writingness
May. 13th, 2003 12:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
teylaminhin response to her and sweet's challenge set in manchester, upon seeing a palm-reading man in a little hut in the market place, we have...
Palm Reader Challenge
My future, mapped out in veins and lines, in creases and marks I didn't know I had, or so he'd tell me. He beckons from a small, transportable cabin, the inside bedecked with ornaments and posters and paraphernalia, collected junk, and trinkets from his journeys. "Come; read your palm, luvvie." He grins, showing yellowed teeth, one missing entirely, another chipped, and his bristly beard seems to crackle audibly with the movement of his jaw muscles. He's coloured shades of grey and brown, all wire and leather, and he's only intimidating in the sense that he's exactly the kind of person your mother told you not to approach. (Even now, a little girl's being pulled away firmly by her wrist, before her curiosity can get the better of her.)
The grin drops from his face (and seems as if it should creak as it does so) and he reaches down, bending slowly to pick up a mug (hand-thrown, ceramic, misshapen) by its rim. He takes a gulp of the liquid within, smacks his lips, and sets it down again. As he wipes his hands on his trousers, he looks across at me again.
"Come," he repeats, and winks like a professional salesman; it doesn't suit his face. "Pretty thing like you c'n 'ave it fer free."
His accent reeks of one who has travelled the world, amalgamated, and most likely a gimmick that's become second nature. Here in this sun-drenched Parisian square, it's horribly out of place. What's more, I'm probably the only one here who even remotely understands what he's saying. There are no other tourists; it's off-season, and on the outskirts of the city. He's managed to single me out in this crowd of locals and I can't help but feel it's for some deliberate purpose. Inherent politeness stops me from simply turning and leaving as if he never addressed me.
Taking the deciding step, I move forwards, approaching slowly. I keep my gaze focussed on the small stool opposite his own, on the aging woven surface, and the scuffed, dark wood. After a long inner battle against my fight or flight reaction, I slowly position myself on the seat. It wobbles and I cling to it, surprised; he laughs, gruffly. I'm obviously not the first to nearly fall off it.
So. I'm sitting here, in front of this wizened and world-weary old fortune teller, in a Parisian square. I seem to recall this not being part of my original plan; but then again, when do any of my plans go to plan? Maybe this'll be advantageous, knowing my future…
He tells me to relax, because if I'm tense it'll affect the reading. Unclenching my fist, I realise what he means.
"Can't read a palm without a hand, luvvie," he says, encouragingly. I mutter an apology and hold out my palm. He grasps the back of my hand in his own wrinkled paw, and the skin feels like cracked and unsanded bark. He stares at the lines for a moment, and goes through the usual - life line, love line, all the things your friends would say the same at school. I've heard all of this before. Then, he stops, and stares at me, his coffee-coloured eyes boring into mine.
I'm scared, now, no doubt about it. There's something about that penetrating gaze that I just don't like, as if he can see inside me, see something wrong and horrible that has no right to belong, just through the lines in my skin. I find myself trying to sweet-talk my way out of it. "All right, sir, that's all I need to know. I've got things to do. Just tell me how much I owe you."
I try to pull out of his grasp, but he merely tightens his grip, his stare intensifying. "Free," he says. "Told yer. Don't go back on me word. And you stay…" I nod, dumbly. "It's been a while since I seen the likes of your kind."
"What kind?" I ask, bluffing. "English? Here in Paris?"
"No," he hisses. "You know what I'm talking about."
"Do I?" Except I do, and he knows it. It's obvious now he's not going to let me go until he's finished whatever he's up to - thankfully, being in a public space means he can't make a scene, and I'm flooded with relief when a Gendarme strolls across the square. The odds are in my favour, just. Once more, I try to talk my way out of the situation, cursing myself for getting into it in the first place. "Please, sir. I really do have other things to be doing…"
He seems not to hear. "Yer fortune's not fer the tellin'," he says. "Better off y'don't know. Last 'un I told ended bad. Bad. Your lot… yer not meant to know it. Yer meant to live it 'as it happens."
