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"Clairvoyant" (the forty-first ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Clairvoyant" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), January 15, 2005 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Clairvoyant by Tony Cartledge socratease48@yahoo.com.au (Entry #1) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| "See God’s punishment on those
who commune with demons!" Donovan watched in disbelief as the madman cursed and
writhed against the two security guards restraining him. "Only God has power
over the dead …" They dragged him through the double studio doors, still
spitting his biblical wrath. He turned to Nelson Prosper’s prone body lying in the middle of the studio. His contorted face looked like one of the damned in a medieval woodcut. His head was being cradled by a prim brunette wearing a mike headset and headphones around her neck, sniffing back tears. The studio medic was shining a small torch into Prosper’s vacant eyes. It had all happened so fast. One minute Prosper was supposedly communing with a visitor from the beyond, the next some lunatic fundamentalist is shouting something about divine retribution. And Prosper keels over. The audience sat in shocked silence. Some had wept openly when the medic had shaken his head after failing to find a pulse. Stage hands and camera operators milled about in stunned confusion. Donovan had mixed emotions. He hated Prosper and his ilk, the worst kind of emotional bottom-feeders, preying on the gullibility of grieving people. Though he’d attacked him several times in his column, he hadn’t been able to expose his scam without a birds-eye view. Some twist of fate put him in the studio on the very day Prosper actually goes beyond himself. The Gods were having a comedy festival and it seems both he and Nelson were invited. The medic rose and offered Prosper’s human pillow a hand. "Ms. Greer, I need to call both the ambulance and police." "Police?" she said, rising unsteadily. "But his heart condition … I thought …" Donovan recognized the surname: Nora Greer, Nelson’s executive assistant. She had a cherubic face with full lips that seemed permanently turned down at the ends. She wore old-fashioned hair clips and a beige dress-suit. "This was no heart attack. I can’t be sure, but it seems he choked. Some signs suggest loss of motor control. I think the police need to be called." She nodded. The medic fished a mobile out of his jacket pocket and stepped aside to make the call. Years of exposing hoaxes and frauds had honed Donovan’s ‘weird’ radar into a precision instrument. Like the medic, he too felt there was something fishy about Nelson’s demise and considered himself the only objective witness on hand. He would have to move fast; evidence had a habit of evaporating rapidly. "Ms Greer, "I’m …" "I know who you are. Donovan Keene: Lord of the debunkers." Donovan was used to being attacked but her shock at Nelson’s death seemed to have taken a back seat awful fast. Grief could sometimes be unpredictable but he mentally filed this away just the same. "I simply examine paranormal claims critically," he said. "Come to pick over the remains?" She looked at him with disgust. "I can’t talk to you. I can’t even look at you." She spun on her heels and stormed away. Great first impression, he thought and abandoned any plans to question her further. He headed out the door the bible-thumper was dragged through. He strode towards one of the security guards standing vigil in front of a door marked "Security Personnel Only." "Can you read? No-one allowed back here." The guard thumbed the sign and took a few menacing steps toward Donovan. "I wondered if I might ask your prisoner a few questions?" "No you can’t. Now clear off." He shoved Donovan backwards. He knew better than to press his luck with such muscle. Strike two. He made his way back into the studio and noticed a short flight of steps leading up to the control room. Nora Greer was talking to two suits by one of the cameras. They looked corporate rather than constabulary; besides, it was too soon for the police to have arrived. Someone had covered Nelson’s body with a tablecloth. He walked around behind Nora and up the flight of stairs. A technician turned as he entered. "Hey, Donovan Keene. I’m a big fan." A wiry man with a goatee and lively eyes beamed a grin at him. "Thanks, um …" "Rudy. Rudy Bennet. I read your column all the time. "The Razor Files?" Ockam’s razor? Brilliant, brilliant." Rudy glanced back at the studio floor, apparently embarrassed to be so effusive under the circumstances. "Wow, what a shock," he added. "I was gob-smacked." But his excitement got the better of him. "I love what you do. I’m a dyed-in-the-wool skeptic myself." "Thanks Rudy. Must be hard working on a show like this then." "I’m sorry, Mr. Keene. Our work agreement has a non-disclosure clause." Rudy shifted in his seat. "That’s ok. You couldn’t tell me anything I don’t already know." Donovan had waited in line with the rest of the audience before the show for over an hour and a half, noticing several very inquisitive people who never appeared in any audience seats. These were Prosper’s ‘shills,’ grilling the bereaved for details he would later rattle off as if straight from the spirit’s astral mouth. "Could you at least tell me what Nora Greer’s responsibilities are?" "Everything: she organizes the audience, oversees all the stage-managing and the taping of the show." "Then she must also organize the plants in the audience, and the recording of the information that Nelson uses." Rudy adopted an apologetic grin and made a ‘zip-the-lip’ motion. Donovan’s mental gears shifted again. If that’s the case, why let in such an obvious whack-job? "Did you keep recording right throughout?" he asked. "Yeah. I only stopped a few minutes ago." "Could I see it?" Rudy hesitated briefly, then reached for the console. Donovan looked for Nora through the large windows. She was still occupied with the suits. Rudy keyed the tape and several monitors lit up with microcosms of the studio. "I’ll need to rewind." On the monitor Nelson Prosper rose from the dead, then appeared to be doing a bad robot dance as the tape rewound. "Stop. There," said Donovan. The monitor held a three-quarter shot of Prosper, his hands clasped together, head cocked as if listening intently. His lumpy little body was draped with a 60s-style Nehru jacket, making him look like an extra in a b-grade sci-fi movie. He spoke with a slight lisp that always struck Donovan as reptilian. "It’s an "F" name … Fiona … Felicity …." The bereaved woman in the other monitor shook her head hesitantly. "Frolence. It’s Frolence." Prosper closed his eyes and spoke again, very slowly. "Flor-ence." The woman burst into tears. "This is an older figure. Your mother?" The weeping woman nodded. "She’s having trouble speaking." Prosper put his hands to his throat. "There is an obstruction here." The woman sobbed louder as a younger woman next to her put an arm around her shoulders. "This is what she passed from, isn’t it. Throat cancer?" Nelson swallowed with difficulty and grimaced. The woman was sobbing loudly now. Her companion said "Yes." "She says to tell you that she is past earthly pain and is happy to see you." Prosper spread his hands wide in a hammy benediction. "Blasphemer!" The camera now turned to the bible-thumper. He had a large, rectangular head, wild, unkempt hair, and the eyes of the hypnotized. "God’s wrath upon you!" He pointed his Bible at Prosper as if bolts of lightning would shoot out. Prosper’s beatific smile disappeared, and he once again grabbed his throat. As the rants of the fundamentalist escalated, so did Nelson’s obvious discomfort. All of a sudden he gasped for air and a look of utter terror froze on his face. He went down like a sack. The timing was too perfect, which said to Donovan coincidence. He