Dinner With Elvis *Short Story*

I was walking along side a street in Memphis, Tennessee and everything felt like it was up in the air.  I wasn’t yet successful but I was working hard at a dream that fueled me like wildfire.  I had done many projects and I had done them well but none satisfied the thirst I had inside.  There was something I was working towards that I had never seen.  I saw phantom streaks in my mind, images played in an instant. It felt like seeing stardust, wrapping myself in a galaxy, then coming back to earth, all in the matter of a moment.   The City buzzed, the government was shut down but the music still played.  People everywhere were laughing and talking and I could smell barbecue so strong I could taste in.  I smiled in the commotion.  I needed success, it was my only way into everything I ever wanted, but everything was thrown up in the air and I’m just waiting for it to come back down.

“What are you thinking about?”  A handsome young man asked me.

“My dreams.” I said stopping, answering for some reason.

“I wouldn’t do that.” He says.

“And why not?” I demand.

Another man walks up to me. “Miss are you okay?”  He asks concerned.

“I’m alright, this man isn’t bothering me,” I glare at him, “yet.”

“Miss, there is no one there.” He says.

I smile and half nod my head and walk away.  There is no way to explain being a psychic to anyone south of the mason dixon line.  I never know who is alive and who isn’t.  They both look the same.

The man follows me.  “I bet you want to hear my answer now.” He says.

I focus on speaking to him more discreetly.  The sky had begun to turn magenta and my skin was a sticky from the mid July heat. “Lets go somewhere more private.”  I say.

We walk in silence until we reach a willow tree. I lay down a blanket from my bag and sit.  I had grabbed barbecue on my way because I could not resist.  I set up my take out and prepared myself for the conversation.

“Okay, big shot, explain to me why I shouldn’t think about my dreams.”

“You are feistier to me than anyone in my day.” He says.  I just glare at him. “Okay, fine.” He says.  “You won’t do them if you’re always thinking, always secluded to walking by yourself with your mind full.”

“I’m a thinker.” I say.

“You’re a bullshit artist.” He says quickly. “You’re probably really talented, ya know? I can see it in your eyes. You have that gleam like a tiger ready to pounce. But nobody is going to know if you don’t do something, including yourself.”

“I hate you.” I say to him because he’s right. I stand up challenging him. “What would you know about being an artist?  You’ve never struggled like this.”

“You’re joking, right?” He asks me. He laughs, bends down with his hand on his jaw and leans back. “WOW.”

His eyes are a deep brown, full and lovely.  His facial features were boyish and I loved his smile.

“Ok, smart ass, then who are you?  What makes you so special that I should know who you are?”

“Elvis.” He says.

I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.  I had only seen and listened to him so much, growing up in the 21st century and all. I think I saw a picture of him once maybe, but I knew his name.

“Oh.” I said softly.

“Yes, oh.” He said laughing.

“And while I’m at it, here’s some more advice. Make sure you’re happy with what ever you’re making.  It doesn’t matter if one person see’s it or one million, if you aren’t behind it one hundred percent, it isn’t worth it. You’ll become a puppet, and you do not want that.  Even though you’d be a pretty cute puppet.” He winks.

I sigh smiling throwing my silverware pack at him.  He catches it leaning back smiling, then I blink and he disappears.

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