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Tuesday 200 - #34

“I hear they don’t always tell the truth,” I whispered.

“Of course they do,” Clayre said. We were approaching a field of fortune-telling flowers. They blossomed only once a year, raised by the coven of militant Wiccan existentialists who “recommended” Clayre change the spelling of her name upon indoctrination.

“There’s no more ‘I’, only ‘why’,” she’d said when I queried her vowel movement.

“You have your question and you know the rules, right?”

I had written it down in the prescribed purple ink, placed it in an envelope with fresh sage, and slept with it under my pillow for the past week, dreaming of roast pork and stuffing. Without an alternate spelling to my name, I was forbidden to make noise or touch anything once in the garden.

“Remember,” she said, “absolute silence.” She led me into the lush carpet of green. Blood-red rosebuds, each atop a single stalk, turned to watch us; oracular oculi protected by petal-like eyelids.

Amazing. Absolutely ama … ah … ah CHOO!

Fucking hay fever.

As if shot by my sneeze, the flowers vanished in a pink mist. Clayre gasped. Witches glared.

Suddenly, I had a new question.

How do I get out of here?

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