Short story: A prophet?

Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

There is nothing in this world that does not point to the reality of magic.

It was the winter of Burpham that brought about this perfect sight, but the sight wasn’t so perfect if it happened seven months ago, but was reported as an incident that took place five minutes ago.

Perhaps it was.

These lonely bike riders didn’t know what hit them, they saw the crash, it was live. They have all the information.

But why were the police and detectives giving false claims that the crash happened much later?

They started to question everything. Whether they really had their bikes and whether someone had drugged them and told them what they needed to say to cover their tracks.

It was all so confounding.

The cold air was cruel, it made them look, as well as feel pathetic. Their cheeks appeared flushed and they quivered like rice above a booming speaker.

The trees knew no better, if anyone had asked them, the young men were just as present as they were.

That is if the locals knew much about magic, or even how the word is spelt – how much the trees knew about their secrets.

It was no news to the neighbouring houses that this driver was reported missing by his brother, and that in fact; the car was concealed in dense undergrowth.

*

Meanwhile back in Guildford, Ocean was unaware of what happened to her darling husband.

She had been at the bar but found herself safely home.

***

She stood in front a building.

It seemed so familiar to her, but it was as if she had been flown to another city.

The water came to her waist and no car was moving, nobody was in them and everything seemed strangely familiar – too familiar.

‘Cover your tracks,’ said a voice. Above, below or under, she couldn’t figure out where they were.

‘Hey! cover my tracks? what on earth are you on about?’

The voice kept silent.

She didn’t move.

Her grandmother told her that everything is as it seems. But she had a different kind of problem, she didn’t know what that meant and this was made even more confusing by the realization that even though she stood in the water, carried by the flood; she didn’t understand why her clothes was not clinging to her body and why she didn’t feel drenched by the rain that was still pouring.

It was 2am in the morning.

At least that was what the clock said, she thought.

She was seated on a chair in a lobby, closely resembling the lobby in that popular tv show, The Suite Life of Zack and Cody.

Taking her hand, was a man, quite stout. His head was rather small, well suited for a body that would be very different from his own.

‘And who might you be? Are you qualified to be using that needle?’

She was no genius, but she could tell that her organs were all shutting down.

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Published by healinghands231

She is a witch, a writer, a fiancée and a queen at healing the masses within. A 24 year old woman, based in the UK, she finds peace in the tarot, peace in the oracle. She breathes humility and a passion to help bring the art of your mind to life in a snap. Bring to her your work, create by night by day and she will be there to help you pursue like a coin displayed on a tray.

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