dismissed the fundy as a red herring. Something else was bugging him, particularly why Nora let him in at all. "Go back to where he gets the name," he said. Donovan watched as Prosper once again mangled "Flor-ence." This was not the first time Prosper had mispronounced words on camera. He had watched him during the pre-show introduction and he had pronounced "preliminary" as "prelinimary," and "statistics" as "stastistics." And there were many more during the taping. Donovan’s mind shifted into high gear. "Nelson has real trouble with words, doesn’t he?" "Tell me about it. An editor’s nightmare." Through the window, he saw Nora’s face looking up at him from the studio floor. She marched to the stairs and took them two at a time. She flung open the door and opened her mouth to speak. "Who wrote Nelson’s books?" asked Donovan, catching her by surprise. "Nelson, of course." A frown creased her brow. "That’s highly unlikely. He had a ghost writer, didn’t he?" Greer was about to protest. "Simple enough fact for someone like me, in the media, to ferret out." She looked at him squarely and crossed her arms. "What’s that got to do with anything?" "Nelson Prosper was severely dyslexic," said Donovan. "Wasn’t he, Nora?" Her stony face was all the confirmation he needed. "Which throws up another huge question: how did he memorize all the facts he needed to convince the bereaved that he was talking to their loved ones?" Nora’s eyes darted to the monitor. He spun around to see the medic once again take Prosper’s pulse. She appeared to be supporting his head, but as Donovan looked closer he could see her hand cupped over his ear. Her middle finger seemed to be probing inside it. After a second or two it curled towards her palm and the hand was withdrawn. After the medic announced there was no pulse, she bent forward and started sobbing. The hand very neatly went to her pocket. He turned back to Nora and noticed the small microphone as if for the first time. He smiled. "Very clever," he said to Nora, who maintained her stony silence. "Let’s see, what could it be?" he said, striking a thoughtful pose. "Oh, of course. Loss of motor control. Good enough for Claudius, ay, Nora?" "Who is Claudius?" asked Rudy. "When the police arrive, I’ll have them look inside your pocket. I think they’ll find the murder weapon." "Murder?" said Rudy. Nora looked at Donovan as if she would slap him. "But they will need to be careful not to lick their fingers. There may be enough left to make them awful sick." "Enough what?" asked Rudy, his frustration evident. "What did Hamlet’s father call it Nora? ‘With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, And in the porches of my ears did pour the leprous distilment.’Hemlock." Her eyes burned right through him. He turned to Rudy. "The shills get the info from the audience members before the show, it’s passed to someone like Nora, and somehow coded for easy recall by the psychic. However, Nelson was dyslexic, which means he had almost no short-term memory for words. So another method of communicating the info was needed." He pointed to his ear. She spun around without saying a word and stomped down the stairs. Donovan wondered what Prosper had done to her to warrant such an ignoble end. Perhaps his deceit wasn’t confined to the stage. Prosper had failed Donovan’s "Psychic Challenge" three times. No surprise, thought Donovan. Pity he didn’t see this coming. "But what about the nut-job preacher?" asked Rudy. "A handy decoy, I’d say. Like you said, she organized everything." Rudy’s expression was a mixture of bewilderment and awe. Now Donovan had two stories to tell, one for the police and the other for the paper. Prosper had provided him with some A-grade material for his column, but he wondered for a nano-second whether it was proper to speak ill of the dead. Since Nelson had put words in the mouths of the dead for so long, it seemed only fitting that the truth be told now that he’d gone beyond himself. Donovan hoped he was being roasted nice and even. |
| Clairvoyant by cam_nine@yahoo.com (Entry #6) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| i do not know the end... but i feel it waiting on the edges of this night. these home-bound alleys down which i hope to take my bed, from angels with red eyes and sotted smiles, beckon, now, to me in ways they never did, and, instead its usual sleepy peer, the moon – that lead-lid, dreaming disc, beyond the reach of stealing real – seems, tonight, to beam a leering stare as if searching for something... something it already knows is there. still, no – i do not know the end. but i feel it in the fringes, tangled, biding, where sudden hansoms spin slo-mo escapes, riding across the frozen throes of the cobbled here and now toward the thing that grins and, stony. waits where shimmering whisps of icy shadow blow – caress my cheeks, whisper me kisses, numb my tongue, to sing only "yes!"-es when the moment shows. and, so, through this alley, through this night, i flush-faced, lead-eyed, hopeful, race - dreaming of longing’s end, longing for angels and the soft of, finally, home’s embrace. to meet my sudden moment - who steps with staring eyes, and whispered "Miss?"-es, and hissed "Yes!"-es, without smiles... but with grinning knives. and now, face-to-face with the stealing real, the muttering moment lullabying the last of my icy roam through this alley’s cobbled stark – eyes closing into seeming dreams of seas of stickywarm and redred foam, i smile for the knowing and sing unto my moment... Oh. Yes. Of course. Yes. Yes – This is The Ending... And You are My Angel... And... Yes. I am, finally, Home. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #1 Second place: #3 Others receiving votes: #6, #5, #2, #4, #8 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Clairvoyant Tony Cartledge socratease48@yahoo.com.au |
#1 of 8 Winner |
| 2000 | |
| "See God’s punishment on those who commune with
demons!" Donovan watched in disbelief as the madman cursed and writhed against
the two security guards restraining him. "Only God has power over the dead
…" They dragged him through the double studio doors, still spitting his
biblical wrath. He turned to Nelson Prosper’s prone body lying in the middle of the studio. His contorted face looked like one of the damned in a medieval woodcut. His head was being cradled by a prim brunette wearing a mike headset and headphones around her neck, sniffing back tears. The studio medic was shining a small torch into Prosper’s vacant eyes. It had all happened so fast. One minute Prosper was supposedly communing with a visitor from the beyond, the next some lunatic fundamentalist is shouting something about divine retribution. And Prosper keels over. The audience sat in shocked silence. Some had wept openly when the medic had shaken his head after failing to find a pulse. Stage hands and camera operators milled about in stunned confusion. Donovan had mixed emotions. He hated Prosper and his ilk, the worst kind of emotional bottom-feeders, preying on the gullibility of grieving people. Though he’d attacked him several times in his column, he hadn’t been able to expose his scam without a birds-eye view. Some twist of fate put him in the studio on the very day Prosper actually goes beyond himself. The Gods were having a comedy festival and it seems both he and Nelson were invited. The medic rose and offered Prosper’s human pillow a hand. "Ms. Greer, I need to call both the ambulance and police." "Police?" she said, rising unsteadily. "But his heart condition … I thought …" Donovan recognized the surname: Nora Greer, Nelson’s executive assistant. She had a cherubic face with full lips that seemed permanently turned down at the ends. She wore old-fashioned hair clips and a beige dress-suit. "This was no heart attack. I can’t be sure, but it seems he choked. Some signs suggest loss of motor control. I think the police need