Fiction

Submission for The Writer’s Cramp competition on writing.com. Featured in the editors picks of the May 11th 2011 writing.com newsletter :)

For the first time in - oh, about 25 years - the fortune-teller’s mind was a complete blank. 

The cards lay before her on the table, resplendent in their dazzling designs and colours, but completely devoid of meaning.  This was … deeply unsettling.

Megan reached one bejewelled hand towards the velvetine table, and her black fingernail marked one corner of the next unturned card.  With a flourish, the card was overturned and then slowly placed into its proper position among the others. “Six of Pentacles,” she said aloud. 

The image on the card was the one she had seen countless times since she had first dabbled in the paranormal at the age of fifteen, and which had somehow become her career.  Upon the card was a smiling gentleman in red robe and head-dress, handing gold coins to two beggars at his feet.  The image was deeply personal to her by now.  It had come to her in dreams on several occasions, and both times its particular significance had been obvious upon awakening.  It had never been just a picture on a card.

But now - she felt like a complete rookie, with only dry superficial facts from books to aid her in her deductions. “Six of Pentacles: a gift, a fleeting opportunity - “.  Megan trailed off, and slowly closed her eyes.

Where was her talent?  Where was the quirky skill which had been the shame of her adolescence, but had always kept her at least one step away from trouble?

There was of course one difference in this reading.  She opened her eyes and stared glassily into the space where the client would usually be sat. The chair on the other side of the table was empty, and for the first time ever.

She had always been superstitious about doing readings for herself.  There had been a forbidding warning about self-divination in one of the manuals of paganism she had read many years ago: some dire threat about horrors which would surely come in her dreams, and cast her into oblivion while her vacated body slept on.  Nothing to be trifled with. 

But that fear had come in her teenage years, and all these years later it seemed ridiculous that it had affected her so. Oh, the irony.  A psychic who can’t see into her own soul, despite the countless clients who had walked away happy.  The starch-shirted businessman who came to her without fail each quarter of the financial year, and whose famous name she had sworn to never speak for fear of his association with the paranormal.  The tall, grinning spanish guitarist who found inspiration for compositions in her readings. 

And now herself - one unhappy customer. Megan Wainright stretched both arms above her head and spoke in melodious tones: “I respect and accept all the information the universe is free to give me.  If the cards do not aid me, then I request that my unconscious mind give me the answer I seek in some other form.” And then she fixed the image of her predicament in her mind.  The house she wanted to buy, the one with the towering conifers and hedges cut into animal shapes.  The one with the original rustic wardrobes built into the walls.  The one which was more than a smidgen too pricey for her kind … but she just had to have.

The following morning at the breakfast table, Megan’s mobile phone suddenly rang and in her fright, she nearly drowned it in skimmed milk. It was Stacey, her red-haired pal from yoga.  The usual pleasantries were exchanged, and then the conversation got onto more serious subjects.  Megan recounted the previous day.  “Oh the reading!  That was weird, it was just a complete mental blank.  A bit like when you’re so tired, and … Well, anyway it was really simple in the end!  Such a silly oversight.”

The quick, metallic chatter of Stacey’s reply came over the earpiece.

“No, it wasn’t that!” replied Megan.  “People do self-readings all the time, it’s only me that was superstitious about it.  And I’m definitely sure I’m over that now.  No, it was a slightly more subtle insight.  I went and sat in the client’s seat on the other side of the table, and suddenly it all made sense!”

Again came the breathless electronic reply over the phone.

“No it was nothing to do with the room.  You know, when I do a reading for someone else - which is all the time - I’d always deal the cards so the other person could see them.  So I’d see them the wrong way up.  This time, for some reason I dealt them the right way up.  It just seemed weird to do it the normal way with no-one there to see them.  So when I sat on the other side of the table and saw the cards the usual way, suddenly everything fell into place …”

“Stacey - I’m only psychic when the cards are upside down!”

The quiet pensioner laced his fingers at his breast, his woolen pullover furrowing like a fertile pasture. 

If you spied him now amid the porcelain mugs and tattered volumes you’d think him asleep, his workman’s boots anchored on the chair opposite, face at once restful and studious.

The watchman’s cabin huddled beneath the main body of the metalworks, somehow always submerged in its shadow as though protected by a secret charm. 

An autumn downpour gently assailed the hideout, collecting on one side of the corrugated roof and coursing down one starkly painted wall.

Outside, the din of the factory is distant and exotic.  A staccato electronic chime calls across the empty spaces, its echo redoubling its strangeness like spice.  An amplified voice calls out, its message arcane.

The watchman stretches one arm out to clasp a steaming night-time drink, his seat groaning like old houses.  The sight through his window is a liquid assembly of raincloud hues and he liked to stare directly into it, watching as the colours swap and shapes chase one another, knowing he need do nothing to earn such a show.

