The thing about being a fake psychic is that you’re supposed to be the one making stuff up, not the universe making stuff up for you. But here I am, waiting for my oat milk latte (because apparently that’s what fraudulent fortune tellers drink now), watching actual colored smoke curl around people like some kind of metaphysical Instagram filter.
I may be having a stroke. If so, someone please call 911 and tell my mom I love her.
Waiting for my brain to explode, I blink and look around.
Nope. I’m still alive.
Mrs. Chen from the dry cleaners has green wisps trailing her, which probably means she’ll win at mahjong again. The teenager behind the counter has pink swirls that make me think of first kisses and questionable dating choices. And Brad — I’ve named the hipster barista Brad because he never wears his name tag — has a murky brown that suggests he really did spit in that one guy’s coffee yesterday.
Gross.
I’ve only ever seen this smoke around myself before, a sort of turquoise mist that I assumed was a migraine aura, or maybe the result of that questionable mushroom tea my cousin gave me last Christmas.
I never thought I’d see it around others.
“Your coffee’s ready… Cassandra.” Brad smirks when he says my professional name. He knows it’s fake. I know it’s fake. The smoke around him shifts orange, which is new and concerning.
I keep my head down from the cafe to my shop down the street. Maybe if I don’t see the wisps of colored smoke around people, they don’t exist.
Though I think they do.
I’m still debating my sanity when I reach my shop, “The Future Is Crystal Clear,” (look, I was going through a pun phase when I named it). There’s a man waiting outside, surrounded by no smoke at all.
That can’t be good.
“We’re closed,” I say automatically, even though my sign says we open at nine. Which it is. “Forever. Going out of business. Mercury’s in retrograde. Pick an excuse.”
He doesn’t move. Just stands there, smoke-less, in a sleek tailored suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. “Miss Sullivan,” he says, using my real name which, okay, red flag. “We need to talk about your new ability.”
“My new —” I stop, key hovering near the lock. “Listen, if this is about that thing with your wife’s missing cat, I already gave the refund —”
“This is about the colors you’re seeing. The smoke.” He steps closer, and the complete absence of aura around him makes my skin crawl. “You’ve joined a very select group of people who can see potential futures. Real ones.”
I laugh because what else can I do? “Right. And you’re what? The smoke police?”
“The Fate Management Bureau.” He hands me a business card that somehow manages to be both completely blank and impossibly heavy. “We need to discuss why you can’t see my future. Or, more importantly, your own.”
The turquoise smoke that’s followed me for years? It chooses that moment to disappear.
“Oh,” I say, suddenly understanding. Shit. This is it. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”
He smiles, and the expression is kind, almost sweet. “No, Miss Sullivan. You’re going to become Death. We have an opening in the department, and your fortune telling experience makes you uniquely qualified.”
I look at my coffee, wishing I’d ordered something stronger.
“Does the job have dental?”
Image made with Midjourney.
Prompt provided by NoGENver, GoOnWrite.
Flash Fiction written by S. J. Pajonas with assistance from Claude 3.5 Sonnet.
Listen to this story on YouTube at https://youtu.be/tElwBbt5hgg