to be called." She nodded. The medic fished a mobile out of his jacket pocket and stepped aside to make the call. Years of exposing hoaxes and frauds had honed Donovan’s ‘weird’ radar into a precision instrument. Like the medic, he too felt there was something fishy about Nelson’s demise and considered himself the only objective witness on hand. He would have to move fast; evidence had a habit of evaporating rapidly. "Ms Greer, "I’m …" "I know who you are. Donovan Keene: Lord of the debunkers." Donovan was used to being attacked but her shock at Nelson’s death seemed to have taken a back seat awful fast. Grief could sometimes be unpredictable but he mentally filed this away just the same. "I simply examine paranormal claims critically," he said. "Come to pick over the remains?" She looked at him with disgust. "I can’t talk to you. I can’t even look at you." She spun on her heels and stormed away. Great first impression, he thought and abandoned any plans to question her further. He headed out the door the bible-thumper was dragged through. He strode towards one of the security guards standing vigil in front of a door marked "Security Personnel Only." "Can you read? No-one allowed back here." The guard thumbed the sign and took a few menacing steps toward Donovan. "I wondered if I might ask your prisoner a few questions?" "No you can’t. Now clear off." He shoved Donovan backwards. He knew better than to press his luck with such muscle. Strike two. He made his way back into the studio and noticed a short flight of steps leading up to the control room. Nora Greer was talking to two suits by one of the cameras. They looked corporate rather than constabulary; besides, it was too soon for the police to have arrived. Someone had covered Nelson’s body with a tablecloth. He walked around behind Nora and up the flight of stairs. A technician turned as he entered. "Hey, Donovan Keene. I’m a big fan." A wiry man with a goatee and lively eyes beamed a grin at him. "Thanks, um …" "Rudy. Rudy Bennet. I read your column all the time. "The Razor Files?" Ockam’s razor? Brilliant, brilliant." Rudy glanced back at the studio floor, apparently embarrassed to be so effusive under the circumstances. "Wow, what a shock," he added. "I was gob-smacked." But his excitement got the better of him. "I love what you do. I’m a dyed-in-the-wool skeptic myself." "Thanks Rudy. Must be hard working on a show like this then." "I’m sorry, Mr. Keene. Our work agreement has a non-disclosure clause." Rudy shifted in his seat. "That’s ok. You couldn’t tell me anything I don’t already know." Donovan had waited in line with the rest of the audience before the show for over an hour and a half, noticing several very inquisitive people who never appeared in any audience seats. These were Prosper’s ‘shills,’ grilling the bereaved for details he would later rattle off as if straight from the spirit’s astral mouth. "Could you at least tell me what Nora Greer’s responsibilities are?" "Everything: she organizes the audience, oversees all the stage-managing and the taping of the show." "Then she must also organize the plants in the audience, and the recording of the information that Nelson uses." Rudy adopted an apologetic grin and made a ‘zip-the-lip’ motion. Donovan’s mental gears shifted again. If that’s the case, why let in such an obvious whack-job? "Did you keep recording right throughout?" he asked. "Yeah. I only stopped a few minutes ago." "Could I see it?" Rudy hesitated briefly, then reached for the console. Donovan looked for Nora through the large windows. She was still occupied with the suits. Rudy keyed the tape and several monitors lit up with microcosms of the studio. "I’ll need to rewind." On the monitor Nelson Prosper rose from the dead, then appeared to be doing a bad robot dance as the tape rewound. "Stop. There," said Donovan. The monitor held a three-quarter shot of Prosper, his hands clasped together, head cocked as if listening intently. His lumpy little body was draped with a 60s-style Nehru jacket, making him look like an extra in a b-grade sci-fi movie. He spoke with a slight lisp that always struck Donovan as reptilian. "It’s an "F" name … Fiona … Felicity …." The bereaved woman in the other monitor shook her head hesitantly. "Frolence. It’s Frolence." Prosper closed his eyes and spoke again, very slowly. "Flor-ence." The woman burst into tears. "This is an older figure. Your mother?" The weeping woman nodded. "She’s having trouble speaking." Prosper put his hands to his throat. "There is an obstruction here." The woman sobbed louder as a younger woman next to her put an arm around her shoulders. "This is what she passed from, isn’t it. Throat cancer?" Nelson swallowed with difficulty and grimaced. The woman was sobbing loudly now. Her companion said "Yes." "She says to tell you that she is past earthly pain and is happy to see you." Prosper spread his hands wide in a hammy benediction. "Blasphemer!" The camera now turned to the bible-thumper. He had a large, rectangular head, wild, unkempt hair, and the eyes of the hypnotized. "God’s wrath upon you!" He pointed his Bible at Prosper as if bolts of lightning would shoot out. Prosper’s beatific smile disappeared, and he once again grabbed his throat. As the rants of the fundamentalist escalated, so did Nelson’s obvious discomfort. All of a sudden he gasped for air and a look of utter terror froze on his face. He went down like a sack. The timing was too perfect, which said to Donovan coincidence. He dismissed the fundy as a red herring. Something else was bugging him, particularly why Nora let him in at all. "Go back to where he gets the name," he said. Donovan watched as Prosper once again mangled "Flor-ence." This was not the first time Prosper had mispronounced words on camera. He had watched him during the pre-show introduction and he had pronounced "preliminary" as "prelinimary," and "statistics" as "stastistics." And there were many more during the taping. Donovan’s mind shifted into high gear. "Nelson has real trouble with words, doesn’t he?" "Tell me about it. An editor’s nightmare." Through the window, he saw Nora’s face looking up at him from the studio floor. She marched to the stairs and took them two at a time. She flung open the door and opened her mouth to speak. "Who wrote Nelson’s books?" asked Donovan, catching her by surprise. "Nelson, of course." A frown creased her brow. "That’s highly unlikely. He had a ghost writer, didn’t he?" Greer was about to protest. "Simple enough fact for someone like me, in the media, to ferret out." She looked at him squarely and crossed her arms. "What’s that got to do with anything?" "Nelson Prosper was severely dyslexic," said Donovan. "Wasn’t he, Nora?" Her stony face was all the confirmation he needed. "Which throws up another huge question: how did he memorize all the facts he needed to convince the bereaved that he was talking to their loved ones?" Nora’s eyes darted to the monitor. He spun around to see the medic once again take Prosper’s pulse. She appeared to be supporting his head, but as Donovan looked closer he could see her hand cupped over his ear. Her middle finger seemed to be probing inside it. After a second or two it curled towards her palm and the hand was withdrawn. After the medic announced there was no pulse, she bent forward and started sobbing. The hand very neatly went to her pocket. He turned back to Nora and noticed the small microphone as if for the first time. He smiled. "Very clever," he said to Nora, who maintained her stony silence. "Let’s see, what could it be?" he said, striking a thoughtful pose. "Oh, of course. Loss of motor control. Good enough for Claudius, ay, Nora?" "Who is Claudius?" asked Rudy. "When the police arrive, I’ll have them look inside your pocket. I think they’ll find the murder weapon." "Murder?" said Rudy. Nora looked at Donovan as if she would slap him. "But they will need