Through A Night Of Flowers

ThroughA NightOfFlowers

Can t Escape In Your Arms

by Erin Mullens:

Questions For My Ex

by Lavinia Vianini:

All Things Unholy

What I think about when I think about you Confessions I would tell you with my eyes closed " you have to let it rest"

by Angie Yeung:

My Valentine Doesn't Love Me Back Asking

by Shamik Banerjee:

The Miss In My Dreams

If I Burden You With Love To Be Served The Nightly Venture And Since I Love Thee

by R.S: I Sit By My Window

Sing Me The Song Of Love Tonight

Love Looks Not With The Eyes An Affair To Remember

by Janvi Bhardwaj: Nani Maa by Willow Kang:

A Dream Of Cattails

by

Michael Menendian:

The Unfortunate Teller

Back cover: Through A Night Of Flowers

President: Curios

Director: Willow Kang Liew Bei

Assistant Director: Sophia Lai

Consultant: Ker Vanish

Graphic designer: Gerselle Koh

Editors: Jessica King

Erin Mullens

Italo Ferrante

Staff writers: Jessica King

Sharon Pan

Angie Yeung

Zafra Kazi

Shamik Banerjee

The Birth Of Hope

by Jessica King

Since the age Hope attended the first day of school, she counted herself as lucky as the magical pink sparkles on her shoes that her wish for a best friend came true. He protected and cherished and loved her. They shared peanut-butter-jelly sandwiches during recess and played puzzles at one of the shaded benches during lunch. He sheltered her from the rough physical games and sports, “because you ’ll get hurt from those meanies; play with me instead!” . He always ensured that she triple-checked her math homework before passing everyone ’ s papers to the front where the teacher waited. Whenever Hope accidentally caught Ms. Faith’ s gaze, her friend would remind her to look down, “ you don’t know the multiplication table, remember? Don’t let her call on you!” Her best friend was the knight in shining armor princesses always dreamed of in the weathered fairytale books she borrowed from the school library. He protected her from all the dangers she’d nearly put herself in. She didn’t need anyone else in life as long as he was by her side!

As the sun roasted her hair, she gazed at her group of classmates racing across the field when the bell rang for after-school activities. A bruised soccer ball dashed between their skinny legs, screams of laughter erupting with every clumsy kick. A thought sparked in her mind, one that she hadn’t drawn in her notebook before:

What would it be like to play soccer with them?

Shoving the last slice of peanut-butter-dipped apple into her mouth, she dropped down to double-knot her shoelaces. Her heart pounded against her ribcage as heavily as the rays of summer heat. Excitement vibrated

like whenever she picked up a pink pencil cess. Maybe she could make new friends!

” he whispered in her ear. He yanked her the shade before her sunburn worsened. ook mean. What if they don’t like you?” instantly dropped from her mouth as it med a pout. She kicked the floor, scuffing hoe, and stormed to the cafeteria where achers passed out ice cream sandwiches to the lingering children. Before she routinely ands of the melting treat, she stared at was right. What if they didn’t like her? or ugly? What if they thought she was a troll or a gremlin because of how she ate her ice cream? Was that why they wouldn’t want to play with her?

Tears pricked her eyes as she shuddered, mentally declaring to never ponder on playing soccer again. She snatched a few napkins and scrubbed her hands and mouth until her sticky skin flared with rawness.

In her high school chemistry class, she drew a boy’ s name surrounded by smiley faces and pink clouds. She noticed the senior in the debate club with his unwavering voice and firm values. As soon as she could get her hands on the school magazine, she taped an article of him holding a 1st place trophy in her journal, the outline of a large, glittery red heart marked around his face. Her infatuation only soared when their chemistry teacher, Mrs. Chance, paired them together as partners for a class project. His sophisticated smile sparkled with sincere sympathy for Hope as she

stuttered over her words and stumbled over her feet. Whenever his palm brushed against her skin to reach for the project prompt, her face burned with the fierce fluster of a wildfire.