But he was tugged by the knowledge of his papers before him: they seemed superior, more questions than he could answer tonight yet more would appear tomorrow.  His lips pressed together tightly and his breath became hasty as he wondered if this time his old mind would fail.

Then the mood lifted as the muffled roar of a pallet truck filled the air.  The cabin was washed with an electric glare, followed by magenta as it pulled in ahead.

“Easy night of it then Gus?” the visitor asked in faraway tones through the tiny speaking holes in the window.  This was the Union’s day so fully two-thirds of its members were likely dreaming, drunken or both.

“I dunno mate I’m ‘avin’ an ‘ard time of it ’ere.  Won’t get this finished tonight will I?  Look ’ere - " and he recounted the blank areas on his forms in rapid-fire.

The driver whistled and grinned, his face framed by a greasy yellow hood.  “Better leave you to it then guv!” he announced before signalling farewell and climbing back into his cab.

At that moment the downpour grew, and the loud fascia of the receding vehicle washed into the ghoulish midnight textures in the window.

“Well thanks for all yer ’elp” the watchman reproached, cradling his mug in both hands and easing back into his seat.  “Back around again,” he sighed, peering hawk-like at the paper.  “Five Across: Symphony”.

Article from Organo Musica (Digital Subscriber Edition), April 2098

It’s notably rare for Organo Musica magazine to receive a hefty parcel with the cheesecake-inspired postmark identifying Bella Industries.

Five winters ago we last heard the silvery refrains of a Bella, darting through our offices like sunny reflections on a choppy lake surface.  Back then, we covered how well Bella Industries have implemented artificial nervous systems in the creation of such musical delights.

It still amazes us how much we can learn about rhythm and melody from fish.

The first reactions as the heavy gun-metal and glass unit shed its waxy autumn wrapping were of stunning build quality.  This sturdy little hobby-box will stand up to years of merciless jamming, either subjected to the dusty trials of studio life, or packed off to distant audiences.

The satchel-sized instrument fits snugly in two hands, its serpentine form reminding the user of its pedigree.  The insulated shell allows it to be held in bare hands, although any uncertainty of the core being at the correct temperature is relieved by a nifty electric-blue status indicator.  A glass window reveals the oil-filled interior for an aesthetic finish.

The instant the current was switched on, the hair-trigger sensors within the Trutta seemed to stalk out every scrap of musical material from the mind of its player, no matter how mundane.  Before full contact was achieved, our efforts at preparation- kicking cables free from our feet, shying away from the afternoon glare – resulted in icy flurries and funereal drones.  These artifacts – though a product of technical limitations – could be argued to augment the performance as they are artfully filtered and blended (unlike the shrill catcalls and belches which betray cheaper models).

Once contact was achieved however, the unit cast its delicate hooks into the imagination of its partner, drawing us all closer to hear the delicate clockwork chatterings we didn’t dare expect.  In fact this is the chief difference in this updated model.  In Bella’s words:

“The emotion in your finest music is driven by the ebb and flow, the call and answer.  The ingredient you need to achieve this is rhythm, or more generally time.  Bella Industries have invested heavily in chronologics to give you the edge of rhythm in your compositions.”

The bewildering synthetic mind at the heart of the Composer Pro is painstakingly modelled on all major cerebral structures in its target species (again, Brown Trout!) which far exceeds the minimalist design of other models in the same price range.  Instead of saving time in the workshop by reducing the model to several key brain areas, Bella have remained loyal to the neurological journals which claim there is no one ‘musical centre’ to isolate.

Although Bella products are modelled on a simple species, the choice of an aquatic organism is a wise one.  Making use of the superior sound propagation properties of their aquatic environment, swimbladder-bearing fish are highly sensitive to auditory stimuli.  This gives rise to interesting properties when the nervous system is studied and kicked into reverse gear to generate playful harmonies or delicate refrains by the sense-impulses of a skilled musician.

Theory aside, how does the Trutta really sound?  Put in the hands of our very own Brendan Synaptik (check out his tutorial on wet and dry scales in this month’s interactive content!) stole the show, winning instant friendship and co-operation with the Trutta.  With an infectious ease he conjoured a seascape of meandering whale-song and seashell percussion, perhaps teasing out archetypes from the mind of the creature at its heart.

However, new users should feel no qualms about diving right in.  Even bread-and-butter studies in concentration evoked unexpected delights.  For example, a steady visualisation of a sycamore tree yielded an ascending series of diabolical tritones, cleverly balanced by a catchy lyrical hook.

With heavy hearts we pack the Bella back into its box for the inevitable return.  If only we could afford one of our own!

Given the constraints of the target species, the Trutta Composer Pro is an aural treat.  Both serious hobbyists and heavyweight performers will see no end to its musical gifts.  We believe this Bella will not be matched, unless by something very special indeed.