to be careful not to lick their fingers. There may be enough left to make them awful sick." "Enough what?" asked Rudy, his frustration evident. "What did Hamlet’s father call it Nora? ‘With juice of cursed hebenon in a vial, And in the porches of my ears did pour the leprous distilment.’Hemlock." Her eyes burned right through him. He turned to Rudy. "The shills get the info from the audience members before the show, it’s passed to someone like Nora, and somehow coded for easy recall by the psychic. However, Nelson was dyslexic, which means he had almost no short-term memory for words. So another method of communicating the info was needed." He pointed to his ear. She spun around without saying a word and stomped down the stairs. Donovan wondered what Prosper had done to her to warrant such an ignoble end. Perhaps his deceit wasn’t confined to the stage. Prosper had failed Donovan’s "Psychic Challenge" three times. No surprise, thought Donovan. Pity he didn’t see this coming. "But what about the nut-job preacher?" asked Rudy. "A handy decoy, I’d say. Like you said, she organized everything." Rudy’s expression was a mixture of bewilderment and awe. Now Donovan had two stories to tell, one for the police and the other for the paper. Prosper had provided him with some A-grade material for his column, but he wondered for a nano-second whether it was proper to speak ill of the dead. Since Nelson had put words in the mouths of the dead for so long, it seemed only fitting that the truth be told now that he’d gone beyond himself. Donovan hoped he was being roasted nice and even. |
|
| Clairvoyant Trish Wahlstrom trishwahlstrom@yahoo.com |
#2 of 8 |
| 767 | |
| I had a big decision to make, one that would affect me
for years. Sometimes you feel so helpless, at a loss when the big one comes
around. I didn't trust my own instincts, I needed to talk to another woman; men
are so useless at this sort of thing. I got into my little car and went off to
seek outside advice. My first stop was to see a woman who read tea leaves. The house looked a little old and dilapidated (which may or may not have been a good sign) but I walked gingerly up the rickety porch stairs anyhow and rang the bell. The door was opened and there stood a prim woman of indeterminate age, an unremarkable grey dress draped over her thin frame, wearing sensible shoes. She beckoned me in and bade me sit around a small table in the parlor while she shambled off to boil some water. A cup of tea was prepared for me with loose tea leaves in a small, white cup with no designs or patterns. I had to drink the tea, which was a trifle bitter, leaving a minute amount of liquid in the bottom of the cup,while I concentrated on my question. She was smiling placidly and benignly at me the whole time. Holding the cup in my left hand, I had to slowly swirl the contents of the cup around three times clockwise and then place the cup upside down on the saucer, holding it there for seven seconds while letting the fluids drain. Then I placed it right side up again, the handle facing me while she interpreted the symbols and images. "The leaves on the left denote the past," she began in a squeaky rasp. "You have faced this decision before and have always chosen wisely." "Actually, I've never faced this decision before." "Well, the leaves on the right denote the future. I see that you will make the wise choice." "I certainly hope so, but what choice? Which one do I choose?" "Ah, my dear. that is up to you," she said and sat back in her chair as if that settled it. "Fat lot of help you've been," I snapped at the tasseomancer and stormed out. My next stop was at a palm reader located in a little corner of a strip mall, which seemed a little incongruous to me for the practice of summoning up ancient divinations. She was a overly cheery woman in a navy business suit. I told her my problem as she took my hand. "Your Fate line indicates you will live a long life, your Travel line indicates you will go new places, and your Mound of Venus indicates you will find true love." "I've lived a long life, I'm travelling to someplace I go every week, and I'm already happily married. What about my decision?" "Your Worry Line," she went on blithely, "indicates you may have a breakdown." "I'm having a nervous breakdown already," I retorted. "Thanks for nothing." My next stop was a woman of gypsy-like appearance at the edge of town, whose trailer and faded sign I had passed by many times. She came waddling into the room through beaded curtains, wearing loose multicolored clothes that would have made several tents, her bejeweled fingers waving a censer. This was more like it, I thought, as we sat in front of her crystal ball. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she began in sonorous tones: "I see on the right a bluish haze and far on the left a reddish glow." "But what's in the middle?" I implored. "Ah, I am a peripheral visionary," she said with a haughty sniff. "I can see into the future but only way off to the side." I left her gloomy abode and checked my list. Next up was an astrologer, a psychic, a Tarot reader, and a runic; all ending up as useless to me as the previous ones. On the verge of giving up, I stopped for some Chinese food. I listlessly chopsticked some Moo Goo Gai Pan as I contemplated my choices again. They all seemed equal to me and I felt I was no further along than when I had started. The fortune cookie seemed like extra calories to me but I broke it open anyhow and read the words. "A big occasion will make your friends green with envy." My jaw dropped. That was it! The answer I had been seeking so long! Forget the blue one and the red one, I would wear my green dress to my daughter's wedding! |
|
| Clairvoyant lee10@host365.com |
#3 of 8 |
| 2418 | |
| My hand was on the gate through which the missing child
had passed but I felt nothing and I knew I could do no good here. My sight had
failed when I drove into the town, as though, mentally, I'd been
blindfolded. I walked up the garden path towards the small bungalow. It hadn't changed since I'd left town six years ago. It had needed painting then, it needed it still. I felt cold, afraid. I wanted to turn and run. I didn't need second sight to know that behind the faded, green front door lay a past, which it would hurt to revisit. Standing on the porch, I focused on a child's doll, crumpled in a corner, bedded on a pile of browning leaves. I needed time to compose myself, but I didn't have it. My arrival had been noticed and the door, held by a uniformed police officer, half-opened, He waited for me to speak. "Hello," I said. "I'm Julie Green". My voice sounded weak, even to me. "Oh, the clairvoyant." A brief look of contempt crossed his face. "And the child's aunt," I replied. "I am expected." He stood aside enough for me to inch through, and then closed the door firmly behind me. He looked me up and down. It was obvious he didn't like what she saw. Finally he said, "I'm Sergeant Anderson. The family's Police Liaison Officer for the case." The lounge was empty. "I assume the family are in the dining room?" I said. Anderson nodded and leaving him to follow or not as he chose, I walked through the room to the door on the far side. I grasped the handle and turned it. Its un-oiled squeal unnerved me but I was committed; momentum, not courage, carried me into the dining room. A young woman sat in an armchair chair, curled in a tight, foetal, ball of misery. