Foretold in Smoke

Content Warning: Mild foul language

Marie S. 5/5 Stars

Vivienne is incredible! My life has completely changed since my visit. It’s like a light came on and she’s somehow unlocked all this hidden potential. She’s the best, seriously just go. Call today!

Bradley J. 5/5

Worth every penny. Highly recommend.

Kevin R. 5/5 Stars

I never thought I’d come to a place like this, but when I was at an all-time low, I just needed someone to tell me if life was worth sticking around for. I wanted to know if it ever got better. Vivienne made me believe that it would. She told me true love was right in front of me, and now I’m dating my best friend and am the happiest I’ve ever been. She’s the real deal.

Linda K. 5/5

Vivienne showed me the most beautiful future and now I am not afraid to go after my passions. Life changing.

I know your type. You’re all the same. You come to me, seeking something you believe life has withheld from you. Desperation hangs on you like a garment; you wear insecurity like a second skin. You shift and fidget in my doorway, hoping no one will recognize your car in the street and spread the word that you’re seeking wisdom from a godless heathen and her crystal ball. Yet, here you are.

My polished greeting pulls you a few steps closer into the dimly lit room, where you stare at the artwork on the wall, trying to decipher its abstraction. You fumble over a compliment when I admit I painted it myself. Your nose twitches at the cloud of earthy smoke hanging in the stagnant air, and your ear tilts toward the sharp plucking of unfamiliar instruments—music trilling softly from a hidden speaker. The sound is heady, exotic, and makes the hair on your arms rise. The caricaturistic experience you expected is something different—its alive, sacred, and it smells like singed aloeswood.

I sense the conflict within you—to stay or to flee, to grasp hold of your future and drag it into today, or to return to life as normal and submit to the natural process of discovery. You twist and wring your hands, afraid you’re damning yourself, or cursing your bloodline by setting foot in this den of witchcraft, or whatever it is they’re calling it these days. But I am no one to fear; I am a respectable businesswoman. But you must make your own choice, so I remain silent, waiting for you to remember whatever it is that brought you here.

At last, you move. You approach me like I am an oasis in the desert, doubting what you see, but desperately wanting it to be real. You are afraid to ask, afraid of the answers. I sense your struggle; I see your soft heart, your goodness and warmth, your suppressed potential suffocating under self-doubt. You are afraid to know what lies ahead because you have grown comfortable letting life rush by you. It is a river, coursing where it wills, and you are a leaf at its mercy. What I tell you will alter the course of your life, not because the words on my lips drip with inherent power, but because you will believe them. 

You are the river. You are the force that cuts a path through the unknown, that courses where it wills. You are a rush of life, pure and sweet, with the power to shape and form and forge your own future.

My gift to you is no parlor trick, my predictions are not conjecture; I simply tell you what you are, and what to look for, and you will find it every time.

I do not spin the threads of fate, but occasionally, I give the threads a gentle pluck.

***

Jim B. 1/5 Stars

Filing a police report. This woman is a scam artist.

Maurice W. 1/5 Stars

Waste of time and money. Basically told me my life was going to shit. Real downer. And the incense smelled like burnt hair.

Bryson D. 1/5 Stars

This is why I don’t trust hippy-dippy, twinkle-dust, voo-doo garbage. Creepy art, obnoxious music, and some old hag just getting off on telling people how terrible their life is going to be. And no refund policy? Well, f*** you.

I know your type. You’re all the same. You come to me, seeking something you believe life has withheld from you. Arrogance hangs on you like a garment; you wear disdain like a second skin. You burst through my doorway, ignoring the closed sign in the window, insisting you just need a few minutes from this crazy lady and her crystal ball.

Your eyes adjust to the dimly lit room, and you squint at the artwork on the wall. You recoil, unsettled by its abstraction: its unorthodoxy disgusts you, makes you squirm. You cover your nose and cough against the cloud of bitter smoke hanging in the air, swishing your arms like an aggravated primate. The twanging of unfamiliar instruments rises above the silence, warbling from a hidden speaker. The sound is eerie, foreign, and makes goose-flesh ripple across your arms. The stock-image experience you anticipated is something altogether different—it’s alive, sinister, and it smells like fire.

I sense no hesitation within you—you have come to grab the future by its horns and demand it bend and submit to your desires. You are impatient with life’s natural process of discovery and want to know what obstacles lie ahead on the path on which you’re blindly running. There is no fear of the consequences of knowing, no regard for how it will change the now. You want answers, and you will have them. You claim a chair and wait, twisting and wringing your hands impatiently until I join you across the small table.

You watch me like a stray dog you think might bite, your jaw set in defiance against anything you’re prepared to reject. Because you don’t want the truth. You want to be immersed in shimmering nonsense, to stretch out your palm and receive a shiny token of fabricated tales, to be placated by promises of a glowing future. I sense your coldness, your heart of stone, your resentment of everything that stands in your way. What I will tell you is the truth, and the truth will unfold as I tell it—not because I have cursed you, not because I am a she-devil hiding under beads and bangles, but because you are a curse to yourself. And you know it.

You are rot—an infection that will spread across all your days. Everything you touch will wither and die, and you can only blame yourself.

My words are not a hex on your soul, I don’t speak out of malice; I simply show you what you already know.

I do not spin the threads of fate. I have no blade to sever their fibers.

But occasionally, I test the threads and hold a flame beneath the strands to watch and see what burns.