The Woman Who Could See the Future

 Once upon a time there was a woman who could see the future. She couldn't hear it, nor understand what it was she saw, and it wasn't a pleasant gift. As a young woman she had tried to change what it was she saw, as though she had somehow divined it for the purpose of undoing it. But her glimpses of the future were not sought after. And nothing about the future offered a clarity sufficient enough within which one could successfully meddle.

    The future came in waves. In dreams, day and night. In moments - thoughts floating across the backs of her eyes where such knowledge seemed to arrive. As a middle-aged woman, it became an agony. By then she had recognized the futility of trying to change what it was she saw, and so she sat with it. She stewed. And did not enjoy her middle years.

    Which is, over course, no way to live.

    In rebellion, she began to treat the glimpses of future as story - story that had no proper beginning, nor necessarily a middle, and definitively no end. The woman thought then that perhaps the future didn't know about those things. But it had a story to tell all the same.

    When the woman found her elder years, she knew she could be very good at listening.

    And, she discovered, that this was, in fact, more than enough.

    The future, it turned out, could, as it happened, take care of itself. 

    The thing is, you don't need to do anything about a story.

    Not a thing, but listen.

 

     

Popular posts from this blog

A Little Story About Cake

 There was once a man who baked a cake once a week. He used only the finest ingredients —rich orange egg yolks, creamy yellow butter, crunchy golden sugar, whole cream, and fine-sifted flour. Mixed together, the batter was itself a thing of beauty, but when it came out of the oven hot and cooked all the way through it was nothing short of perfection.     Though the man dearly loved to eat cake, his love was only a memory of time gone by, for he had never had a slice of his own cake. Instead, each week, he would cut the cake into seven slices, and wait to see what opportunities arose. Perhaps someone would come to tea, or a little girl would come to borrow an egg. Sometimes, especially in winter, the birds that had stayed too long would look particularly hungry, and so a slice of cake would be laid out for them, too. And, more often than anything, several slices each week would go to the old woman who lived at the end of the lane in the ramshackle house with the broke...
Read more

The Shadows

The light shown on Anya’s fingers. It curled around her palm and danced. This, she thought, was the sheer pleasure of having magic.       But in the midst of her play, a shadow grew.   It was not unexpected; it was the cost of doing magic, for it always begot shadows.   But it never ceased to offer discomfort.   If she could find a way to practice her craft and leave behind the adjacent darkness, she would.          Anya was not fond of the dark, or shadows, or of the sense of unease that grew whenever she let the flickering brightness dance.   But, too, there was a feeling of wholeness in her work.   How could that be, such fulfillment when darkness lay about her?   A constant wonder—the weight of it only born by extinguishing the light for a time until she could bear it again.       Today was such a time.          Anya took the light, and threw it at the darkness....
Read more

There Be Witches

 There was a witch. And she was young and lovely.     This was a problem, of course. Witches should not be lovely. They should be old and haggard, however benevolent their heart. There was a witch. And she was old and haggard.     This was a problem, of course. Witches would do better in the general public eye if they are young and lovely. There was a witch, and she was tired and on the bitter side of sweet.     This was a problem, of course. Witches are always better taken with when they are robustly kind. There was a witch, and she was jolly and good.     This was a problem, of course. Witches are always taken more seriously if they show how hard they've work with a piercing gaze.  There was a witch.     This was a problem, of course. There were witches. There still are.     As it happens, they eat problems for breakfast.
Read more