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was lank, her clothing badly creased. Crumpled tissues surrounded the chair. She was staring at a blank television screen and didn't respond to my arrival. But an older woman did. She was setting the table for a meal and glanced up from the chore of putting a paper napkin by the side of each of four place settings. "You!" she spat. "Mrs.Fielding," I acknowledged her. "I'm only here because Sharon wanted me to come." I nodded towards the young woman. "For no other reason, believe me." "Well, I don't want you here digging up old scandals," she warned me. Hostility surrounded her, a venomous aura that had deepened, if anything, since our last encounter, when she'd attacked me because my brother, James, was dead and she had no other outlet for her hatred. Without meaning to, I touched the faint scar on my cheek. She flushed. She didn't explode, thought I thought for one brief second she would. She shook her daughter's arm. "Sharon, Julie Green's here. You don't really want to talk to her, do you?" Sharon took an age to return to the present. Pale and drawn, she seemed much older than her twenty-five years. She looked at me; eventually she recognised me. "Julie," she whispered. I went to her and crouched at her feet. "Sharon," I said, feeling her pain. "I'll help if I can." "Mumbo-jumbo," Mrs.Fielding snapped. "Mum, please," Sharon cried. "Nobody else has done anything." She glanced at Sergeant Anderson who was standing in the doorway watching the scene dispassionately. "Including the police." Mrs.Fielding snatched the kitchen door open. "I'll go and do the dinner." She glared at me, "and I'll try and make sure Sharon's father doesn't get to know you're here." The door slammed. "Sergeant," Sharon said. "I want to speak to Julie in private." With the same grace expressed by Mrs.Fielding, Sergeant Anderson left the dining room. A second door slammed and we were alone. Sharon, grabbed a new tissue from a box on the chair arm, uncoiled herself from the seat and went to look out the window on legs stiff from sitting. I followed her. We stood side by side. Scattered toys filled the backyard. A doll's pram lay on its side, a teddy bear caught underneath the handle. "I was going to cut the grass," Sharon murmured. "The mower had been in for repair, so I went to fetch it." She rested her head on the glass and sighed. "I didn't take Gracie. She was playing with her dolls. Mum and Dad were at work, but I thought she'd be OK. I was only gone for a couple of minutes." She sank to the floor sobbing, "Gracie, Gracie. She's been gone for days. She could be lying dead somewhere and I'll never find her." I let her cry. There was nothing else I could do. Pots and pans were being banged against each other in the kitchen as Sharon's mother announced her displeasure. I picked up a rag doll that was perched on the chair arm. The toy was well worn, chewed, torn and repaired many times. I closed my eyes and held it tight. And felt, nothing! For the first time ever, I was unable to feel any trace of a missing person. My sight was overwhelmed by my own emotions. I was unable to see what had happened to my niece. I'd helped many families throughout the years but couldn't help my own flesh and blood. Though the child was a stranger to me, I should have been able to discern some clue as to her whereabouts. But there was nothing. I felt a sense of loss and sick frustration. What else could I do? I sank to the floor next to Sharon and we hugged each other and cried together, as we'd done when we'd been at school together, upset by older, bullying girls; and when, as teenagers, boys had broken our hearts. Sharon, my childhood friend, the girl I'd been inseparable from for nineteen years, kept saying over and over, "sorry, sorry, sorry." Tears drenched us; snot ran down our noses, and we cried; Sharon for her lost child, me for my dead brother, and maybe, just a little, for a broken friendship. The heartache and reconciliation might have gone on for much longer but an extra loud crash in the kitchen startled us, and we sprang apart, wiping our faces on our sleeves. A harsh, male voice rose above the kitchen noises. Doors were flung open. Sergeant Anderson appeared in the lounge doorway, Sharon's father burst through the other with a carving knife in his hand. It was pointed in my direction. Fielding leapt at me, cursing incoherently. Before I could draw breath to scream, Anderson shoved me to one side. I fell against the television. It rocked and an ornament smashed to the floor. Anderson kicked the knife from Fielding's hand. I heard bones break but I was aware of little else until Anderson was pushing me from the house, his grip on my arms painful. "Get out of here. I knew you'd be trouble," he panted. "Your sort always are, interfering where you don't belong. Get out! I'll sort out the mess you caused." I stumbled. He shut the door, leaving me alone on the porch with the abandoned doll. Trembling, on legs as unsteady as a toddler's, I managed to reach my car. After several attempts, I opened the door and fell, gasping, into the driver's seat. If the threat of Fielding's violence hadn't been so acute, I might well have collapsed sooner, I felt so weak. Before fumbling to start the engine, I locked the doors, checking over my shoulder continuously in case Fielding was behind me. Heart pounding and head spinning, I drove as though the devil himself was after me. I was terrified. I had to put space between that madhouse and myself. I would have kept driving forever, but a tingling plucked and tickled at the far reaches of my mind, distracting me. My special ability had not returned. This feeling was something else and I knew, beyond argument, that my work in the town was not finished. My panic began to subside and it felt right to park under the dark-green, sentinel yews that guarded the gates to the town's cemetery. I left the car to walk down a path I'd only walked the once, the day I buried my brother. Suicides were interred in a neglected spot away from the resting place of ordinary folk. The grass was long and wet but my knowledge, this feeling that grew as I walked, took me straight to a broken, wooden cross. The brass plaque was tarnished but I could still read the inscription; JAMES GREEN, 1998. I heard her coming. I knew she would follow me. For a second I thought my sight must have returned, but then I knew it was the expected, desperate act of any mother. I didn't turn. "Julie," Sharon pleaded. "You must help me." I still didn't turn. "I can't help you." I spoke to my brother's grave. His child was missing, wandered off, and there was nothing I could do. In the long silence, doves cooed to their mates. I saw a squirrel scamper up an oak tree that was denude yet of spring growth. The heads of daffodils were showing through the grass but their flowers were still tightly held in winter's grasp. Sharon coughed. I kept my back to her. "If you," she started, "if you will help me....," I felt her hesitation. If I help you, you will what?" I prompted. "I will tell you the truth." I turned. Sharon was holding her hands up to her mouth as if she could not believe the words she'd just spoken. Her eyes were large, blue and hopeful and I knew what it was that James had seen in her. It was her vulnerability, her helplessness. I felt the urge to let her lean on me, to be strong for her, as I had been so many times in the past. But I couldn't give in. There was something important at stake here, too important to allow myself to be manipulated by a selfish girl. "The truth?" I queried. My voice sounded harsh in the still, quiet air. "About me," she said. "And James." Sharon didn't meet my stare. She looked down and plucked at a stalk of grass. It squeaked through her fingers, setting my nerves on edge. "James didn't rape me," she blurted out. "Not really." "What the hell do you mean, 'Not really'." I shouted. "He either did or he didn't. Which was it?" "He didn't." I took two steps towards her. She flinched but stayed her ground. "He didn't rape me," she repeated softly. "I made it up." "Your parents?" I asked. Sharon nodded. "We'd been drinking at The Bull's Head, then we drove to the lake and we made love in James's car. When I came home that night, Mum and Dad were waiting on the doorstep." She shook her head at the memory. "They knew I'd been with