The Informal Fountain

When the grims had come to the Infernal Fountain they should musts, in turn, threw their precious coinage into the tumultuous waters. Eyes closed or open, back turned or front on, it made no. They made, must make thoughts of the true wantings of their souls.

Sheba, in turn, came and she had no coin, expecting contactless payment, I don’t carry cash around much these days since the Ovid (other poets are available), she said, turning to those waiting, embarrassed.

Can I borrow a coin for to throw? she asked the and they gave.

The coin flew high in the air, then, not caught upon the buffets, but in a true arc above the roiling mists, to disappear into the water with a plop sound.

She keyed her email and password in the keypad beside and filled a series of multiple-choice box tick, including birth date and sexual orientation, accepting all terms and conditions etc. She waited for ages for the security code that came to her designated phone, but declining further email offers and publications. She also declined a kind offer to give her opinion of the services provided with a short questionnaire which promised coupons and entry into a lucky, or not so lucky, draw.

After the conclusive click here and are you sure click, there was a wait, there is always a wait. She became convinced that the machine was being recalcitrant, and was just about to administer the obligatory kick, when the machine spit it out. A paper, rolling like a paper tongue, a receipt at the till, rolled out the dispenser next the exit, with also a snapped photo of the coin tossing event to show your grandchildren. In the photo, captured at last, Sheba looks up high in the, where the coin, invisible is, we are led to believe, flying towards, we hope, the magic waters.

She must tear the paper tongue at the perforations, but the corner came off where the line of tiny holes had failed to penetrate, and took away a strip down the side, which fell who knows where, she could not catch. It took a couple of word endings and the denomination of the proffered coin, an Iranian coin apparently.

Some made a joke that the answer was 42, but it was no joke.

Sheba felt the fear of this discovery in her arms. She found a quiet place in the bustling old streets where she could not hear herself think. She took the paper slip out the pocket. She unfolded the, she found the page where the corner was turned down, scrolled, swiped and put in her ear buds. She consulted the lexicon and cross referenced the input. The screen was blank with a bouncing screen saver before coming to life. Don’t touch it then. Ow my arms.

Sheba put on her specs and adjusted the night sights. One of her contacts had slipped.

She read                                                       To Err is to be Hu

                                                    There is no Love without Ha

To Err is to be Huge and There is No Love without a Hat, I knew it, sighed Sheba, I shall keep my hat on and become a Millner of Enormous Hats, as well as a Herbalist. And I shall love.

I could have told you that, said she Sphinx, on hearing the tale told.

Oh, said Sheba.