Madame Astra is tiring now, but still she moves amongst the crowd, laying a hand on a shoulder here, stroking a face there.
There’ve been messages for many people tonight; but there is a desperate soul somewhere in this audience, and something powerful is coming through for him.
She stops before a man clutching an empty bottle, examines his haggard face, his now shabby suit. This is a ruined man, she thinks.
“Walter?” she asks.
He nods miserably.
“There’s a message for you.”
He looks up.
“Cecil says ‘Hi’.” She pauses. “Oh wait… I hear him clearly now. Cecil says ‘why?’”.
I hope this story is self-explanatory, but if it’s not, perhaps google the tags that go with the story. I’m not offering a link because the world-wide headlines are, I believe, bordering on the xenophobic. Hope all Friday Fictioneers are raring to go today; Rochelle is firmly in the driving seat, doing what she does best. And her story today is a cracker …