The Fortune Teller

Here’s a little story I wrote a while back for school on  a prompt from my teacher (Your character meets someone with an unusual talent. Write!) 

   

    I sit waiting, Gypsy at my side. My trusty Norwich Terrier pants up at me. “You think we should do it?” I ask. She gives a bark, which is good enough for me. I carefully walk into the  midnight blue hut with the Fortune Teller sign in front and suddenly I’m taken aback. The ceiling! Cloth hung covered with stars that look vivid in the candle light. I was itching to write about this in my notebook. What would Pop say? He would probably mention that candles in a wooden shack is a safety hazard. But Mom would probably say that it was the perfect place for the flow of energy, a place for seeing the beyond. Sometimes I wonder how they ever fell in love in the first place.

    I was still lost in my own head when the Fortune Teller emerged from behind a curtain. “Yes dear?” she said. I turned and stared. Then tried not to look like I had stared at her. She reminded me strongly of my own mom, the same curious way of looking centuries old yet bright and young as a new penny.

    “You,” she said smiling, “must be Darleen’s daughter. She was such a talented Seer, that one. But how’s life as an art teacher treating her?” I knew very well that Mom used to be a Fortune Teller. It was interesting meet another one like her and see how similar they might be. Were they all as dreamy and flighty as her?

    “I brought money,” I said suddenly shy, “to get my fortune told.”

    “Of course.” She took my five dollars and handed my a small pair of scissors. “Please cut a lock of your hair and cast it into the fire.” I snipped of a curl of my dark, dark brown hair that look ridiculous next to my pale skin and freckles and tossed it into the small fire place.

    “So what now?” I said, but I was being ignored. She was staring into the fire, her green eyes glistening. I was getting uncomfortable from the heat of the fire.

    “You will find happiness if you follow your passion,” she said in a soft, voice. My mind flashed to my writing. Could I really be an author? “Your parents are ends of a scale in you,” she continued, “you must learn to keep the balance to have a balanced soul.”

    I interrupted. “Will they get back together?”

    “No.” Well, I guess I didn’t really expect it. But what did these “fortune tellers” really know anyway? As I turned to leave she said “And Ebonny? Keep that dog with you. You’ll need her.”

    “How do you know my…..?” But she had hurried my out of the queer little house in anticipation of the next customer.

    Hmmm…. Well, I better get writing, I thought, trotting off with my dog at my heels toward my house.

                                                                      -astrid lightly                          

My Bad

How could I let it happen! A whole month without a blog post. (granted, February is the shortest month but still)

First, let me say I am truly sorry that I haven’t posted in quite a while. Not having many followers is no reason to slack because the reason of this blog is to write, not publicity. Lately I just haven’t been able to churn out anything inspired in the slightest, and its not for lack of time. Yet here I am, more then a month without  a single post. I promise to try harder, for what it’s worth.

Safe and Sound

      I often listen to music while writing, but this particular song has such strong emotions in it's quiet tune. It lead me not to make a song from a story but a story from a song. Just a snippet of a story, a single scene. I’m not here to dispute music, so let it simply stand as my humble opinion that Taylor Swift never really wowed me, until now. “Safe and Sound,” has such feeling, and I strongly encourage you to listen to it while you read this story. It makes my simple writing seem ten times better.

     

    The bombs outside aren’t enough to drown out my anguish. The last person left that I loved is gone. I did the best I could, I prayed and nursed him and hid him deep inside my heart so as they couldn’t claim him, but all in vain. Now he is gone like everyone else. Another victim.

      In a world of horror he was such a beckon of light. He was there, and if he could stay safely on this treacherous world then I could hold fast to him. His island of peace stayed firm in my horrible tumulus life. He reminded me to sing. He kept me believing that there was still good in the world. And now he is another victim.

       I had a large family but in the end it was just me left. I sat waiting for death to come get me, then he appeared an angel. He convinced me to come away with him, towards what he thought was safe. He was right, it had been a safe house. As in past tense.

      They had come. They had rigged it and just when I thought I could let my guard down, just when I thought I could securely begin reconstructing my life, with him in the center, they tried to blow us to bits. What did they care of the women and children in there? What did they care of the souls, that had seen so much, risked so much? They were willing to let us all end in a flash of fire. Well, it didn’t work. Only three died, though many others were bleeding. He an I ran to a deserted building, where I tried to heal him. But can one do for a hole in flesh?

      Even in the end he held my hand and told me that someday I would be safe. Someday, he promised. I swore to never forget him and right in front of me the lights went out of his eyes. By then the planes were already flying overhead, dropping tiny bombs on us who had suffered so much.