James. Dad was going to thrash me. He went to fetch the strap." She half-smiled, "You remember me telling you about the strap, don't you?" I remembered all right. Sharon's older sister had left home because of it, via the accident and emergency unit of the local hospital. "I was frightened," Sharon shrugged with a helpless gesture. "What else could I do but say James had raped me?" I tried to take in what she was telling me. At the time, even I'd finally considered that James might have raped my best friend. I'd stayed with him, supported him throughout the trial and the sentencing, but after he'd hung himself, I began to question his protested innocence. Like everyone else, I'd suspected he couldn't live with the guilt. Especially once Sharon's pregnancy had started to show. Our parents died ten years ago, so when Granny went to live with her senile brother in the Midlands, I left home too, sooner than face the town, or its truth, any longer. And now I had the truth. I believed Sharon. I knew her father had a wicked temper. In the past, she'd had some lurid tales to tell. Some of them were so horrific, I admit, I hadn't believed her. I always thought she exaggerated. "Let me get this straight," I scowled. She seemed to shrink under my glare. I ticked the points off on my fingers. "You got drunk. You had sex with James. Your parents found out. You were frightened. You said James raped you. Right so far?" Sharon nodded and looked away. I continued. "You lied to your parents. You lied to me. You lied to the police. You perjured yourself in court. In effect, you let James be arrested, stand trial and get put in prison. Yes?" Sharon nodded again. "Then, when he hung himself, because he couldn't face the shame, you still kept quiet?" Huge, hot tears rolled down my cheeks. "I had to," Sharon said softly. "Dad would have killed me and I had the baby to think about." "Ah, yes. The baby. The one you lost." I wiped my wet cheeks with my fist. "So," I pointed at her. "It's your fault my brother's dead, isn't it?" "I'm sorry," she sobbed, "so very, very sorry." "Are you?" "Julie, please. I swear...." "What? Like you did on the Bible in court?" "No.No," she screamed. "Listen to me." She grabbed my wrist. I didn't snatch my arm away. Something in her tone told me to shut up, and listen "Whatever happens, whether we find Gracie or not, I swear I will go to the police and tell them the truth." And I knew that she would. It was as simple as that. I felt my sight, the clarity of my special sense, returning to my mind. It had been missing all day but the honesty of her touch brought it flooding back. I laughed. "Come," I touched her shoulder. "We have a missing child to find." Sharon grabbed me like a drowning man would grasp a life jacket. "Can we? Can you really find her?" "Yes," I assured her as six year's worth of trauma and heartache began to melt away. And like the dawn of a summer's day, my sight returned in full. "I know where she is. She's unconscious. She's hurt, but she'll be fine." And we ran down the path together to find my missing five-year old niece. |
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| Clairvoyant lazdom@ono.com |
#4 of 8 |
| 244 | |
| Even as a girl in the raw silence of an angry house, residual, my existence awkward, I tried to fade into the peeling wallpaper, yet -----------------------I could see a future me, in an effervescent life, smooth, nothing salient or serrated moving from room to room, belonging. That night in the car your sweaty, piercing loss of control, sticky, filling my body I’d had little use for with a low animal growl of pleasure and regret -----------------------I could see the ivory dress, quickly bought second-hand, an extra size, tiny plastic sequins not yet yellowing the illusion of offering and denouement. Now in the kitchen the chipped plate in my hands must remain, imperfect, as I stand at the impervious basin your dismissive grunt rising from the sofa -----------------------I can see the mutual seclusion, lust turned lassitude, distance, me folding within myself, you disintegrating from a likeness to a shadow, till you slip away. Vanessa, TV psychic alone in dawn’s quiet censure, emboldened by vodka, expectant, I called to share our gift of transparent future only to hear the ersatz voice of a recorded message, a siren song to the shunned and the luckless, I almost hung up on this fraudulent saviour, but my eyes returned, reluctantly, to her mystic image permeating the screen eye shadow blue as the heavens on a wrinkled flaccid face thinning frosted hair sprayed to a swan’s perpetual flight, this purity of invocation beyond reality, and I knew -----------------------she could see. |
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| Clairvoyant mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#5 of 8 |
| 179 | |
| It seems There isn’t Rhyme or reason In clairvoyance. Man, they claim, Has risen From the historical dust To read the blueprint Left by the Great Designer. "In the ninth month In the city of York Both Twins Are going to fall." Minor problem though. No one is able To decipher these hints Before the event has occurred. And so Scraping the sky With the Dracula Fang Of its sixtieth story The LA WTC Still stands Escaping the September Eleventh Of its NY siblings. The surrounding structures Pierce the air With thousands of shaded eyes. Reflecting the news helicopters. From the building’s point-of-view People are strange. Look small Cramped into Their tiny range of Temperatures, gasses and elements Stuck in the speed elevators Squeezed by Economy And business suits Acting their positions. Thinking of Food, Money, Sex Glory, Freedom Scared for their children Just like thousands of years ago. Mr Clairvoyant Give us a comfort Even if It’s a negative one The predicted time for the "End of the World" Has passed Where are we going now, Michel Nostradamus? |
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| Clairvoyant cam_nine@yahoo.com |
#6 of 8 Runner-up |
| 269 | |
| i do not know the end... but i feel it waiting on the edges of this night. these home-bound alleys down which i hope to take my bed, from angels with red eyes and sotted smiles, beckon, now, to me in ways they never did, and, instead its usual sleepy peer, the moon – that lead-lid, dreaming disc, beyond the reach of stealing real – seems, tonight, to beam a leering stare as if searching for something... something it already knows is there. still, no – i do not know the end. but i feel it in the fringes, tangled, biding, where sudden hansoms spin slo-mo escapes, riding across the frozen throes of the cobbled here and now toward the thing that grins and, stony. waits where shimmering whisps of icy shadow blow – caress my cheeks, whisper me kisses, numb my tongue, to sing only "yes!"-es when the moment shows. and, so, through this alley, through this night, i flush-faced, lead-eyed, hopeful, race - dreaming of longing’s end, longing for angels and the soft of, finally, home’s embrace. to meet my sudden moment - who steps with staring eyes, and whispered "Miss?"-es, and hissed "Yes!"-es, without smiles... but with grinning knives. and now, face-to-face with the stealing real, the muttering moment lullabying the last of my icy roam through this alley’s cobbled stark – eyes closing into seeming dreams of seas of stickywarm and redred foam, i smile for the knowing and sing unto my moment... Oh. Yes. Of course. Yes. Yes – This is The Ending... And You are My Angel... And... Yes. I am, finally, Home. |
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| Clairvoyant Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#7 of 8 |
| 402 | |
| "Today, class, we will be discussing the Catholic
church and its history of repression. In particular, we will be discussing one
