Hands with Sphere by M.C. Escher The psychic's leathery hand lifted her crystal ball high, suspending it above my face. Her charm bracelet jingled as it slipped down toward her elbow, and that lady's thin, veined arm trembled under the weight. But I barely noticed as the vision in the sphere shot electric bolts to my psyche. The old man was there.
Just as I remembered, his eyes glared straightforward as if recognizing me through the vapors. Those orbs pulsated with insane gestures, fire, wind, a host of biblical plagues. But I left him behind years ago. Nonetheless, in the glass sphere he blared larger than life. The shoddy, wrinkled brown suit remained the same; the same old ugly beard brushed against his chest and his brow still made furrows across his forehead with each fevered breath.
He sat in the usual place, surrounded by dusty old books, the ones he said gave him superiority over other humans who were not so well read. I could spy the day's soft light powdering through a faraway window. No doubt it would soon feel out of place in the esoteric cauldron he called home. What purpose did light and life serve in those dingy surroundings. Surely the sun would gather up its ballerina rays and make a hasty retreat soon.
"Ach, the ball, it is too heavy," Helena the psychic said, snatching it from my view to lay the globe on a cloth-draped table nearby. She rubbed her wrist and stared at me with childish eyes. "Did you see what you wanted to see?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I saw insanity-personified. I saw... ." I paused. No, I could not tell her. I could not tell her I saw myself. I was supposed to be cured now. That old man was supposed to be gone. But he lurks, waiting. I know that now.
Copyright 2008 JO Janoski
Just as I remembered, his eyes glared straightforward as if recognizing me through the vapors. Those orbs pulsated with insane gestures, fire, wind, a host of biblical plagues. But I left him behind years ago. Nonetheless, in the glass sphere he blared larger than life. The shoddy, wrinkled brown suit remained the same; the same old ugly beard brushed against his chest and his brow still made furrows across his forehead with each fevered breath.
He sat in the usual place, surrounded by dusty old books, the ones he said gave him superiority over other humans who were not so well read. I could spy the day's soft light powdering through a faraway window. No doubt it would soon feel out of place in the esoteric cauldron he called home. What purpose did light and life serve in those dingy surroundings. Surely the sun would gather up its ballerina rays and make a hasty retreat soon.
"Ach, the ball, it is too heavy," Helena the psychic said, snatching it from my view to lay the globe on a cloth-draped table nearby. She rubbed her wrist and stared at me with childish eyes. "Did you see what you wanted to see?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I saw insanity-personified. I saw... ." I paused. No, I could not tell her. I could not tell her I saw myself. I was supposed to be cured now. That old man was supposed to be gone. But he lurks, waiting. I know that now.
Copyright 2008 JO Janoski
Eery piece Jo, intriguing the supernatural. I always wanted to have my fortune told, but was afraid too. Some things are better left unknown! Very nicely written!
ReplyDeleteThank you, Jo!I love to write spooky pieces. lol.
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