"I quite agree…"
"Best let y'go, I s'pose," he says. I nod, relieved. He doesn't release my hand, though, not yet. "But afore I do, yer have to promise somethin'."
"Yes?"
"Don't go lookin' fer the future in yer palms no more."
I nod, and honestly have no intention of seeking my fortune in any way ever again, after this. Satisfied, he lets me go, holding the rickety stool steady as I slide back to the ground. I reach for my purse; he raises a hand to stop me, giving me a firm expression, still holding true to his word. I turn to leave, and then stop. "Thank you," I say, without looking back, "and I hope your next customer has a palm you're able to translate."
"Yer welcome…" he mutters, taking another swig of his strange brew.
From the other side of the square, I can hear him again, touting for his trade in impeccable French. Examining my palms, I can see nothing but the usual: creases, musculature, flexing skin. He saw something there that I cannot, that others couldn't either, that even Tarot readers and psychics and all manner of trickery and witchery couldn't uncover.
I'm suddenly very aware of being part of something greater than me, that there are others out there like me, lost in cities with nowhere to go, parts of their past they'd rather forget than dwell on, and unknown futures that are never for the telling. And none of us have ever met. It's possible - just slightly - that some old palm-reader is the one link between us all, who's travelled the world and met thousands of people, and learnt to discern the usual from the strange.
The next one might be in this very square, or the other side of the world. The last one might just as easily be me.
it's very odd and doesn't really go anywhere - it's meant to be a sort of tie-in for all my today's forecast... stories, but it didn't work very well. nevertheless, at least i got it done, eh, sweet? ;)
Palm Reader Challenge
My future, mapped out in veins and lines, in creases and marks I didn't know I had, or so he'd tell me. He beckons from a small, transportable cabin, the inside bedecked with ornaments and posters and paraphernalia, collected junk, and trinkets from his journeys. "Come; read your palm, luvvie." He grins, showing yellowed teeth, one missing entirely, another chipped, and his bristly beard seems to crackle audibly with the movement of his jaw muscles. He's coloured shades of grey and brown, all wire and leather, and he's only intimidating in the sense that he's exactly the kind of person your mother told you not to approach. (Even now, a little girl's being pulled away firmly by her wrist, before her curiosity can get the better of her.)
The grin drops from his face (and seems as if it should creak as it does so) and he reaches down, bending slowly to pick up a mug (hand-thrown, ceramic, misshapen) by its rim. He takes a gulp of the liquid within, smacks his lips, and sets it down again. As he wipes his hands on his trousers, he looks across at me again.
"Come," he repeats, and winks like a professional salesman; it doesn't suit his face. "Pretty thing like you c'n 'ave it fer free."
His accent reeks of one who has travelled the world, amalgamated, and most likely a gimmick that's become second nature. Here in this sun-drenched Parisian square, it's horribly out of place. What's more, I'm probably the only one here who even remotely understands what he's saying. There are no other tourists; it's off-season, and on the outskirts of the city. He's managed to single me out in this crowd of locals and I can't help but feel it's for some deliberate purpose. Inherent politeness stops me from simply turning and leaving as if he never addressed me.
Taking the deciding step, I move forwards, approaching slowly. I keep my gaze focussed on the small stool opposite his own, on the aging woven surface, and the scuffed, dark wood. After a long inner battle against my fight or flight reaction, I slowly position myself on the seat. It wobbles and I cling to it, surprised; he laughs, gruffly. I'm obviously not the first to nearly fall off it.
So. I'm sitting here, in front of this wizened and world-weary old fortune teller, in a Parisian square. I seem to recall this not being part of my original plan; but then again, when do any of my plans go to plan? Maybe this'll be advantageous, knowing my future…
He tells me to relax, because if I'm tense it'll affect the reading. Unclenching my fist, I realise what he means.
