The Mystic or Mathematician – Part III

When she was returned to her cell a fresh line was running down the front of her from her throat to her navel.
She understood why her memories were lost.
For some reason they had spoken to her like she knew something.
They had called her The Prophet.
But that was impossible, she couldn’t be…

The Mystic or Mathematician – Part II

All at once a war was simmering low in the back of her mind.
Magda coughed and the hazy imagery swam, dissipating before she could get a good look at it.
Lowering the hand holding the cigarette, she closed her eyes, concentrating.
She held onto the dreamlike memory as gently as she could, allowing it to swell and shrink, not wanting to force it into a false solidity.
Slowly she saw the war stretch red and smoking before her.

The Mystic or Mathematician – Part I

The old woman awoke on the floor, her yellowed eyeballs gazing into the shadow beneath her arm.
The smell of the tiny cell was like lime, simultaneously round and sharp, and a soft dripping of water was detectable from some indeterminable distance.
She sensed that the room was very small.
She looked out from under her arm to confirm; a column of light was flowing down from a window 12 feet off the ground.