When she profusely apologized after he stole a glance of his shrine in her notebook, he only offered a playful wink before moving along to his desk. Hope hid her face for the remainder of the lesson, heat radiating from her body. The remnants of a waxy navy crayon peeled off from the page and stuck to her cheek.

When the bell rang for lunch hour, she gazed at the back of his head as he shoved the ridiculously heavy textbooks into his backpack and heaved the straps onto his shoulders. He was nowhere close to being a jock, but his cool demeanor possessed a strength that nearly pinned Hope in her place.

She rose from her desk, mustering up the little courage she had to speak to him. Hey, Dare, I like you. Will you go out with me?

“Don’t!” her best friend exclaimed, seizing her arm. His grip wrinkled her blue sleeve and bruised her frail skin. “What if he laughs or hurts you?”

Hope trembled as she froze in a half-risen stance, watching the boy slide his homework into one of his binders. He was right. He was always right. How could she look in the eyes of her dream crush when she didn’t have anything worthy to say? A rock heavier than their chemistry book lodged in her throat, its weight rightfully planting her in her seat. When the boy looked over his shoulder and waved farewell, she never looked at him again.

The rain pattered against the window as Hope leaned over her journal, her tired eyes strained and aching. A scrap of torn notebook paper rested against one of the neglected college textbooks, bearing her breathless handwriting:

I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn’t say any other way–things I had no words for.

Georgia O’Keeffe, mother artist of American modernism

–

The lamp glared at the spray of pastels across the page: a lavender sky with bubblegum clouds and gold stars, a land of mint green hills and baby blue flowers, caressed by waves of silver water. She reached for her brown and gold pencils, sparks of inspiration humming in her fingertips–

“What are you doing?”

She slammed her notebook shut, the electricity stalling to a faint static.

“N-Nothing–”

Fear gripped her heart in a fist of cold steel as her best friend flipped to her drawing with a casual flick of his wrist. “What’ s this?”

“It’ s nothing,” she murmured, shadows casting gloom over her eyes. Her knuckles paled as she gripped the edges of her chair. Her blood screamed at his presence and soared at the sight of her drawing; she trembled with terror and exhilaration, a thousand words roaring for release.

“What was it that we learned today in art history? ‘To create one ’ s own world takes courage. ’”

“Georgia O’Keeffe,” she breathed. Yes, it had to be a sign when she opened her textbook tonight. Professor Muse’ s lecture focused on O’Keeffe, whose words clawed deep into Hope’ s soul and dragged every inch of it from the darkest corner of her heart. “I want to be an artist!” Silence swelled in the four small walls like a balloon. The millions of words that’d screamed on her tongue had poured themselves into those seven syllables. As she stared at her art piece, Hope couldn’t imagine all the colors in the world to paint a perfect picture of her perfect predestination: her color pencils, markers, and paintbrushes in fingerprintstained children’ s books.

“I want to be an artist,” she reaffirmed, staring at her best friend in the eyes. In that mortifying, miraculous, marvelous moment, Hope realized that she was staring into her own reflection.

“You? An artist?” he instantly ridiculed. “Be realistic! Who would look at your art? Look at that!” He swung crooked fingers at the page. “How would you take care of yourself when no one even puts you on the shelf?”

“Surely the skill comes with practice― ”

“No!” he shouted. “Art only comes to truly talented and gifted people. If you can ’t even make a decent picture, how could you ever be successful?” When her best friend’ s presence left, the poison remained, digging its way into her heart like a snake. Her soul shriveled and died that night. What colors could she possibly use that would inspire a child?

When the winter storms finally relented, Hope wandered through the park across the street from the campus, spring bursting around her footsteps. Dew rested on glossy leaves and saturated blooms. The landscape glistened like crystals with the sun ’ s damp reflection. Her chest tightened and ached with an overwhelming desire to immortalize this moment in watercolor.

“Hey, Hope!” A girl slid onto the bench next to her, her smile brilliant like dawn. “We’ re in art history together, remember? I’ m Joy, in case you forgot. Ugh, I wish that class was longer.” She pulled out a notebook with a gold cover, swiftly flipping through pages until she landed on an incomplete phoenix in hues of ice blue and royal purple.

