another Mystic

 another Mystic

fiction

edward w pritchard

Oddness he said is a contrivance. Unusual he looked as he whispered " I am an archetype from your future", who doesn't do dialogue properly. 

Standing in the kitchen, I watched him sitting on my deck at 2:30 AM  in the darkened rear yard, me peering through the broken deck doors that wouldn't slide enough to open. I could hear every word he said although he spoke with a heavy accent and not in our language. Automatically I could enough understand later what he was whispering, to ruminate to recall the main ideas. 

These thoughts are on one in a million, of Mothers and lonely women, he spoke. He was talking to me I saw through the darkness. Are you St John of the cross I whispered?

Laughing he stood up. No, not is I, sayeth he. He was less than five feet tall, a diminutive man with tinted pinkish hair and  cauliflower ears. Not me is the mystic he repeated. I am but a spinner of useless information from your future. Continuing, sitting down in the Darkness, he said too loudly, Don't  predict the past, him disappearing from memory. 

Standing there a long time, I waited for the stars to reappear.