Story Time

Just a crappy short story. Playing with a theme.

There once was a boy. Like most boys, he was curious about the future, and how things would go. Who he would meet, whether his current "relationships" would last, and so on. He was curious about the path his life would ultimately take.

Of course, the boy was smart. He knew things could change and would change. But he wanted to know the most likely route, if he made no big changes from the path he was already on.

We should mention right about now, that the boy was unusual. He could feel some things, sense things about other people. Sometimes he could hear things before they happened. Sometimes he could "feel" when something was about to happen. So he focused and focused, and centered himself, on the inside and on the out.

He felt something.

He could see a gray bar, stretching from side to side. On this bar, there were many things. Wondrous things. But he could not focus on this bar. He could, however, see blocks of yellow overlaying the bar. He knew, somehow, that these were connections with specific people. Relationships. There were three big ones. The other details were all indistinct and he could not focus on them.

There was a large block of yellow, followed by gray. Then there was what looked like one very big block of yellow. But as he looked closer, he saw it was not one block. It was two. One, followed by a short gray expanse, with a thin orange line, followed by a second block. The orange, he knew, was a mistake.

This third block, he knew, was different. How, he did not know. Who, he did not know. When, he did not know. He knew that before the block ended, this view ran out of focus. He did not know what this meant. Nor did he know when or if the block ended. He pulled back away from the gray line, which he seemed to have come closer to. He tried to see the other details of the line. He saw, and he knew. And then, the forces that govern such things decreed that enough is enough. And he no longer saw, and he no longer knew. And he was ejected from the Prophetic Realm in his mind.

He knew that he would, as befit the pattern of his life, have a trinity of loves. Two to be false, one to be true. The rest disappeared, departing fog-like, much like a dream leaving a freshly awoken mind.

He knew he was the dreamer, and the dream was true, and settled in for a long wait, anticipating the day, and dreading the first two failures. For who know when nor what the first two blocks would be. And praying the golden years of the third would not be lost by being aware of its very existence. For such is the folly of the prophecy. To know the future allows it to be changed. For good and for ill.