Picture 2
Pablo Michael’s Picture Choice: Both
Title: The Séance
The contorted branches of the pistachio tree lit up like a Christmas tree in October with its leaves crimson, drooping down with the weight of bright blinding lights, illuminating the small tables and chairs and fallen leaves on the ground around. F. Scott had read the note in the book with the Admiral butterfly sketched in the middle binding between the blank pages, left behind from his childhood friend, Amanda. He had found the book buried in a box of memoirs.
Many years before, Amanda had told him his salvation lie in the message she inscribed in the beginning pages. “If and when you reach an age where you have lost all who you hold true and meaningful and have not found the voice for your words, string this young pistachio tree with as many lights as possible. Set small tables with accompanying chairs to seat those you wish to communicate to and resolve the problems that kept you from them. Call a séance beneath this wise tree that has seen you grow through the years but left you empty. I promise you’ll connect with your past friends, bringing you the spirits to write about the vacuum between you and them but then blossom like the man you have always been, feeling whole with them as it has always been.”
F. Scott sat at a table at the periphery of the tree, blinded by the radiating light and movement in the surroundings. Disfigured shadows of mene and women appeared in the chairs around all the tables, waiting for F. Scott to welcome them to his summons. He did not notice their appearance but felt the movement of ground beneath him and heard the leaves flutter in an angry gust of wind. The lights fluttered off as thousands of admiral butterflies swirled in the air to create the priceless moment F. Scott beheld.
He spoke the memorized words Amanda had inscribed. “I call on the mystical winds and earthly spirits as summoned by Amanda. I have reached the ancient age where I can no longer return to my youthful persona. I’m so old, having lost all those who I loved; I can’t attract anyone to even humor me with my despair. Show your powerful presence and guide me from this withered age of reasoning of lost love to those I can’t hold close anymore.” F. Scott opened his eyes and gazed on the Pistachio tree, waiting for a celestial sign from his offerings. He hoped he was heard.
A rush of wind blew, shaking the branches and the lights on the tree until a flickering of sparkles danced randomly around F. Scott until the wind calmed. Darkness settled, but the chatter of voices hummed, prolonging the night for the séance when F. Scott reunited with those seated in chairs around the small tables.
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Pablo Michaels writes LGBT fiction and has published with Naughty Nights Press, http://naughtynightspress.blogspot.com You can follow him at @bell2mike
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