Before The Tales Begin

The gypsy woman hovers near the stove and drags a calloused hand across her face as if to wipe some smoke before the eyes which flash between her fingers in the blackness of the room.

Looking through my mind I see the history of myself: Where have the avenues in my life taken me?

Her hand falls softly and it floats above the stove, absorbs the glow of coals inside then through the door her fingers curl and seize an ember like a vise to carve a jagged pattern in the air. The fingers part, the small star falls to light the powdered incense at her side—sweet perfume invades the dark.

Back inside me, wandering through the city streets with nothing to do, just pondering peace trying to separate wrong from right—hoping to find some sign of intelligent light inside my mind.

A violent motion and her fingers stab the ground, snatch a pile of bones lying white against the floor: old knuckles, toes and vertebrae—some with fur and flesh intact. She holds them in her palm until they float before her eyes while in the fields the night stars flare.

It feels like the devil has come to anoint me with his hideous prophecies.

“Cha,” she barks; a wave and then the bones fly like shooting stars upon the ground. Her lips crack a laugh before the tales begin.

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