      “Don’t leave me here alone!” I cried to his unblinking eyes. I wiped my hands on my raggedy shirt and closed his eyes,  brushing his hair from his face. Suddenly a thought struck me. Yes, what was there stopping me?

      I stepped outside to fire filled valley and stood in a clearing. I stared at the grey sky, tiny figures of planes in the distance. There was only one place where we could be safe. Be safe together. I looked out, addressing no one and everyone. “You’ve always thrown everything you could at me! Hit me! Hit me with the best you’ve got!”

       I turned my head to take a last look at his face. It looked almost peaceful. “Wait for me,” I whispered. “I’m coming. And together we can be safe. Safe and sound.” 

-astrid lightly          

The Clubhouse

      I sleep in a closet. A rather weird statement to open with, but I can explain.

     

      When I was little I was a brave tom-girl; never afraid of the bugs, large dogs, or the strange cashiers that plagued my companions with fright. I did my best to hide the fact that I was a perfect scared-y cat at night, when there was no light but an eerie moon and flickering street lamps. Lying in my bed, I would be extremely comforted by a overly-bright night light I possessed, but I would still  bug out over creatures of the dark sometimes. On one such occasion, I was convinced that monsters inhabited a large closet in my room. I called reinforcements (Mom and Dad) and opened the wooden door, clutching a much loved stuffed animal. It was just an ordinary closet full of ordinary things, an quarter hours worth of excavation revealed. But it lit a spark of an idea in me.

      The next day I approached my mom and said in my best-little-girl-in-the-world voice “Can you help me with a project?” Hesitantly, probably due to the fact that some of my previous “projects” included opening an animal shelter, visiting Pluto, and turning the yard into a theme park, my mom asked what I needed help with. “I want to turn the big closet in my room into a secret clubhouse,” I answered. “Please?”

       “Sure.”

       So the process began. The closet had to be emptied and the things inside had new homes to be found. Two foam mattresses and a futon that we had for sleepovers were put in there and bit by bit the tiny white room came alive. My pillows and stuffed friends piled in and my dad, who had watched my exploit with an sentimental and amused expression, installed a small light for me. Lovingly dubbed “The Clubhouse,” this little home for an imaginative girl was complete. For then.

        Over the years more things have been added. I installed a corner shelf for my alarm clock and cherished of books, the walls have been bedecked with some of my best poems and oil pastel pictures. Just yesterday I pounded in a nail for my soft suede blue dream catcher to hang, dispensing of bad breams before they reach my sleeping head.

          But much hasn’t changed. My friends still come over and are awed by its whimsy and cozy feel. It is still the perfect place to read, to dream in sanctuary. For me to return to the times of when I was a little girl, unblemished by society and the oppression of crowds. And only when you find that peace can you achieve creativity that results in the creation of something bigger then yourself. So I shall dream on and remain in my dear Clubhouse as long as I can.

-astrid lightly

Just Write

    My writing teacher’s watch word is also his first rule of writing; “just write.” Honestly, I now fully supports this idea. The whole reason I put up this blog is so that I could record and share my work. This blog will just be for fun because right now in my life writing is just for fun. But I still had this nagging feeling, somewhere in the back of my mind, that my first real post had to be something that I look back on, satisfied to say that this was my first real blog post.

    So I sat, rocking back and forth in my favorite purple rocking chair, and thought and waited for inspiration to strike in the form of an idea, a first sentence, worth its weight in gold. I shot down almost all of my own ideas, quickly declaring them not worthy, not good enough. My paper stayed as white as a polar bear in as snow storm and as blank as my mind.

    That’s when the doubt set in. What if I just couldn’t think of anything good enough because I wasn’t good enough? Maybe setting up this blog was actually a stupid idea. “What ifs” floated in my head, clouding the true vision that leads to all the best writing. I even tried doing my first draft on the computer (a habit I never want to make) but the pitiful spotlessness of the screen scared me further.

    Finally, a friend of mine called “Crystal” set me straight. “you can’t just put up the good,” she said. “The good is what comes out of the bad.” So the next day I followed the first rule of writing, back in my purple chair, and I wrote about anything and everything. I pondered Crystals words and took them to heart. Soon, I was pushed into that magical zone all writers can tell you about and I decided to write this piece. My good writing will come out of my bad like a rainbow from a rainy sky, and the only way to catch it is to write everything. Every idea can become something beautiful. So I will do my best to give everything a chance and fill this blog to the brim with half grown and rough ideas so that maybe I will stumble upon something striking. But for now, this will have to do.

                                                                             -astrid lightly

Welcome

Welcome to my blog! Yes, a much over used beggining, but sometimes you have to stick with the classics. My name is (or my screen name) is Astrid Lightly and this is my new place to express myself with all the words I can muster. Enjoy!