“That’ s beautiful!” Hope gasped, her eyes glued to the flecks of gradiance glorifying the beast’ s impending magnificence. What else lied within those pages? “How did you do all of this?” “This is what I love doing! I want to be an artist.” “But... aren ’t you afraid of people judging you?” Joy bursted into laughter. “Why would I? I don’t let anyone or anything stop

me. I believe in myself!” “Is it really that easy?” “Of course! Do what you want to do, love who you want to love, be who you want to be. When you find your passion, just go for it!”

After a moment of reflection, Joy nudged Hope’ s shoulder. “Come on, let’ s take a look at yours!”

Joy’ s words followed her for months, rejuvenating her broken heart, breathing life to her wildest creations. Her best friend tried to stop her, refrain her from taking dangerous risks. “Please stop this madness!” he cried as he clutched her in his tight embrace. “I’ m trying to protect you from hurting yourself!”

“But what if people will love me? What if I can find friends who will support me? What if I’ m proud of what I create?”

“I’ m your friend! I’ m all you need! Listen to me, I know what’ s right for you― ”

There was a long silence. Hope had turned and walked away from him.

“You are not my friend. If you truly cared about me, you wouldn’t hold me back.” He shrank with wide eyes and an open mouth. “I’ m not mad, but I’ m going to leave you now. I want to feel the pain, the betrayal, the heartache. I want to know the darkest shades of humanity so I can experience the pastels of happiness.” For the first time, the artist truly smiled. “Thank you for protecting me all these years, but you have to let me go now. ”

With her final farewell, Hope left Doubt behind.

About Jessica King

Jessica is a self-taught writer of ten years and a diehard cat lover. She's currently owned by three black rescue cats for a long-term (loving) contract. When she has time outside of university studies, she occasionally posts her academic journey and poetic excerpts on Instagram (@thewhitedovepoet) and works on her poetry collections for future publication.

I will recall this encounter for the rest of my life

by Karla Kazzari

Unconditional Love

by Karla Kazzari

In this life or another

by Karla Kazzari

Can't Escape by

Karla Kazzari

In Your Arms

by Karla Kazzari

About Karla Kazzari

She emerged to create an ideal space for those dreamers, bringing them magical reminders.

Questions For My Ex

When someone asks about me, What do you say? Am I just a friend

From high school you still talk to?

Am I the ex girlfriend?

Do you like to talk about me, Because you’re proud of me,

Or do you prefer to sweep me under the rug

As part of your cringey teenage past?

As we were leaving each other, I asked how you’d deal, Once we were truly done and finished. You said you might cry a little. I have to know, how much is a little?

Did you miss me? Did you think about me?

At night, did you stare at the full moon

And run down a rabbit hole of memories?

When you walked through a garden of roses

Did it ever remind you of my smile?

Sometimes, when you stare at your hand

Do you feel a slight shiver from the time

It was tightly interlocked with mine?

Why did you fall in love with me?

The question rests with me still

Like a souvenir from our brief relationship.

Was it my pathological fear of wildlife?

Was it the fact that I distrusted all men

by Erin Mullens

And expected you to be secretly evil?

Maybe it was my burning desire to marry a Kpop idol?

Which one of my numerous flaws was it

That convinced you, out of all the people

You could’ve dated, you wanted it to be me?

And what was the moment when it first bloomed

Quietly inside of you, the interest in me?

Maybe the first time we truly talked

On the moving walkway of the art museum, When I looked up and realized for the first time How really tall you are? Maybe it was The second time we hung out together

On the floor in a theater, sitting way too close, Which was my fault, because I liked you then But I didn’t want to admit it yet. Or maybe it was before, long before We ever really got to know each other? Maybe it was when we were just tired students Sitting on opposite ends of the classroom?

