Midsummer's Eve - By Kitty Margo Page 0,1

but now I was salivating like a mad dog just thinking about the pecan wrapped nougat as I pulled up to the gas pumps. After putting the Jeep in park, I was pulling the keys out of the ignition when a sign jumped out from the surrounding political propaganda and immediately grabbed my attention.

Lady Wonder

Psychic

A psychic? There’s a thought. How does one know if a psychic has a real gift or is just another scam artist looking for a quick buck? Was it possible for someone to predict the future? For real? Perhaps tell me how to plan for the next catastrophe in my life before it swallowed me whole? Intending to find out, I cruised past the pumps causing the flashing gas symbol to emit a pesky little tone.

Now let me just say this from the get go. I am a huge believer in fate. In my opinion, nothing happens purely by chance. There is a reason for everything. Even for my life being the pronounced travesty that it is. The fact that I needed gas and pulled into this little South Carolina town, then into this gas station, must have been predestined. And the fact that there happened to be a psychic housed right next to the gas station? Well, it was definitely a sign not to be ignored. Hey, I’ve never been to a soothsayer. What could it hurt?

I pulled behind the doublewide trailer with what looked like a brand spanking new silver Lexus ES 350, and a sparkling black Hummer with those expensive rims that spin when the vehicle isn’t moving, parked under an aluminum shed. The thought crossed my mind that being a medium must be quite the lucrative business and she certainly had the “location is everything” down pat. Either that, or she was married to Snoop Dogg.

Then I noticed 6 cars, ranging from a shiny new Mercedes to a beat up old pick up truck, in a dirt lot behind the shed. At least an inch of dust settled on the Jeep, as I rode down what must be a frequently traveled, heavily rutted road, and parked beside a red Dodge Neon that looked like a child had taken tap dancing lessons on the hood.

Okay, forgive me for being catty. However, if I could afford a Lexus and a Hummer with fancy wheels, I could certainly afford a load of gravel or oyster shells for my driveway. One of my pet peeves is a dirty ride.

As I strolled to the door I noticed a sign, which read “No Children”. Good! Now don’t get me wrong. I love children. Especially the ones you can send home. At any rate, the sheer volume of sound they produce immediately puts my brain in migraine mode. I just wasn’t up for it this morning.

I opened the door slowly, having no clue what to expect, and found at least 12 members of what I assumed to be the local society, squeezed into the waiting room. At first glance, they didn’t strike me as being a Sunday go to meeting church crowd. Then again, most churches I have attended tend to frown upon the art of fortune telling altogether. This looked like a well-seasoned bunch of folks. Not exactly what I would call card-carrying members of the KKK, more like one of the seedier biker gangs. You know the ones that have fundraisers for needy children, but are a little rough around the edges and will never fit comfortably into polite society. And wouldn’t you know it? Three of the room’s inhabitants were children.

Perhaps the folks in the room were illiterate and couldn’t be blamed for their noncompliance of the rules. Gazing around the room, I quickly assessed a problem. Seating. It stands to reason that if the guardians of the trio of rambunctious children had obeyed the sign and left the kids at home, where they belonged, all the adults would have found a seat.

As it was, it was standing room only, so I found an empty wall and leaned against it without anyone in the room so much as glancing my way. Unfortunately, I had the great misfortune to land beside a sitting preschooler, who was steadily popping and snapping gum in her jaw with a fervor that would have made a Fourth of July firecracker jealous. And what about the other two darling little toddling angels? Well, they seemed hell bent upon using my shoe as a ramp for their miniature skateboards. Their mother, assuming they