Welcome to the October Frights Blog Hop!
We go a little bit mystical and magical for today’s ethereal post…
Departed Fortune
“A coin, sir, a small token for your fortune?” The small
gypsy woman held out her hand.
The man gaped, bewildered. Garish red, gold, and purple
emblazoned their hues on his eyeballs. Vivid chroma assaulted him, from her
gilt beaded, violet shawl, to the crimson and mauve tent that fluttered in the
wind behind her. He would have sworn it had not been there a moment past.
“Would the gentleman care to have his fortune told?” She
wiggled her fingers attached to her still outstretched palm. “Only a penny.”
“I—I would love that.” The man clapped a hand atop his
mouth, shocked at his words. He thought fortunetelling mere hokum. Yet, he dug in
his pockets for a penny. Oddly, he found none.
“I seem to be without coin. Peculiar. I know I had some when
I left this morning.”
The gypsy smiled. “No matter. I accept other forms of
payment. Come.” She beckoned and the man followed her into the tent.
The small interior held only a small, round table and two
wooden chairs. The gypsy settled into a chair, and pulled a small metal trinket
box from her skirts. She plunked the box on the table and waved a hand carelessly
at the perch opposite her.
“Have a seat, sir.”
The man sat, and blinked at the woman from across the table.
“I am Esma. Your name, good sir?”
“I am—I am…” The man’s body shook, his mind a jumbled blur.
“I don’t seem to recall.”
“Ah. It happens. Do not fret, sir. All will be revealed
soon.” Esma smiled, but the man did not feel reassured. He felt afraid.
“If you would let me see you palm, please.” He dutifully
held out his hand, face up. “Yes. It is as I feared. Such a sad tragedy. So
quick. Your sort often have disarranged memories when it is sudden and
unexpected.”
“My sort? What do you mean, my sort?” The man bristled,
sensing insult.
“Why, the wandering dead of course. Ghosts, spirits, shades
of the former living. Those that haven’t the wisdom or the will to move from
this life to the next. Such lost souls.” She shook her head, then smiled. “But
such a boon to me. I collect lost souls, you see.”
She lifted the lid of her box.
Inside swirled a tiny vortex, infinitesimal in form and
eternal in shadow. It held scream and silence, rage and calm. Voices cried,
voices sang, and all called to him. He reached out his hand, dangling his fingers
over the timeless eddy in a box.
“That’s right, touch it. Add your essence to the collective.
Join all those adrift souls.”
The man lowered his finger, caressing the edge of the box’s
heart. It felt cold, and then—
Smiling at the now empty chair, the gypsy closed the lid of
the box.
© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved
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4 comments:
I liked it a lot, but I would have liked it if you had delayed the revelation a bit, if you had us wondering what was he rather than tell us straight forward that he was dead. Other than that I enjoyed the story and your usage of words was great too.
Thanks for stopping by and reading.
Catching up... catching up... I'm so glad you're keeping me up to date through facebook. Still can't believe it's October (that's almost as scary as the blog hop)
I know, things are zipping by, and it's been so busy. Between the hop and the upcoming anthology, I have to pause to remember what day it is sometimes, let alone what month.
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