Words of Wisdom

  Words of Wisdom

  D.E. Dennis

  Published by D.E. Dennis, 2018.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Entry One

  Entry Two

  Entry Three

  Entry Four

  Entry Five

  Entry Six

  Entry Seven

  Entry Eight

  Entry Nine

  Entry Ten

  Entry Eleven

  Entry Twelve

  The End

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY D.E. DENNIS

  Entry One

  THE CHIME THAT ACCOMPANIED the opening door made me look up from my appointment book.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said to the slender woman standing in the doorway. “I’m not open yet.” I stood behind the counter consulting the day’s schedule. “Come back in thirty minutes and we’ll set up an appointment.”

  “No, please,” the woman objected, “I must speak with you now.”

  I kept my tone even. “As I said, I’m closed. Come back in—”

  “It’s a matter of life and death!”

  I blinked at her, slowly putting the appointment book back on the counter.

  “Very well,” I said. “Please come through.”

  I stepped around the front desk and walked over to the door leading to my psychic reading room, or just the Reading Room as I liked to call it. I held it open for the woman and she rushed inside.

  “Please take a seat.”

  With some difficulty and skirt hiking, she arranged herself on a cushion. I walked around her to the other side of the table. It was a little higher than my ankle so I had to sit cross-legged on the floor, but after years of practice, I did it much more gracefully than my guest.

  I took a moment to study her. She appeared older, in her forties, but still quite striking. Her hair a brilliant red that glowed under the string lights. Her blue eyes flittered about the room and invoked visions of blueberry-flavored hard candies and freshly skimmed swimming pools.

  I smiled to put her at ease. “Your perfume is lovely.”

  She gave me a tentative smile back.

  “Thank you. It was a gift from my daughter.”

  “I must find out where she got it.” She opened her mouth to say something, but I kept going. “But we can talk about that later. You had an urgent matter you wanted to discuss?”

  “Y-yes.” She nodded, eyes filling with tears. “Oh, Madame Moon. You have to help me. It’s...it’s my husband. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but...he...my husband is going to murder me.”

  FORGIVE ME. I KNOW that’s a cruel place to pause, but I thought I should give you some background before we go any further. A bit of need to know.

  I am Amari Grace Moon. To my clients, I am Madame Moon. To my friends, I am Mari. I live in Zinnia Springs, a beautiful little college town on the edge of Florida where I run my own business. I opened shop three years ago and have managed to eke out a pretty good living, acquiring dozens of clients, which is not too bad for a twenty-six-year-old.

  Despite what all the naysayers—and my mother—have said, I have been able to grow a successful business as a psychic. People come from all over Zinnia Springs and even some of the neighboring towns to have a reading with me. They let me stare into their souls and read their innermost desires.

  You’re probably thinking they’re fools. There is no such thing as psychics and anyone who lets themselves be taken in by such lunacy deserves to be parted with their money.

  I completely agree with you. There is no such thing as psychics, but there are such people as empaths. I should know; I am one.

  I am someone who can sense the emotions of others. I know what people are really feeling behind their fake smiles and defiant scowls. I was born with this ability like my father and his mother before him and her parents before her. I don’t know how it works or why we have this ability, but we exist and we have for centuries.

  Of course, our abilities are a secret. We’ve seen what the stunted do to people they view as different, and we have no desire to be ostracized, enslaved, used, or abused. “Stunted” is the word empaths, with the exception of myself, use to refer to people who don’t have our abilities. It’s short for emotionally stunted.

  I don’t think it’s quite fair to call non-empaths that though. I think we’re all just people, extra special abilities or otherwise. We all laugh and love and hurt. We wake up and go to our jobs, pay our bills, and take care of our families. We make the most of what we’ve got. And what I’ve got is no degree and an ability to tell when someone is moments away from an explosion. Three years ago, I figured I might as well use my particular talents, so I leased office space from a friend, rented the apartment above it, and slapped Madame Moon’s Psychic Readings onto the front window.

  A year in, and I was booked solid for weeks in advance. People raved about how I was the real deal. How I could peer into their souls. How I got to the heart of what they truly wanted. And how I understood them in a way no one else did. Business was booming, and by year two, I figured I was set to keep playing the part of Madame Moon. At the rate things were going, and the rates I was charging, I would be able to retire early and move to Costa Rica.

  Then came year three, two months into it this red-haired woman came into my office and told me her husband was going to kill her. On that day, I was put on a collision course to a past that I’d tried so hard to bury. Old wounds were sliced open and my demons came rushing out.

  Now that the story of the red-haired woman has concluded, I can’t hide any longer. I have to tell you the truth, and it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I won’t start from the very beginning. I need you to understand everything and strangely enough, you can only do that if I begin at the end and work my way back. So promise me you won’t skip ahead. Read these journals in the way they were meant to be read, and I promise when you’re done it will all make sense.

  Okay. I’ve done enough stalling, so let’s get back to the story of the red-haired woman.

  “Y-YES.” SHE NODDED, eyes filling with tears. “Oh, Madame Moon. You have to help me. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but...my husband...he is...is going to murder me.”