Most of all, I want to ask why the reflection of myself That I saw floating in the middle of your irises Was a better person than the one I see in the mirror. What beauty, what goodness, did you see in me? And how did you find it? I can’t. No matter what I do, I can’t find the person that you liked.

About Erin Mullens

Erin is a staff editor for the Meditating Cat Zine. Erin Mullens (she/her) is an American college student. Her hobbies include reading, going to art museums, and hiking in the woods. She has previously been published in Cathartic Youth Literary magazine. You can follow her on Instagram at @moonchildisuhgood.

All Things Unholy

Leave the table before the host

by Lavínia Vianini

Swallow the shards of glass from the broken cup

Pluck the petals from a tulip, one at a time

Drown in a hotel bathtub

Feel the last breath of a bird

In the palm of your hand

And photograph it later

And bury it later.

Step on the lines that divide the floors

Leave your slippers turned upside down

Don’t knock on wood three times

Don’t knock on wood three times

Accidently poison a plant

Accidently kill a rabbit

Wake up with bloodstained sheets.

by Lavínia Vianini

what I think about when I think about you

The unspoken profanities

Promises on lips shut

The heresy contained in the intertwining of fingers

The purple light that comes under the window at dusk

Bodies are their own language

Prose receptacles that I annihilate in poetry

I think about language like I think about love

So latent, it's almost palpable

I write you because I see you in verses

Confusing semantics that reveal glimpses of secrets

Unexpected visits in dreams

Coffee drank over a welcoming silence

The plans that unfold in a spiral

Of moments that I keep inside a pendant

love in metric

reunion in tears

catharsis in verse.

by Lavínia Vianini

confessions I would tell you with my eyes closed

I wanted to tell you a story without having to put it into words.

I have seen you in a dream

In a room full of mirrors, a million versions of you

you, you, you

Like a prayer which I cannot help but whisper with trembling lips

and now every time you ’ re inside me I reach for more

I have told you my truths in the middle of the winter evening

Your back facing my chest because I’ m always scared

Defense mode

Like a small animal, please handle with care

I see the face of everything I had never yet felt

Every fragment of every poem looking blurred

Dissolving

Within me, heavy, heavy breath

I could never go near a blade but I have cut my chest open for you

Arteries exposed for you

Your name in my mouth like honey

The perfect boy

The only body who has ever touched with lust my first bed

You have torn apart all my seven walls and I have had enough deaths in this lifetime so, come in my beautiful, beautiful accident.

" you have to let it rest "

by Lavínia Vianini

“

Build me a house and call it Versailles”

Footnotes on a winter night

Blindfolded stepping on wood floor

Mixed signals which I cannot read

To letting go without an anticipation of the fall

Not a sense of fear, but hesitation

Not a pendulum anymore, it’ s all silent

The beauty of my grandmother’ s rose garden

The smell of bathing soap when I bury my nose in his hair

Vertigo

What is a poem without planning if not a stream of consciousness?

Except I can ’t seem to follow any train of thought

You see, I still believe in the greatness of love

And I still cry watching my favourite movie

And part of me still expects to be gifted flowers on a rainy day

And if my mother were to describe me with one word

She would say

Strength

Today I had to murder my old self

Buried her in the palace of my mind

Grey memories dancing as I let the waves take in

The smell of corn bread

Why do I always find myself back into the old pink house?

About Lavínia Vianini

Lavínia is a poet, translator and teacher graduated in Literature at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro. She was a volunteer researcher for two years and a scholar in Comparative Literature during her last year at the University. She has published the article "Sylvia Plath's tulips in Ana Martins Marques' garden: reality, madness, imagination."

My Valentine Doesn't Love Me Back

by Angie Yeung

Forget about me. Really, please. I wasn ’t born yesterday when I saw that look in your eye: that glance you give to everyone else. And that strain in your grin knowing you would rather be talking to your friends than me. So forget about me. Please forget about me.

I remember your voice, the exact number of your friends, and even the tiniest of details.

