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|The Visionary (standard:Flash, 1792 words)|
|Author: Reid Laurence||Added: Feb 22 2006||Views/Reads: 2360/1339||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Has the great Nostradamus come back to us in the guise of a twenty-first century janitor? Read on and find out...|
“You gotta meet this guy. C'mon, it's your day off, isn't it?” “Yeah, I know it is, but I don't wanna waste it on some nut either.” “You'll be sorry if you don't,” urged Don persistently. “A lot of important people have met him and asked for readings. He's already filled up volumes worth of clairvoyant quatrains. He's been in all the papers. Are you sure you never heard of him?” “So the guy likes little poems, so what. And in answer ta your question... no, I never heard of ‘im. I gotta barbeque ta go to Don, I don't have time for this.” “What time does the barbeque start?” asked Don, a renowned scientist in his own right but a skeptic of clairvoyance until he'd read some of the startling verses in the newspaper, which only lately, had led him to believe otherwise. “I bet we can get there and back before your party begins. How about it? Will ya go?” “If it's so damn important ta you,” replied Lane, a medical Doctor and scant believer in anything that couldn't be proven by formula or lab test. “I guess I can make it if it doesn't take too long. I'll come out and pick you up, but be ready, okay?” “You got it,” answered Donald, and feeling sure of himself that he'd persuaded his friend for all the right reasons, he added firmly and simply into the telephone...”you won't be let down, I promise.” Reid Laurence lived far from the city, in a partially restored turn of the century farmhouse with his wife and two daughters. He had only a sixth grade education, and worked as a janitor for twenty-five years, but when he put himself in a self-induced hypnotic trance, the whole world seemed to open up to him and there was rarely a question - no matter what the technicality or topic - that he was not able to answer. He was truly a scientific and clairvoyant marvel in his own time, but living on sparse donations was very difficult on a family of four. In fact, the donation from his latest reading had gone to a peach tree he'd planted in the front of the old, worn house they lived in, with hopes that it would soon bear fruit and be of some practical use to the hungry, small family. Mary, his dutiful wife had a pleasant demeanor and an optimistic outlook on life despite her husbands flaws and urged him to ask for more than the small donations they'd been living on. Many times they'd argued the point, but in the end, the answer was always the same...”I ain't gonna start charg'in people more fer someth'in I know they need, even though some of ‘em won't admit it. If ah could turn soma the unbelievers ta believers, I wouldn't have'ta raise prices. You'll see,” he liked to say. “Someday they'll turn aroun'. Someday they'll believe in me.” Then, on one hot, sunny, summer day, there came a knock at the door and running barefoot to it, the Laurences' youngest daughter Ellie, answered it. Slowly opening it, she muttered a soft, “hello,” and asked the two well dressed strangers if they wanted to see her father. “You bet we do honey,” said the taller of the two. “I'm Doctor Lane Bertram and this is a friend of mine, Dr. Donald Neuman. Can we come in? We've driven a long way out here just ta hear your daddy talk. We'll pay ‘im for his time. Is that alright?” “Ah guess,” said the ten year old girl, as she opened the door slightly wider, revealing the few scattered pieces of broken down furniture in the home. “I'll git mah daddy,” said the young girl, but scarcely a minute had passed before Reid and Mary Laurence realized they had visitors, and the two inquisitive men were welcomed and made to feel comfortable in the humble farmhouse. “Doctor Neuman here tells me you've seen far into the future on many occasions. Is that right Mr. Laurence?” “That's right,” he replied, looking toward his wife for reassurance and approval as he spoke. “I have, many times. An mah wife here, Mary...she's mah, oh, mah whachamacallit? She sits near me an writes down whateva comes ta me, when ahm in a trance, that is.” “You mean she's your stenographer,” replied Donald, who'd been quietly thinking to himself until now. “Do you think,” he continued. “We could Click here to read the rest of this story (122 more lines)
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