
“Don’t offer me information. I can see you’re skeptical. Maybe a little
hostile?”
She contemplates me like a ripe melon at the grocery store. “It’s
strange. The love is new yet woven into your being. It’s fresh but scarred. I’m
fascinated.”
“You see that, huh? My aura?” I emphasize the syllables as ore-uh.
“Yes. And I’ve never seen a soul so clearly entangled with another. You
have a soul-mate.”
Alyssa Auch S. M. Boyce N.R. Wick Steve Vernon A. F. Stewart Linda Taylor Tami Von Zalez Quanie Miller Ellen Harger Deborah Nam-Krane Erin Cawood Danielle-Claude Ngontang Mba Wendy Ely Laure Reminick Jen McConnel