man whose prophecies were considered heretical." "Ho et it all? That's funny," whispered Jason to Milton. "Shh. Don't get us in trouble." "As you know, the word of God was considered sacrosanct, and anyone who claimed to predict the future was considered the Devil. The Church's position was that since God created the world, everything was done for a purpose, and He alone knew the future. You remember yesterday when we discussed the Salem witch trials and how they were persecuted and burned for supposedly consorting with the Devil." "Aw, those bitches got what was coming to them," whispered Jason again." "Will you please be quiet," Milton hissed back. "This could be important." "In the same way, they condemned prophecy back in the sixteenth century. In order to avoid being scourged and executed by the church, he had to disguise his predictions in cryptic verse." "I predict I'll be asleep in five minutes," Jason sighed. "How long is this class anyhow?" "The sad thing is, of course, if he were allowed to reveal his clairvoyance as some of the latter day psychics like Jeanne Dixon and Edgar Cayce did, it would have changed the course of history. There have been numerous instances where people have recalled past live and an equal amount where people have been able to look into the future. An amazing amount of his predictions came true. He would sit in a trance late at night, sometimes under the influence of a mild narcotic such as nutmeg, and receive these visions of the future." "Nutmeg," Jason thought sleepily, head in his arms napping on his desk. "I wonder if you eat it or smoke it or what." "There have been many documented instances of clairvoyance through history, but because of the policies of the Church, such people had to keep them secret. It was only after his death that his work was discovered for the genius and uncanny powers that he possessed. There are many unexplained things in this universe that go beyond the scientific. " This went on for another half an hour until the bell rang. "There will be a quiz on this material tomorrow. Class dismissed." "A quiz," moaned Jason. I don't even remember who this guy is." "You dummy," said Milton smugly. "It's Nostradamus." |
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| Clairvoyant walshnyc@yahoo.com |
#8 of 8 |
| 2497 | |
| Claire looked at the merchandise on the counter and
began to mentally calculate her commission from the sale. The customer, a
woman, impatiently held out the credit card to her. "Did you get everything you needed?" Claire asked. She paused, not in anticipation of the woman’s verbal answer, but instead a more subtle response. "I think so…"Claire heard her answer, but ignored it, instead focusing on the sound of the woman’s thoughts inside her head: ["I forgot batteries,"] the woman thought ["I guess I can get them at the drugstore"] "Do you need batteries for the stereo?" "Uh, no thanks," the woman said. "I’ve got some at home."["That was weird,"] she thought. Claire smirked as she ran the credit card through the cash register, then began to bag the woman’s merchandise as she rang it up. The woman eyed her suspiciously as she handed the bags across the counter to be put into her cart. Claire waited as the woman signed the sales slip and handed back her card. "You know, Incredi-Mart also has a full service cafeteria, photo lab, and pharmacy if you have need for any of those services…" "You certainly are the most helpful sales person I’ve ever met…" the woman leaned forward to read her name tag; "…Claire. That wouldn’t happen to be short for ‘clairvoyant’, would it?" "No, but I do have ESP." Claire pointed to a pin on her blue polyester vest. It read: ‘We have ESP (Exceptional Sales Personnel!)’. "Well, it certainly suits you; You seemed to know what I was looking for before I even told you…" ["Can you read my mind, you little weirdo?"] she thought. "The whole ESP thing ties in with our ad campaign- ‘We know what you want; we’ve got what you need’." "How clever!" ["How stupid!"] The woman smiled insincerely, and pushed her cart away at a hurried pace. Claire chuckled when the woman was far enough away. She was used to people saying that she was different- both to her face and in their heads, but she never took offense because it was true. She has started to ‘hear’ other people’s thoughts when she was twelve. At first, it scared her, but in the context of her boring mid-western existence, she embraced her uniqueness. As she blossomed into adolescence, her ‘gift’ gave her insight into the pettiness of her peers, and she made a conscious effort to be a loner. The secret of her abilities had not been shared with anyone, not even her parents, and in Claire’s mind, it seemed to be for the best, even if she was lonely at times. With no customers in sight, Claire took the opportunity to catch up a little bookkeeping. She pulled out a small notebook, and flipped it open. She jotted down her expected commission from the recent sale, then flipped to another page where she kept track of her savings account. In three months, she would graduate and a month after that, turn eighteen, and then she could put this one horse town behind her for good. All she needed to do was enough sales to make as much money as possible until then. She returned the notebook to her pocket and planned to head out onto the sales floor when she was startled by a voice from behind her: "Ms. Anderson- how are you doing today?" Claire spun, finding herself face to face with the store manager. "Mr. McGuiness! Um, I just had a really good sale…" There was something unsettling about the way her boss was always able to sneak up her. "That’s good, Ms. Anderson, but you know the customers aren’t going to come looking for you; you need to go out and get them." "I was on my way." "You know," he said, "I think your potential as a team member would improve if you wore just a little makeup and fixed up your hair." "I thought my hair was okay as long as it isn’t distracting." "Individuality is overrated," McGuinnis said. "It alienates the rest of the Incredi-Mart team." "Isn’t it good for ‘the team’ if my sales numbers stay good? I mean, if I’m happy with the way I look, don’t I project that happiness and therefore improve my selling abilities?" Claire knew that playing to the bottom line was the key to negotiating with the boss. "I bet you would sell just as well no matter how you looked," he replied. Claire found this response to be a little creepy, but typical of him. She tried to get a ‘read’ on him, but since she’d met him, he had fallen into that category of someone who’s minds she could not read. "Well, like you said, the customers aren’t coming to me…" She squeezed past him and chose a linoleum-tiled path that would hopefully lead her to customers. Claire made he way to the aisles that were the crossroads of the store. There were a few customers in the bordering departments, but nobody seemed to be seriously shopping. She found a spot just off the aisle in the maternity department. She closed her eyes, and ‘listened’: ["I wonder if this will look good on me?" "Do they have a bathroom here?" "Jewelry is always good- I’ll get her some jewelry"] Bingo. She opened her eyes and zeroed in on the jewelry shopper. She located him at the men’s wear cash register paying for a pair of socks. She would wait until the sale was almost done, then step in to see if he needed help with anything else. She moved closer, keeping the man ‘tuned in’, but was startled by the sound of somebody else’s thoughts: ["Put your wallet on the counter."] It said. "What?" Claire said, aloud. She noticed that her prospective customer had placed his wallet on the counter, laying it out of the line of sight of the cashier. ["Forget about the wallet. It’s in your pocket. Go."] She watched as the customer took his bag and walked away quickly. She dashed over to the counter and grabbed the wallet and began to follow the man when she noticed a teen with long hair staring at her intently from behind one of the clothing racks. There was