I can ’t believe you ’ re graduating soon. I want to count the petals of the flowers you hold in your right hand as you sign your name on your graduation hat with the other. I want to see that gleam of farewell in the reflection of your eyes while you glance right through me in the split second you walk by. In that plummeting millisecond a million wordless moments pass by like a millenium. What I had done those days before when you looked for me was wrong. I stepped forward too much to the point when you couldn’t breathe and find someone on your actual path. Whether it was you or I who married somebody else first, forget about me. I sure never would. I say all this, doodling on my notebook. I sure never would. I sure never would. I sure never would. Not for a million years. “Not in a million years. Not in a million years, ” I doodled and doodl d d doodled, and in a mere six months another passed me by. He wore leather boots and his hands in his pockets. His right one smu with ink as the left clutched a Nike backpa found out to be his profile picture on Insta I said, “not in a million years would I forge in a million years I would forget.”

What else was there to remember anywa

Asking For More And Nothing

by Angie Yeung

Am I asking for more?

Or is anything, more nothing, more Than another bore, forever more?

Can I bite the apple of your eye?

Or would

Getting leaflets of words from your larynx

Be like Eve’ s prying fingers on your Adam’ s apple?

And would

Counting the seeds on your apple core, Only shake the marrow out of your skeleton?

I could only pick it up from the floor, Wait outside a knobless door—

Asking for something more, That is nothing more, Forever more.

So would I be the sea

Dragging towards a moon

Whose light will only pass through me, Drank by others when I was closest by— And during the horizon, Would our touch only be an illusion

In the faraway gaze of a sun

Who lends you light I never had?

Yes I would. I would be asking more, And nothing more Could make it something more.

About Angie Yeung

Angie is a staff writer for Meditating Cat Zine. Angie Yeung is an avid writer, musician and poet. However, when lazy and tired, which is her 90% of the time, she loves to stream Chopin and Liszt’ s music. Head banging to classical music is her favourite past time yet.

The Miss In My Dreams

I dreamt about a bonny miss under the eve of flaxen lea. In a sundress white of flounce and thread, some goddess of a land was she. She came with the air of gentleness, in the hour of the falling misle; her light outshone the other lights; so did grandeur of her smile. What told be of her rose-beige face, the manner of her garnet hair; resigned the glaze of ivory, when words, her sublime lips did care. In serfdom to her winning time, I found no knowledge of my sense; but like a breeze thro' corridor, I felt a decade pass'd me hence. Then, sparse became the rain and mist, and more of blackness, sped to lour; a sign of parting, swapped on me; to rest, hid the sleepy flower.

In me, a deluge brought it soon, and soused my maiden's look in tear; each bone had known, we had to go, and never have each other near.

Before she parted, I walked the edge on which had landed her light feet; where the paction for my dream she held;

by Shamik Banerjee

whose lines, no mortal e'er could meet. Some footprints far, when she was gone, She stopped and graced a faded wave; I gazed to have her final gaze, and ne'er to it, a turn I gave. 'Twas treasure of two chastened hearts; our austere love of simple eyes; its moments few, yet, moment one, to vastness of a life applies. She brought me smile and left with pain, whose name perhaps, I'll never know; I know, how may, I beseech now, shall never see her face again.

If I Burden You With Love To Be Served

by Shamik Banerjee

If I burden you with love to be served, then know-- it's not for gaining but knowing you love me like the free wind winnowing onwards its windmill's heart to be conserved It's so because, one day, you may leave thus and perhaps, towards a better mill flow leaving me with your memories to know and forever, divorce the cord of us. Therefore, I withstrain you, though want not such— the shackling of you heart's desire to roam; but lie in the fortitude of my home-as rushing time gives it grace not so much and what else might so wrackingly smother, when you'll dwell in the heart of another?

The Nightly Venture

by Shamik Banerjee

Dropped again has the nightly venture, so we ally in its bowerwith the purpose one of sweet overture, to be abreast a flower; to bloom without the mortal reasons, and know what foretime each we held; so here we'll speak the many seasons of youth's lost dream and fading eld.

