The Mystic WC 297

The Mystic
WC 297

The Mystic stood in the middle of a field of red roses, a majestic ten feet tall, worn smooth by wind, sand, and water. A fortune teller with answers not for the faint of heart. The brutal truth wasn’t easy to swallow in this time of flattery and falsehoods. The townspeople made the pilgrimage to ask The Mystic their burning questions anyway.

The legend: This ten-foot boulder (transported during prehistoric times from its home on Mount George by Space Aliens to its present home) was given the name “The Mystic” by the townspeople because of its magical abilities.

Agatha Wingate, a pariah in the community, stood at the edge of the field staring at the shimmering boulder. She was wearing rubber boots to protect her legs from the rose bush thorns.

She’d wanted to ask The Mystic questions for many years but was afraid of the answers. Now that she was old, she felt they wouldn’t upset her as much.

Leaning on her cane, Agatha picked her way through the prickles.

Strange, I don't hear birds or crickets…or anything.

Puzzled, she continued through the silence anyway.

The sun was setting when an exhausted Agatha reached The Mystic and spoke.

“I have waited so long to ask you these questions.”

Silence.

“May I continue?”

Silence.

She forged ahead. “When will I die? Will anyone miss me?” she said and waited for her answers.

The Mystic did reply, but Agatha heard nothing as she stood facing the pulsing monolith, patiently waiting.

“Oh, no! I forgot to turn on my hearing aid,” she said as she turned it on.

“Could you repeat that please?”

“No can do, sweetie. Sorry.”

Shoulders sagging, Agatha turned, picked her way through the thorns, and back to what was left of her life.