Gordo wandered down the tourist strip that was adjacent to the restaurant,
curiously looking at all the sites. A little down the street, a secure,
forest green tent that reminded him of a dark forest caught his eye,
forcing him to forget the science display that had caught his eye a few
moments before. From the tent emitted eerie music that reminded him of a
shaman. He slowly edged toward the tent, noticing the flap that concealed
the inside from view. As he drew closer, he could notice a small sign.
Madame Coral's Prediction Chamber. Below it were the translations in four languages. Pensively, he edged toward the tent, purposely making his steps small and trepid. His feet moved to the ominous music, and he neared the tent, close enough to touch the patterned fabric that had tempted him.
The flap moved. Gordo could imagine dark eyes staring at him from the crevice that had formed from the flimsy material. Dark eyes studying him. He closed his still eyes and again tried to rid himself of crazy thoughts. At this point, he debated opening the flap, which now seemed to him like a curtain. A curtain for him to be an entertainment to an audience. An audience of dead souls. Perhaps this was the chamber of the undead. A chamber for the dumb and self-absorbed souls, which he knew he had been drawn into before. A chill burst through him, stiffening his legs and shriveling his short arms.
"A curse upon you, waiting to be unfolded," a low, grotesque voice boomed, bass overloading the accuracy of sound. Gordo cried out, but realized that it was the shaman music that sounded from the tent. Surely he had been heard by now. His puny voice had managed to sing through many a barrier and now he must pay the price for his involuntary insolence towards the spirits. After all, this was what he was getting himself into. Spirits and soul. Spirits and change.
And then he saw the eyes. Dark and soulful, they did not look to his forehead, but they read his own and they saw the future. They saw those events that would shape Gordo's life for the rest of his life. And he never even talked to her before she revealed herself, for he slipped out of his own reality and into hers: the shaman fountain.
Madame Coral's Prediction Chamber. Below it were the translations in four languages. Pensively, he edged toward the tent, purposely making his steps small and trepid. His feet moved to the ominous music, and he neared the tent, close enough to touch the patterned fabric that had tempted him.
The flap moved. Gordo could imagine dark eyes staring at him from the crevice that had formed from the flimsy material. Dark eyes studying him. He closed his still eyes and again tried to rid himself of crazy thoughts. At this point, he debated opening the flap, which now seemed to him like a curtain. A curtain for him to be an entertainment to an audience. An audience of dead souls. Perhaps this was the chamber of the undead. A chamber for the dumb and self-absorbed souls, which he knew he had been drawn into before. A chill burst through him, stiffening his legs and shriveling his short arms.
"A curse upon you, waiting to be unfolded," a low, grotesque voice boomed, bass overloading the accuracy of sound. Gordo cried out, but realized that it was the shaman music that sounded from the tent. Surely he had been heard by now. His puny voice had managed to sing through many a barrier and now he must pay the price for his involuntary insolence towards the spirits. After all, this was what he was getting himself into. Spirits and soul. Spirits and change.
And then he saw the eyes. Dark and soulful, they did not look to his forehead, but they read his own and they saw the future. They saw those events that would shape Gordo's life for the rest of his life. And he never even talked to her before she revealed herself, for he slipped out of his own reality and into hers: the shaman fountain.