an odd look on his face in the moment before he broke eye contact with her, and in an instant she knew that his were the thoughts that she’d heard. She quickened her pace and called out to the owner of the wallet. "Sir! Your wallet!" The man stopped, then patted his coat pocket to confirm that his wallet was not there. "Thank you so much," he said, taking the wallet. The potential sale was forgotten as she turned back towards the teen. When she realized that he was no longer there, she looked around until she spied him walking towards the exit. She followed. As she closed the distance between them, he noticed her and began to walk faster. "Hey, wait!" she called. He responded by increasing his speed. "I want to talk to you!" As he neared the exits, she started to feel panicked. All she knew is that he had done something - something that sort of felt like what she did, and she wanted to know how. Frustrated, she couldn’t help but mentally cry out ‘stop’ inside her head.. The boy came to a sudden halt. Not certain what had happened, Claire approached him, wary. "Why did you stop like that?" "Because you made me." "How?" "I guess that must be your thing," he replied. "I know a couple of people who can do it." "Do what?" "Control other people’s bodies with their minds." "Really?" "You didn’t know you could do this?" He moved his body as if balancing on a beam, but his feet remained firmly planted. "No. You said you know other people who can do this? How?" "I shouldn’t be talking to you," he said. "Well you’re not going anywhere at the moment…" "Okay, okay- I’ll tell you what I know. Lets just talk somewhere besides right here…" "Okay, but if you try to run, I’ll stop you again…" "Whatever." Claire mentally commanded him to be able to move again, and told him to follow her. She led him to the nearby cafeteria and directed him to a booth. "So, what’s your deal," she said, sliding onto the bench across from him. "I’m Jared. I’m eighteen. Would you like my rank and serial number?" "No," Claire chuckled. "What can you do? Do you read minds? How do you know ‘other people’ like me?" "One thing at a time," he said. "No, I don’t read minds. I’m what they call a ‘pusher’." "Pusher?" "Yeah. I can mentally ‘push’ people to do things, kind of like by suggestion. Just minor stuff. Mostly I get people to make mistakes and take advantage of them." "Like making that guy ‘forget’ his wallet?" "Yeah,." Jared said. "So, you can read minds and ‘remote control’ people?’ "How do you know I can read minds?" "Uh, that’s how you knew what I was doing, right?" "I’m not sure. I’ve been trying to ‘read’ you, but I can’t. I think I only heard you before because you were ‘inside’ the head of someone I was ‘reading’. "That makes sense. Most ‘readers’ can’t breach other psychic types." "How many ‘psychic types’ are there?" "I don’t know; there are ‘readers’, ‘remote controllers’, ‘pushers’- I know at least a dozen people who do that stuff to different degrees." "I’ve always thought I was the only one…" "Kind of sucks to be not so unique anymore, huh?" "How did they- we get like this?" "No one knows for sure. My dad has some theories about me, but they don’t explain everybody else." "You told your father what you can do?" "I didn’t so much tell him as he was able to find out on his own," Jared replied. "He’s a mind reader like you. I think he’s like the only adult in the world who is." "He can read you? I thought you said mind readers usually can’t?" "Dad is different. He can do it all- reading, pushing, everything! I’m guessing that as we get older, we’ll be able to do multiple psyche abilities. You’re already doing two." "Wow. Is he like a scientist or something? Does he use his abilities in his work?" "Uh, no. He’s more of a businessman, I guess. I don’t know if I can say whether he uses his, uh, talents or not…" "I do," Claire gushed, ignoring the prudence of talking about it in favor of finally meeting someone able to relate. "I hate this place, but if you want to earn some money, it’s the only game in town. I use my abilities to land decent sales commissions. I’m saving up so when I turn 18, I can blow town." "Cool." "You don’t think it’s wrong do you? Unethical?" "You caught me prompting some guy to forget his wallet so I can snag it, and you want my opinion on ethics?" "Hey- why don’t you get a job here? I’ll bet you could use your abilities to ‘push’ people to spend more money; together, we could clean up in a place like this…" "He can’t work here because it’s against company policy." Claire was startled by the sudden appearance of Mr. McGuinness at the booth. "Uh, I was just finishing up my break," she said. McGuinness slid into the booth beside her. "I agree that Jared would make an excellent addition to our team, but the company doesn’t allow the manager’s son to work in the same store." "Son?" "Instead, I let Jared hone his abilities in the Incredi-Mart- provided he doesn’t do anything that disrupts the my staff or store operations." "I was going to bring the wallet to you, and you could return it, and he would be so grateful, he would spend even more money…" Jared lowered his eyes to escape his father’ withering gaze. "What did I tell you about staying at least 40 feet away from her?" McGuiness nodded towards Claire. "Forty feet? What are you talking about?" "Forty feet is what I estimate to be the range of your abilities; I really didn’t want you stumbling onto my son as he recklessly toyed with people’s minds." "When did you- how long have you known about me?" "When I hired you. In fact, it was the reason I hired you. I knew that with the proper motivation, you ‘d become a valued member of our team." "You’re not much of a mind reader then," Claire replied, "Or else you would have known that this is a temporary gig for me. I don’t want to use my talents to help ‘the team’- I only want to get paid and get out of this town. I have plans for my life, and all of the ‘proper motivation’ in the world is going to keep me here." McGuinnis smiled. "The hallmark of a good manager is his ability to motivate his team. I wouldn’t have wasted my time on you if I didn’t think I could help you to realize your potential under my guidance." Claire suddenly felt very tired, and couldn’t resist the urge to lay her head down onto her folded arms on the table. When she was roused a few minutes later, she found that she was alone at the booth. "Are you okay?" The woman who worked the cafeteria counter stood over her, concerned. "I’m fine," she said. "I just need to get back to work…" It was the morning of Claire’s 18th birthday, and she was brimming with excitement. She sat in one of the folding metal chairs set up in the Incredi-Mart stockroom as Mr. McGuinness stepped up to the front of the room to the cheers of the assembled employees. "Good morning Incredi-Mart team members!" "Good morning!" They all echoed back to him. "I am honored to announce that not only is it Claire Anderson’s birthday, but that as of today, Ms. Anderson has been promoted to a Sales Supervisor position!" The crowd cheered their approval as McGuiness beckoned Claire up with an outstretched hand. She responded, accepting the vigorous handshake and then having her arm raised victoriously with his. "Ms. Anderson is proof that a good manager is only as good as his ability to motivate his employees!" The crowd cheered again as tears of happiness welled up in Claire’s eyes, then trickled over her eye-liner and blushed cheeks. She had never imagined that she would have a talent, for retail sales, but somehow she did, as if by intuition. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she belonged, like she had a purpose. When old acquaintances mentioned her misdirected younger days, she scoffed at the notion that she had ever held to individuality in the way they said. That was in the past. Now, she was a team player. |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club