Flash Fiction

THE PSYCHIC’S PARLOR 

by Jennifer Soosar

psychic

“Liar,” Darryl said. “Nothing you said came true.”
“What I say?” Madame Rosa shrugged. “No remember nothing…”
“Don’t remember? That’s a laugh! I was here last Friday, paid you two hundred bucks.”
“Have many client, not possible to—”
“You said—specifically—my girlfriend would come back. Well, guess what? She just hooked up with my buddy!
“I see…”
“Oh, now you see? Listen ‘Madame Scam-Artist, I want my money back!”
“No refund.”
“Okay. I go visit the fraud squad then. Or that reporter on the News who exposes fa—”
“Wait,” said Madame Rosa. “I see problem. Reading no good because Spirit no happy. Pray to alter and I read again.”
Darryl looked at the table-top alter; at the tin oil lamp, bead necklace, bowl of dates. What a joke! He was livid for allowing himself to foolishly wander into this strip mall psychic’s parlor. Livid for being so desperate over Olivia.
“You want me to pray to that junk?” he sneered.
“Have respect!” Madame Rosa warned with a raised finger.
Breezing over to the alter, Darryl popped one of the dates into his mouth and chewed. He was sick of being the sucker; the loser! With his sense of personal failure jeering at him, he lunged at the psychic in a rage. “Gimmie my money back, lady, or I hurt you.”
“I give two free reading instead,” she bargained, skirting away. “I tell when girlfriend come back…”
A lamp smashed on the floor.
Darryl caught a fistful of fabric, apprehending the woman. “You’re nothin’ but a filthy crook,” he said with disgust, hands gripping her ropey neck. “So, let’s hear it,”—he squeezed tighter—“tell me all about the future now…”
“Death is…imminent…” she rasped. Closing her eyes, she waited patiently for the rat poison, which coated the dates, to take effect.

 

THE END

Copyright © 2015 Jennifer Soosar, All Rights Reserved