Blurb
Zandra is an infamous "psychic" who grifts the gullible residents of her small Wisconsin town using her wits, not anything supernatural. Her skills are put to the ultimate test when the police tap her to help find a kidnapped girl.
Original (First 500)
She's obviously an undercover cop. What will it be this time? Theft by swindle? An accounting error? A parking ticket? This should be good.
Zandra sniffs out the disguise before the woman is through the door of Sneak Peek, her hole-in-wall "psychic services" business. It's bricked in between a head shop and a defunct coffee joint in downtown Stephens Point, Wisconsin. Just a chair behind a desk in a single room. A glorified closet stuff with too many eccentricities that catch the sunlight as the woman closes the door.
It doesn't take a psychic for Zandra to see her latest client is failing as an undercover cop. Maybe that's because Zandra isn't a psychic. Rather, she's a proud fraud, loving upon the reputation of that incident at Soma Falls years ago. An incredibly lucky guess? Sure. Psychic? No.
But when the masses spray paint the words "go back to hell witch" on the side of your house and stalk your every move, you'll settle for the psychic label. Better a psychic serving entertainment purposes than anything approaching legitimate in their paranoid eyes. Everyone knows psychics are frauds anyway. It's an unhappy middle ground. An uneasy truce.
Stephens Point didn't know what to make of her back then. Still doesn't. But that doesn't prevent people from coming into Zandra's business. Like cops making sure she knows her place as the village crone. That's probably why this latest one is here. A reminder to not get too uppity about the reputation from Soma Falls. But don't walk away from it, either. What happened with Zandra and Soma Falls put Stevens Point on the map. The tourism alone is worth millions.
The creases around Zandra's tired eyes life into a greeting. Smize as the kids would say. Not that she's been anywhere near hip for decades, made obvious by the oversized purple gown draped over her shoulders. It's acned with gaudy rhinestones straight off a cheap stripper's ass cheek. It's all for show, just like every other trinket of sparkly nonsense in Sneak Peek. And all for sale, of course. That's the proud in proud fraud. Not like anyone in town would give Zandra a real job anyway. But they'd certainly remind her she should.
The woman takes a seat across the desk from Zandra. As she does with all her clients, the "psychic" performs a mental checklist before saying anything. Zandra's got it down to three seconds. that's all she needs for her act.
Short, blonde hair pulled back tight into a small ponytail.
Fingernails trimmed to a few millimeters.
Baggy flannel shirt to cover the concealed pistol in a holster secured inside the waistband of her jeans. Right hand seated on her thigh at the ready to draw. Legs planted firmly on the floor instead of crossed or casual.
These aren't traits exclusive to cops. But playing the psychic, Zandra knows it's an odds game.
She's obviously an undercover cop. What will it be this time? Theft by swindle? An accounting error? A parking ticket? This should be good.
Zandra sniffs out the disguise before the woman is through the door of Sneak Peek, her hole-in-wall "psychic services" business. It's bricked in between a head shop and a defunct coffee joint in downtown Stephens Point, Wisconsin. Just a chair behind a desk in a single room. A glorified closet stuff with too many eccentricities that catch the sunlight as the woman closes the door.
It doesn't take a psychic for Zandra to see her latest client is failing as an undercover cop. Maybe that's because Zandra isn't a psychic. Rather, she's a proud fraud, loving upon the reputation of that incident at Soma Falls years ago. An incredibly lucky guess? Sure. Psychic? No.
But when the masses spray paint the words "go back to hell witch" on the side of your house and stalk your every move, you'll settle for the psychic label. Better a psychic serving entertainment purposes than anything approaching legitimate in their paranoid eyes. Everyone knows psychics are frauds anyway. It's an unhappy middle ground. An uneasy truce.
Stephens Point didn't know what to make of her back then. Still doesn't. But that doesn't prevent people from coming into Zandra's business. Like cops making sure she knows her place as the village crone. That's probably why this latest one is here. A reminder to not get too uppity about the reputation from Soma Falls. But don't walk away from it, either. What happened with Zandra and Soma Falls put Stevens Point on the map. The tourism alone is worth millions.
The creases around Zandra's tired eyes life into a greeting. Smize as the kids would say. Not that she's been anywhere near hip for decades, made obvious by the oversized purple gown draped over her shoulders. It's acned with gaudy rhinestones straight off a cheap stripper's ass cheek. It's all for show, just like every other trinket of sparkly nonsense in Sneak Peek. And all for sale, of course. That's the proud in proud fraud. Not like anyone in town would give Zandra a real job anyway. But they'd certainly remind her she should.
The woman takes a seat across the desk from Zandra. As she does with all her clients, the "psychic" performs a mental checklist before saying anything. Zandra's got it down to three seconds. that's all she needs for her act.
Short, blonde hair pulled back tight into a small ponytail.
Fingernails trimmed to a few millimeters.
Baggy flannel shirt to cover the concealed pistol in a holster secured inside the waistband of her jeans. Right hand seated on her thigh at the ready to draw. Legs planted firmly on the floor instead of crossed or casual.
These aren't traits exclusive to cops. But playing the psychic, Zandra knows it's an odds game.
My Edit
Zandra is stringing beads for a suncatcher and lamenting the growing number of liver spots on her hands, when the door to her shop opens, setting the ceramic bells a-tinkling. She looks up. An undercover cop. Another one.
Short, blonde hair pulled back tight into a small ponytail. Fingernails trimmed to a few millimeters. Baggy flannel shirt to cover the concealed pistol in a holster. Blue eyes that case the entire room, checking corners and blind spots. Not that there's much to check.
Sneak Peek is her psychic shop set in a bricked-in alleyway between a head shop and a defunct coffee joint in downtown Stephens Point, Wisconsin. The center point of the room is a battered wood round table flanked by two comfy mismatched armchairs. A pitcher of water with two glasses are set in the middle of the table. This little tableau is surrounded by colorful wind chimes, dreamcatchers, pillows, blankets, and caftans like the one Zandra wears -- her signature bedazzled purple. All for sale, of course. Baubles sparkle in the sunlight as the cop closes the door, shooting prisms around the room.
The cop stalks to the chair across from Zandra and sits down. Right hand seated on her thigh. Legs planted firmly on the floor. No doubt uncomfortable to have her back to the door.
(Original word count: ~484 → Edited: ~219)
Zandra is stringing beads for a suncatcher and lamenting the growing number of liver spots on her hands, when the door to her shop opens, setting the ceramic bells a-tinkling. She looks up. An undercover cop. Another one.
Short, blonde hair pulled back tight into a small ponytail. Fingernails trimmed to a few millimeters. Baggy flannel shirt to cover the concealed pistol in a holster. Blue eyes that case the entire room, checking corners and blind spots. Not that there's much to check.
Sneak Peek is her psychic shop set in a bricked-in alleyway between a head shop and a defunct coffee joint in downtown Stephens Point, Wisconsin. The center point of the room is a battered wood round table flanked by two comfy mismatched armchairs. A pitcher of water with two glasses are set in the middle of the table. This little tableau is surrounded by colorful wind chimes, dreamcatchers, pillows, blankets, and caftans like the one Zandra wears -- her signature bedazzled purple. All for sale, of course. Baubles sparkle in the sunlight as the cop closes the door, shooting prisms around the room.
The cop stalks to the chair across from Zandra and sits down. Right hand seated on her thigh. Legs planted firmly on the floor. No doubt uncomfortable to have her back to the door.
Critique
Setting
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