  My eyes bugged out. I try always to maintain a graceful, mystical vibe with clients, but I admit she threw me.

  “He what?” I questioned. “He said that?” I scrambled for the phone hiding in the slim pocket of my ankle-length trumpet skirt. “You need to call the police.”

  “No, wait!” She put her hand up and I paused, a finger poised above the screen. She shook her head. “There’s no point in calling the police. He hasn’t made any direct threats, and I have no proof. They’ll laugh me out of the station.” She sighed. “There’s also the matter of who my husband is...”

  I rested the phone on the table.

  “Who is he?” I probed.

  “Tad Breyfogle.”

  “Tad Brey—the mayor?!” I squeaked. My eyes bugged out again. I was doing serious damage to my Madame Moon persona.

  She nodded sadly.

  After the initial shock wore off, I shook myself and took a deep breath.

  I got back into the role of Madame Moon, saying gently, “It doesn’t matter who he is. If he is threatening your life, you need to go to the police. I’ll come with you, if you’re afraid to go alone.”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said firmly. “I told you I have no proof. He hasn’t come out and threatened me nor has he done anything suspicious...like stockpiling lye in the attic. The police can’t help me.”

  “But you believe I can?” I inquired. “How do you know he’s going to try to kill you? You said he hasn’t made any threats.”

 
“I just know―I can feel it...I can see it in his eyes.” She leaned forward, eyes meeting mine. “Over the last few months, he’s changed. He’s became more withdrawn, cold toward me.” Her gaze shifts as she recalled more details. “He recoils from my touch and sometimes I catch him staring at me and...and the look in his eyes...” She shuddered. “It’s plain as day what he wants to do, and the other night― I overheard him on the phone with his lawyer saying he wants to make changes to his will, a will that names me as his sole beneficiary, I knew my time was running out. That’s why I’ve come to you. I need your help.”

  “I’ll help you however I can, Mrs. Breyfogle. Just tell me how.”

  “Veronica, please,” she corrected. “And it’s simple. I just need you to use your gift and find out how and when my husband will kill me. I got your card from a friend of mine.” She rifled through her purse and pulled out my business card. “She told me how amazing you are. That you knew things no one could. If you can divine when the murder is supposed to happen, then I can be prepared to defend myself at least.”

  I sighed. “I’m very sorry, Mrs.— Veronica, but I’m afraid you have the wrong idea about me and my services. I don’t have precognition that is the ability to see the future. I am clairvoyant. I read people, see through to their souls, and gain insight into their being.” Her look of confusion compelled me to explain further. “To be fair, this insight can help me make predictions. For example, if I read the murderous intent in your husband’s heart, I could predict he will one day try to kill someone, but I still would not be able to tell the where, when, or how.”

  She visibly deflated, sinking into the cushion. I felt awful. I opened my mouth to tell her I’d help in other perhaps non-psychic ways, but she perked back up before I could say so.

  “Then that’s what we’ll have to do,” she insisted, her face reading determined.

  “Which is?”

  “You’ll have to read me. You can sense his intent, find out why my husband of twenty-three years wants me dead.” She leaned forward. “How we do this? Should I lie down or should we be sitting closer? Or—”

  I put my hand up and she halted.

  “I can hold a reading but know this, it will only tell me about you, not about your husband. I can only gain insight from your perspective. If you want me to read your husband, I’ll have to meet him and be in his presence.”

  “That’s not a problem,” she said unflinchingly. “We’re having a dinner party tomorrow night for members of the city council. You will be my guest and get your opportunity to see into his heart and discover what changed in him, but you might as well read me too. It might help. Now for my reading. What do I have to do?”

  I stretched and placed my hands on the table, palms up.

  “Simple. Just place your hands in mine, relax and clear your head. I’ll take over from there.”

  She nodded and grabbed my hands. She closed her eyes and took a few deeps breaths. I got the sense of her feelings while she did so. They were a jumbled mess, but as she breathed, her pulse slowed and her emotions calmed ever so slightly.

  “Veronica,” I whispered. My voice seemed to echo in the small space. “I want you to keep your mind clear of all other thoughts and distractions. Think only of your husband, Tad Breyfogle.”

  Anger roared up before I finished my sentence. Hot, pulsating anger that filled me up and brought a sneer to my face. I wanted to flip the table over, reduce it to splinters, and set alight to the remains. I wanted to take a sledgehammer to the walls. I wanted—

  Now, it was my turn to breathe deeply. I focused my mind and moved past the anger. There. Hiding right behind the rage was a deep pool of sadness. Vast and seemingly endless, it was the pain her anger worked so hard to hide.

  This poor woman, I thought sadly.

  “Your husband’s betrayal has cut you to the bone,” I said softly. “I sense your all-consuming anger. I know it feeds you and keeps you going and appearing strong. It’s the only thing that prevents your depression from smothering you and dragging you under.”

  Veronica didn’t respond, and I opened my eyes to find her gazing at me in shock. She looked pale and stricken.