From withdrawn fortune, we have met, when life had wuthered dreadfully, but lost not the valour yet, though breath is short in you and me. So from this privilege, long we makethis time to wash our anguish- vain; although our transport, death will take, but come we now, in love, amain.

And Since I Loved Thee

by Shamik Banerjee

And since I love you, so I realise— unlike fascinating maples in spring, with lush leaves in boughs and blossoms sprouting but shedding during the chill winter skies; my love for you is like the evergreen Cedar trees— unclenched by seasonal wrist but, with all weathers and climates, tryst and stub broad trunks for birds to rest between; but, such love of mine does no flowers germ, neither sweet fruits to savour and relish, but, shade of wide lap to always cherish you and keep your loving heart, well and firm; for, stand I would, through low or heavy breath other's love dies here, but ours, even in death.

About Shamik Banerjee

Shamik Banerjee is a poet and poetry reviewer from the North-Eastern belt of India. He loves taking long strolls and spending time with his family. His deep affection with solitude meshes well with peace, and poetry provides him an ageless harbourage of happiness. He has recently founded a poetry journal and aims to contribute immensely towards its future.

I Sit By My Window by

I sit by my window

Sipping in the view like summer wine;

Waiting for twilight

When day and night entwine.

I see the moon step up in the sky, Interspersing its glow beneath

And the stars blinking their eyes.

I sit by my window

Watching the sunrays sieve through the trees

And dusty haze

Being blown by the breeze;

Oh, what a charm are these views

But my heart still longs

For a view that's only you.

R.S

Sing Me The Song Of Love Tonight

by R S

Love Looks Not With The Eyes by

Love looks not with the eyes; In recesses deep it sits and yearns. It seeks not return, nor a prize; A kindled fire, forever burns.

A flush of woe adorns its face,— Quivering like a falling leaf; Sorrow it flaunts with a grace; Under sequestered canopy of grief. It treads the paths less travelled, Where familiar winds do not blow; The gleam of love when unravelled, Takes to the skies to glow.

R.S

An Affair To Remember by

R.S

"

It's a Wonderful Life" , they would say, Where we'd "Never Say Goodbye" , But who can catch "The Blue Bird" , Fluttering in the "Vanilla Sky" .

It'd be raining tears from my "Spanish Eyes" , Looking at the sky above

When I'd leave you a note in "A Room with a View"

That says "To Sir, with Love."

About Radhika Soni

R.S. is a denizen of Delhi, India who writes poetry to find harmony in life. She had fallen in love with versing during her days as a student of literature. She rises early to feel inspired with the morning star and create new rhymes.

Nani Maa

by Janvi Bhardwaj

Notes from Janvi: I lost my paternal grandma when I was very young. I was never able to photograph her & always regretted it. There is no way to go back in time, but the lesson I learned from it drives me to make photographs of the other grandparents in my life while I still can. So on my recent trip to my nanighar, I photographed my maternal grandmother.

Each life is a personal wholeness, and in each phase there are different roles and duties. Through this particular series, I've tried to portray the development and growing that happens through a life span.

A Dream Of Cattails by Willow Kang

Above us, a celestial giant has tipped over his inkwell, & indigo ink spills over the sun. Starlight is an illusion for lost readers in the dusk. Capriciously, we decide that now is a fitting time to take a stroll:

the timber bridge murmurs an ancient lullaby, & cattails form a secretive anagram that encodes a worldly truth.

Soon enough, this whispered tale becomes one of a nocturnal observatory perched above a night bazaar.

We gaze at the winking eyes of fate through telescope lenses. It tells of somnolent burrows,

frolicking monkeys, hopeful china dolls. Tonight is free of corporeal laments, an occasion rare enough to be celebrated with tangerine teas & bewildering bonfires. As the crescendo of the party makes its gentle descend, that celestial giant scrambles for a vermilion washcloththe sun is le ed of it b ief te eb o ity

No longer from a gos paying trib of eternity

About Willow Kang

Willow is a writer from Singapore, where she is studying. Her current preoccupations include taking naps, and listening to music. While not in school, Willow reads a copious amount of fairytales and similarly writes fairytales to keep herself sane. Coffee breaks are also on her mind. She runs a shop at kofi.com/oldmanheart. Willow is the managing editor of the Meditating Cat Zine.