"Can't read a palm without a hand, luvvie," he says, encouragingly. I mutter an apology and hold out my palm. He grasps the back of my hand in his own wrinkled paw, and the skin feels like cracked and unsanded bark. He stares at the lines for a moment, and goes through the usual - life line, love line, all the things your friends would say the same at school. I've heard all of this before. Then, he stops, and stares at me, his coffee-coloured eyes boring into mine.
I'm scared, now, no doubt about it. There's something about that penetrating gaze that I just don't like, as if he can see inside me, see something wrong and horrible that has no right to belong, just through the lines in my skin. I find myself trying to sweet-talk my way out of it. "All right, sir, that's all I need to know. I've got things to do. Just tell me how much I owe you."
I try to pull out of his grasp, but he merely tightens his grip, his stare intensifying. "Free," he says. "Told yer. Don't go back on me word. And you stay…" I nod, dumbly. "It's been a while since I seen the likes of your kind."
"What kind?" I ask, bluffing. "English? Here in Paris?"
"No," he hisses. "You know what I'm talking about."
"Do I?" Except I do, and he knows it. It's obvious now he's not going to let me go until he's finished whatever he's up to - thankfully, being in a public space means he can't make a scene, and I'm flooded with relief when a Gendarme strolls across the square. The odds are in my favour, just. Once more, I try to talk my way out of the situation, cursing myself for getting into it in the first place. "Please, sir. I really do have other things to be doing…"
He seems not to hear. "Yer fortune's not fer the tellin'," he says. "Better off y'don't know. Last 'un I told ended bad. Bad. Your lot… yer not meant to know it. Yer meant to live it 'as it happens."
"I quite agree…"
"Best let y'go, I s'pose," he says. I nod, relieved. He doesn't release my hand, though, not yet. "But afore I do, yer have to promise somethin'."
"Yes?"
"Don't go lookin' fer the future in yer palms no more."
I nod, and honestly have no intention of seeking my fortune in any way ever again, after this. Satisfied, he lets me go, holding the rickety stool steady as I slide back to the ground. I reach for my purse; he raises a hand to stop me, giving me a firm expression, still holding true to his word. I turn to leave, and then stop. "Thank you," I say, without looking back, "and I hope your next customer has a palm you're able to translate."
"Yer welcome…" he mutters, taking another swig of his strange brew.
From the other side of the square, I can hear him again, touting for his trade in impeccable French. Examining my palms, I can see nothing but the usual: creases, musculature, flexing skin. He saw something there that I cannot, that others couldn't either, that even Tarot readers and psychics and all manner of trickery and witchery couldn't uncover.
I'm suddenly very aware of being part of something greater than me, that there are others out there like me, lost in cities with nowhere to go, parts of their past they'd rather forget than dwell on, and unknown futures that are never for the telling. And none of us have ever met. It's possible - just slightly - that some old palm-reader is the one link between us all, who's travelled the world and met thousands of people, and learnt to discern the usual from the strange.
The next one might be in this very square, or the other side of the world. The last one might just as easily be me.
it's very odd and doesn't really go anywhere - it's meant to be a sort of tie-in for all my today's forecast... stories, but it didn't work very well. nevertheless, at least i got it done, eh, sweet? ;)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2003-05-13 01:10 am (UTC)And now, you two can challenge me! Anything but Scape, and you have to nag me to finish it!
Sweet
Re:
Date: 2003-05-13 05:22 am (UTC)*resists overwhelming temptation to ask you for more sunset fic*
hm. i shall think... maybe when i get the manchester pictures back there'll be something interesting.
and thanks, by the way.
(no subject)
Date: 2003-05-13 02:23 am (UTC)Re:
Date: 2003-05-13 05:25 am (UTC)(http://www23.brinkster.com/zircona/prose.html, which reminds me, i need to put up 'cold front' to go with them...)
and thank you.