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The Sight (standard:mystery, 1421 words) [1/4] show all parts
Author: SoLikeCandyUpdated: Mar 24 2001Views/Reads: 3761/2370Part vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
(a series) A young woman on the verge of discovering a secret realizes that she's not the only one who knows of it--and that people aren't always what they seem...
 



Buzz.  Buzz.  Buzzzz.  “It’s Friday, seven a.m. in the morning time,
folks!  This is Slammin’ Sammy coming atcha with the latest pop hits on 
WPOP!  Today’s gonna be a good one, clear skies with a high of 45—not 
bad for October...now, make your way to work, or play, with the sweet 
sounds of Britney Spears—“ 

Click.  Will’s hand came down onto the alarm clock with deadly force. 
He’d set his radio for the local pop station because he hated it so 
much, he knew it would make him get up to turn the damned thing off. 

Will usually didn’t get up this early.  In fact, he hardly ever arose
before 10 a.m. for classes.  But this morning was special.  He had 
someone to meet—the thing is, the person he was meeting had no idea. 

Will knew she would be on her way to work by now, and that the store was
open by 8.  He could stop by, look for a CD and say hello—casual-like, 
so she wouldn’t think anything of it.  Greenmeadow was a small college 
town, and everything was within walking distance or a short bike ride 
away, and plenty of students stopped by the store in the morning for 
magazines and newspapers.  He rose and made his way to the bathroom for 
his shower.  On the way, he pressed the button to turn on his CD player 
and began nodding his head to the soothing sounds of Bob Marley.  The 
morning outside was bright and cheerful, and he knew that today, things 
would go his way.  “Don’t worry...about a thing...cuz every little 
thing...gonna be alright...”  The hot water was a pleasant shock to his 
skin.  He sighed, thinking about the girl--her smooth brown face and 
soft bushy hair, her hearty laugh—and smiled.  This is going to start 
quite a bit of shit for me, he thought, rinsing the shampoo from his 
short blonde hair.  But, it’s worth it.  Nothing to worry about, things 
will turn out fine, I’ll see to it.  As he walked from the bathroom 
wrapped in a towel, he stopped to turn the volume up on the stereo, 
singing along and thinking of the girl again.  Should he let her know 
he was coming?  Doing that could backfire—she could become 
frightened—but he knew she was starting to discover things on her own 
already.  He hated to play with her like this, but it was all part of 
the process.  He sang out along with the song, standing still: “I send 
this message to yoo-oo-ou...” 

There is nothing on earth like a sunny morning in autumn.  The sun is
still bright and warm, but there’s a hint of chill in the air, and the 
birds sing songs different from those in the summer.  Just cool enough 
for the heavy wool sweater, the brown, well worn corduroy pants, the 
hiking boots. 

The walk to work wasn’t long, but long enough for Ruth to breathe in the
scent of scattered leaves, to catch gold and cinnamon and ocher colored 
sunrays falling from the trees.  Her street was lined with trees.  
Piles and piles of leaves littered the sidewalks and the yards of her 
neighbors’ houses.  A squirrel, cheeks swollen with acorns, scampered 
down the sidewalk past Ruth, as if they were racing and he was winning. 
 She was the tortoise.  He was the hare. 

An old man in a misshapen felt hat was walking slowly farther ahead. 
Wearing a long, dusty overcoat, black slacks and carrying a cane, he 
shuffled down the sidewalk so leisurely that before long, Ruth passed 
him.  She gave him a smile and a “good morning” which he cheerfully 
returned. 

“And I hope you have a good day,” he added, waving his cane.  His
wrinkled gray-brown hand was covered in liver spots and translucent 
tufts of white hair.  His face, though, was younger.  Maybe 50, maybe 
60, with the creased old hands of an octogenarian. 

Moods for Moderns was the name of a quirky music store Ruth frequented
while she was in high school.  It was the only store in a 100 mile 
radius that carried Mojo Nixon, Sun Ra and Elvis Costello imports, as 
well as sheet music, hard-to-find magazines, music related books, and 
questionable smoking paraphernalia.  In fact, the store borrowed its 
name from an obscure Costello tune that Ruth loved.  That alone made 
her curious enough to make the hour trek from her hometown of Johnson 
to Greenmeadow, and the atmosphere, as well as the store’s 
knowledgeable and good-looking owner Dan Hodges, kept her coming back 
two or three times a month to get the latest Village Voice, shoot the 
breeze with Dan and match musical wits with the other customers. 



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