Blind and deaf, Miss Mogley sits upon a wicker rocker on her front porch, basking in the warmth of the long summer days. Fans, followers, and the curious stand upon her lawn and wait. Tourists from all over crowd before her house.
A group of Japanese tourists, carrying flashy cameras around their necks, snap her picture. Small children point and whisper–some pluck the petals from the daisies and Black-eyed Susans that line the front of Miss Mogley’s house.
Each Sunday, as now, a lone church bell chimes Noon.
The assembled crowd hushes and settles as Miss Mogley rises to speak.
Using a gnarled, beechwood cane to support herself, she stands, facing them, facing eastward.
The crowd wonders if her words will heal, accuse, or forewarn?
When she opens her mouth they’re expectant.
Blackness spews from her lips in an amorphous cloud of tiny bugs. She utters one word: Plague.