Sometimes, being an empath
is not as glamorous as it’s cracked up to be…
Spontaneously born from moments of contemplating both my own heightening sensitivity to the energies of people, places, and things around me and the stories of experiences told to me by friends and family, Aura came into being as an exaggerated portrayal of what the intensity of these experiences can feel like at times, as well as an offered suggestion of one way to cope with and handle these sort of things.
Excellent short story on what it is like
to be an empath. The story is short but powerful.
Just when you think you know
how the story will end, there is an
unexpected twist which hits the message home.
—Covenant of the Soul
Please help me in spreading the word that Aura: A Short Story is FREE for the taking! Tell everyone you know, including your cat, if she happens to be active in social media as well! Help me skyrocket it up the Amazon charts so Amazon will pick it up and pass the word along, too!
But first, enjoy the following beginning clip from Aura: A Short Story:
“THE FIRST TIME I was someone other than myself, I had no clue that’s what had happened.”
“Someone other than yourself?”
“Can you elaborate on that?”
I gazed out the window as I replayed that time on the silver screen in my mind, watching but not really seeing the robins hopping around the patch of grass posing as a lawn outside. The looming clouds threatened rain, drawing worms up for safety from their soon-to-be-flooded tunnels, only to find themselves suddenly in the victorious clutches of a beak.
Only later would my mind register the correlation between those worms and my first experiences—my reason for now sitting in this over-decorated office that tried too hard to feel inviting and “homey.”
Happy worms, daily routine, BAM.
There are mirrors everywhere in this world, for those who know how to see.
I focused on the woman across from me. She seemed nice enough, with her short, salon-perfect red hair piled high on her head and her warm rose-colored smile. I wasn’t one of her regular clients, of course—this was the first time I’d even met her—but she’d agreed to meet with me as a favor to a friend of mine who was more worried about me than I was myself.
Supposedly, she was “open” to what I’d been through.
“Can you tell me exactly what you mean when you say ‘someone other than yourself’?”
I’d tried to form words around this a couple times, and not had much luck. I sighed.
“I… don’t feel myself,” I said slowly, “When it happens.”
“You feel like someone else.”
I nodded carefully, thinking. “But not like I am someone else… more like I feel things that aren’t myself. Things that aren’t me.”
I stood up.
“See, this was a mistake—there’s really no way to talk about this and make any sense. I’m afraid I’m wasting your time. I’m sorry.”
“No, no,” the lady said gently. “It’s quite all right. What you’ve said makes perfect sense to me.”
I stopped my turn toward the door.
The woman nodded.
“You’ve… you’ve heard of something like this before?”
The woman nodded again.
I sat back down and spat out the pressing question that had gone through my mind the last ten years. “Can it be fixed?”