Chapter 3

It was something. Just something....a certain tenseness in the muscles...a dryness in the throat....a feeling of vile containment by the still and heavy summer air around him....

Tom shifted uncomfortably in his bed. He knew this feeling. In the past it had been the harbinger of wedgies, swirlies- all array of embarrassment and pain and now here it was again warning him but of what? He was afraid to even know.

And that- my friends- is the cassandric trouble with sixth senses. They have an ironic way of biting the "blessed" bearer in the butt. Though Tom's forearmed him for any form of trouble it also nearly startled him into cardiac arrest on the regular. During the prolonged periods between sight of albatross and the actual onset of trouble he quaked with fearful anticipation. His senses told him something was coming but not what. And in that quivering mental darkness the unknown morphed from a mustard grain into an ancient ficus- sinewy, monstrous, intimidating. His most absurd fears entwined with each other, propagated until they bled sap and breathed air. And Tom cowered; ran and hid himself until the danger passed. Tom had a strong mind to- well no- come to think of it Tom had a weak mind. As a matter of fact, that was what made him lay back in bed and pull the covers over his head. He thought he could hide from trouble but as any Cassandra knows and as he was about to find out- trouble always finds who trouble wants.