What can they do, take my treats away? I dare them! We will see how many clients with marvelously ugly tattoos flee from the shop everyday!

by Sophia Lai, @kumo.yoko

About Sophia Lai

Sophia is the assistant director of the Meditating Cat Zine, consistently providing much-needed advice on designing this zine's instagram posts and website. She has drawn a cast of unique cats for the Meditating Cat Zine. Fuelled by shibas & tea, Sophia finds solace in scribbling lil’ doodles in between the draining yet amusing life that is her school life. While most of her interests & fantasies constantly come and go, thoughts on what to draw next stay on her mind 24/7, rent free. Other than her hopes of pursuing a path in the visual arts or graphic design sector, she strives to actually fill up a full sketchbook (and fix her sleep schedule) someday. Find her on IG: @kumo.yoko.

The Unfortunate Teller

by Michael Menendian

( Madame Hussy is sitting at a table facing the audience. On the table is an uninflated balloon. When the scene begins she is alone with a deck of cards. She shuffles them a few times. Then she lays them on the table face down. Fans them out. Picks one. Without looking at the card she closes her eyes and says out loud: )

Mme Hussy: Two of clubs.

( She looks at the card which the audience cannot see. It is not the two of clubs. )

Mme Hussy: Damn!

( She repeats this action. Picks out anothe

Mme Hussy: Jack of diamonds.

( She slowly turns the card over. It is not

Mme Hussy: DAAAAAMMMNNN!

( A knock at the door. She quickly picks up her pocket as she yells out.. )

Mme Hussy: Just a minute….

( She “fixes” her hair, adjusts her shawl. T

Mme Hussy: Come in!

( A young woman enters. )

Sophie: Mme Hussy?

Mme Hussy: Yes?

Sophie: (A bit out of breath) Oh great. I a g p afraid I’d never find you. My, your address is difficult to locate. I must have walked past this shop six times before I realized where you were….. (she waits for a response from Mme H, but nothing). I mean, from the outside it looks like an insurance agency. Anyway, my name is-------

Mme Hussy: Don’t tell me. (She closes her eyes and thinks…. Finally)

Suzie!

Sophie: Er….no. Sophie.

Mme Hussy: Sophie? Are you sure? ( Sophie nods. )

Mme Hussy: Oh. You look like a Suzie.

Sophie: No. It’ s Sophie.

Mme Hussy: Sophie huh? Oh well… Suzie Sophie. What’ s the difference? What can I do for you. ( As Sophie begins to answer)

Wait! Don’t tell me. You’ ve come here to purchase life insurance. Am I correct?

Sophie: Life insurance? No! I came here to have my fortune read. Aren’t you …(She pulls out a folded piece of paper, perhaps a newspaper ad, and reads) “MME HUSSY. SPIRITUALIST, ASTROLOGIST AND PROGNOSTICATOR."?

Mme Hussy: Guilty as charged. (She laughs)

Sophie: Well I’ m here to have my fortune read or told or whatever it is you do to see into the future. I’ m getting married tomorrow and I’ m just not sure if this is the right move for me. I mean, I like Tom. He’ s very nice. Good manners, polite and considerate but…

Mme Hussy: A bit of a bore?

Sophie: (A bit taken aback). Why yes! How did you know?

(Mme Hussy indicates the folded newspaper ad in Sophie’ s hand)

Sophie: Oh yes, of course. How silly of me. So do you think you can help me? I mean, if I marry him can I still find happiness or will I live a life of misery, with the slow drip, drip, drip of ennui, eroding my heart and soul?

Mme Hussy: Please, sit down. (Sophie does so, sitting opposite Mme H)

I am certain I can calm your fears. But first I’ll need just a little more information before I look into my magic ball……….oon.

Sophie: Huh?

Mme Hussy: First of all, this young man, your fiancé...Bob, did you say?

