In one sentence is the spark of a story. Ignite.
Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a memory about this sentence. Write something about this sentence.
Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!
The medium gazed into the crystal ball and then she intoned in serious, ponderous tones, “Your strength will only appear once you’ve been destroyed—or nearly so.”
“Excuse me?” the young woman asked.
“You heard,” she said, in an entirely different accent.
The medium rolled her eyes. “Jeez... why doesn’t anyone listen?”
“That... That was a real reading?”
“I am not a fake!”
“Really?” She waved a hand around at the lamps covered with paisley scarves and the accoutrements that made it look like a gypsy caravan even though the woman was the furthest thing from a Romani she had ever seen.
“Okay, so it looks fake,” the medium said. “People want to see what they want to see. They don’t listen to you unless it comes with all the -” she waved at the offending decorations, “-extras.”
“Fine,” the client snapped.
“Do you want to hear the rest or what?”
“Sure. Bring it.”
The medium tossed her head and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and then she said, “Your future is full of struggle and anguish, most of it self-inflicted.”
The medium opened one eye and huffed out a breath, before she said, “Go to Saint Louis. You can win her back.”
“I want my money back; that’s what I want. That’s the lyrics of a Perry Como song.”
“So you don’t love her?”
“The woman... the one you came here to ask about.”
“I didn’t-” Her mouth snapped shut.
“Oh... ho. It’s love.”
“It is NOT!”
“Honey, the first thing you have to do is admit she is The One. Capital T, capital O.”
“It was a one-night...” she finished on an unintelligible mumble.
The medium folded her arms and glared at her.
Silence for a beat.
“That is the ‘you’ that needs to be destroyed,” the medium added.
“Destroy her? What do you mean?”
“Not her; you! That you... you need to lose the ‘you’ that people think they know. The one they see at parties and functions. The fake you. She needs to be killed; killed with fire.”
“Then... you can live. Then you will be so strong that you’ll be unbreakable.”
“It scares me,” she confessed.
“Of course it does. Being true to yourself is always terrifying. How many times do you think people have accused me of being a fake?”
“I forgive you.” She paused. “Forgive yourself.”
The client picked at the badly embroidered tablecloth. “It was the first time I had ever tried... you know... with another woman.”
“And it rocked your world.”
“Yeah... yeah it did.” She smiled at the memory of it. “But I couldn’t tell her that.”
The medium reached over and grabbed her hand. “Do you want to find her?”
She huffed out a breath. “Yes, I do.”
“Jezabels,” she said. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It’s a band,” the client explained.
“Her favourite band.”
“So she’ll be at their concert?”
“There ya go.”
“Yeah.” She still looked unsure.
“If you find her and you tell her how you feel, I promise that it will all work out.”
“You can tell that?”
“Of course, I’m Madame Zelda.”
“Okay, I believe you.”
“Excellent. Go get her.”
The client stood and leaned across the table to grab her hand excitedly. “I will.” She shook her hand. “Thank you!”
She hurried out of the tent, a different person to the one who had entered. The dejected, unhappy girl had been replaced by one who was positive and hopeful.
Madame Zelda rang her bells for the next client.
“I don’t get paid enough,” she mumbled to herself when she saw his aura.
© AM Gray 2014