  “Yes,” she whispered. Her chin trembled. “I just don’t understand, Madame Moon. We were college sweethearts. I gave him two children. I’ve supported his dreams and have been there for him every step of the way. I’ve done everything for him. Now he wants to get rid of me!” she cried. “What did I do wrong?!”

  I was flooded with a torrent of anger and sadness, simultaneously wanting to burst into tears and smack someone in the face, quickly I released her hands. I placed my hands in my lap and worked to ground myself in my own feelings.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, Veronica,” I said when my feelings were my own again. “You’re the victim here.” I stopped. “Actually, you’re not. You’re not a victim, nor are you going to be. Whatever your husband is planning, we are going to put a stop to it.” I nodded with determination. “I will see you tomorrow at dinner. Madame Moon is at your service.”

  She thanked me profusely as I led her to the door. I held it open for her and then followed her out.

  “There’s no need to thank”―my eyes widened as they met the person sitting innocently in my waiting room―“me,” I forced out. “Really. No need to thank me. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

  She smiled gratefully. “How much do I owe you?”

  “What?” I said distractedly. “Oh, nothing. There’s no charge, of course.”

  She thanked me some more as I hurried her out the door. When she was out, I closed the door behind her and locked it.

  “What are you doing here?” I hissed, spinning around to face her.

  Makayla Sweet rolled her eyes in response. “Is that any way to speak to your best friend? You have me thinking you’re not happy to see me.”

  “That’s not it,” I said quickly. “I just haven’t seen you in so long. A year. Why are you showing up now?”

  She shrugged. “I missed you. It’s been too long.” She smiled, and I couldn’t help smiling back. She looked great. Her hair was a mass of braids that she kept piled on top of her head. She wore a high-necked sleeveless gold top with a black sequined skirt and gold pumps. As always, she was runway-ready.

  I sank into the armchair across from her. “I’ve missed you too,” I said sincerely.

  Kayla glanced around my waiting room. The plush white carpet, the painted bamboo forest decorating my walls, and the mini chandelier shooting off prisms of light. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

  It was my turn to shrug. “Turns out you can make a decent living as a psychic. Glad I didn’t go through with that law school plan.” I chuckled, and Kayla joined in.

  “Obviously, this was the better deal,” she said. “Look at you, hobnobbing with the mayor’s wife.”

  That wiped the smile off my face, my voice turned heavy as I tried to explain, “We weren’t exactly hobnobbing. She came to me because she thinks her husband is planning to kill her. She wants me to help save her.” I sunk further into the chair, weighted down by the enormity of the situation.

  Her eyebrows lifted as she asked dryly, “Isn’t that a job for the cops?”

  “It would be if she had any proof. She only has her feelings to go on which is why she came to a psychic.”

  “And what are you supposed to do?”

  “She wants me to read him,” I replied. “Try to discover when and why he wants her dead.”

  Kayla cocked her head. “Mari...you know you’re not really psychic, right?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Obviously,” I deadpanned. “But I am an empath. Maybe if I can understand what he’s feeling, I’ll get closer to the reason why the mayor of Zinnia Springs has turned homicidal. Then, I can stop him.”

  Kayla still looked skeptical, she leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair, and cupped her chin before she spoke. “Mari, knowing what a killer is feeling isn’t always
enough to stop them. You know that.”

  I flinched and looked away.

  After a full minute of silence, Kayla sighed, “Well, good luck. I hope things turn out okay.”

  “Thanks,” I said, turning back to her. “I’m going to the mayor’s house tomorrow night. They’re throwing a party for the city council and Mrs. Breyfogle wants to see what I can discern from her husband.”

  Kayla’s eyes brightened. “A party? Why didn’t you mention this before?” She grinned. “Am I invited?”

  I snorted. “Nope. You’re not.”

  She harrumphed, “I’m coming anyway. So ha!”

  I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help the smile playing at my lips.

  “You’re so immature.”

  A knock at the door interrupted whatever retort she was going to throw back at me. I looked up at the clock hanging over the doorway and cursed. It was time for my first appointment.

  I smiled apologetically at Kayla. “Duty calls.”

  She waved me on, and I stood up, slipped back into my Madame Moon persona, and glided over to the door.

  “Mr. Konishi,” I said, my voice deeper and softer than before. “You’re right on time. Madame Moon welcomes you. Come through and we’ll begin.”

  I WAS BONE-TIRED WHEN I finally turned out the lights and shut down my computer. It’s more exhausting than you think diving through the streams of human emotions. Especially, when you feel them like they are your own. I can go from up to down and back up again fifty times in one session.

  I stepped outside and sucked in a lungful of fresh air. The sky was awash with playful colors. The setting sun’s final gift before we were plunged into night.

  “Hey, Moon.”

  I opened my eyes and said, “Hi, Daisy. How’s it going?”

  She scoffed then replied, “Pigs chased me from my park bench. Said I was scaring those rich brats.”

  “You slept in Calm Meadows Park again? How did you even get in?” Calm Meadows was a gated community and home to the wealthy members of Zinnia Springs.