Sophie: No. Tom.

Mme Hussy: Yes, yes. Tom. I knew that. I just wanted to make sure you were paying attention. This Tom boy. Is he rich?

Sophie: Very.

Mme Hussy: Ah. I see. Does he own property?

Sophie: Yes, but I don’t see what this has to do with------

Mme Hussy: Quiet! (Sophie clams up). Is his property in a flood plain?

Sophie: (Confusion starting to rise) Er…No.

Mme Hussy: Tornado alley?

Sophie: No.

Mme Hussy: Drought stricken forest out west?

Sophie: No… I really don’t see what this has to do with my happiness?

Mme Hussy: Why, it has everything to do with your happiness. The key to a successful marriage is…. Insurance.

Sophie: Insurance?

Mme Hussy: Absolutely! And these days, what with climate change you can never have too much insurance in case your house burns down, floats away in a flood zone or gets blown to bits by an unforeseen tornado. If you are not properly insured you could wind up homeless and penniless and then where is your damn happiness?

Sophie: What does any of this have to do with my future? I need to know whether Tom is truly the right man for me or should I call off the wedding and take my chances in the dating pool all over again? God, I mean the thought of having to go back into that scene, hoping to find my Prince Charming just seems so depressing. But I don’t want to end up with a man I am not passionately in love with even if he’ s rich, and kind and loves me very much.

Mme Hussy: Now you listen here Missy. Passionate love is VERY overrated. Believe you me.

Sophie: But I REALLY need to know. Will Tom bring me happiness?!?

Mme Hussy: Oh fine! Let me look into my magic ball…oon.

(She takes the balloon on the table and begins to blow it up. Sophie is dumbfounded by this prop and begins to say something but Mme H raises her hand, indicating for her not to speak. Sophie obeys. Mme H blows it up and ties it and lays it on the table. She begins rubbing the balloon slowly, seductively, closing her eyes and chanting.)

Mme Hussy: AYA WAMMA KOOMA! BOSSA NOVA MONO LOA…OH GREAT PROPHETESS OF THE NILE, QUEEN WATSITOYOU…COME FORTH AND REVEAL THYSELF. ART THOU NOT THE SEER OF ALL TRUTHS PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE? SPEAK TO ME. I HAVE A YOUNG WOMAN, SUZIE---

Sophie: (Softly, but firmly) Sophie.

Mme Hussy: Sophie and she needs to know…Should she marry… (looks to Sophie)

Sophie: Tom.

Mme Hussy: Tom. Will he make her happy or is this a doomed merger from the start? Give us a sign.

(

Mme H leans down and puts her ear to the balloon. She waits a few beats then secretly pops the balloon. Sophie lets out a loud yelp. )

Sophie: Oh my god!

(Inside the balloon is a folded piece of paper which Mme H unfolds and deciphers.)

Mme Hussy: The queen has spoken. She says - Marry Tom. Bundle your home, auto and life insurance and purchase your umbrella policy from me and you will live happily for the rest of your life.

Sophie: Really?

Mme Hussy: Absolutely!

Sophie: Wow. I never thought it would be this simple. Oh thank you

thank you thank you! (She looks at the time) Oh dear, I must run. I’ll be late for my rehearsal dinner.

(She starts quickly to leave.)

Mme Hussy: But wait! What about my insurance policy?

Sophie: Oh, no thank you. Tom is the most successful insurance agent east of the Mississippi. But thanks for the advice. I really appreciate it.

(Sophie runs off. Mme Hussy sighs. Takes out her deck of cards and spreads them on the table. She picks a card. Thinks. Says “Queen of Hearts” . Turns the card over…. “Fuck!” )

About Michael Menendian

Raised in Boston, Michael is a writer, director and producer who lives in Chicago. He is a co-founder of Raven Theatre, Chicago, where he served as Producing Artistic Director for 34 years, before retiring. Along with John Weagly, he co-wrote SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHRISTMAS GOOSE, available at Dramatic Publishing Service.