I’ve always been one to trust my intuition. If something seems off, then I leave the situation. I think that’s why I’ve succeeded in surviving unscathed as long as I have. I haven’t ever been in a situation in which I feared for my life, or felt like I might be killed. Sure, I’ve ended up in situations where these things could have happened, but I always trusted my instincts enough to remove myself from the situation before something bad happened.
Once, when I was in high school, a bunch of us went down to a place called Thirteen Bridges. Supposedly, if you walk across all thirteen bridges then turn around when you come back there are only twelve. It’s one of those haunted in Alabama places, where teens loitered to imbibe, hang out, and partake in various other sultry activities. It was also private property, but that never stopped us from trespassing.
The night we were there, it was so dark, and we hadn’t brought flash lights. We were walking blindly, just chatting and having a good time. All of a sudden, I stopped dead in my tracks.
“Guys, we need to turn around and go home right now.”
My boyfriend joshed on me and told me to suck it up. They wanted to walk all the bridges. My friends tried to cajole me.
“Come on, Lauren. Let’s go. Don’t be a party pooper.”
“I’m not going further. We need to turn around.”
I can’t explain how, but I knew we shouldn’t go any further. We had walked all the way to the ninth bridge. We turned around and started walking back. We passed some youths with alcohol. When we reached our car, the police were waiting. They gave us a slap on the wrist and told us to get out of there.
The next day, my boyfriend and his friend drove out there. They were determined to walk all the bridges. He called me that afternoon.
“Lauren, you have some crazy intuition or something. The tenth bridge had fallen in. If we had kept walking we would have walked right off an incline.”
Trust your intuition. It’s usually trying to tell you something!
And for my fictional part of my post, I wrote for Flash!Friday today. The character was supposed to be a spy (again, I have no experience with writing spies. I took a different route). The photo was of a bum holding a coffee cup. Enjoy!
A good spy must trust his intuition.
Coffee cup is pouring over with change today. I jiggle it just to hear the clink of coins against each other. I smile at the worker bees. The great masticators missing instead of secure in my mandible.
I catch the eye of the next passerby and before he can step off the curb into the safety of the street, I yank him toward me by his coat sleeve. A ticket floats to the ground—the rays of sunlight gleam off its shiny surface.
“Let go of me,” the man says, trying to reach for his fallen ticket and escape my grasp.
“I know who you are, but do you know who I am?”
The man pulls away and brushes off his coat as if I have contaminated him. George runs out from the Italian market behind me.
“I’m sorry. He means no harm. Old fart thinks he’s an undercover operative or something.”
“Well is he?” the man asked.
“I’m Agent P! He’s the one, George. Wrestle him to the ground.”
George shakes his head, hands the man his fallen ticket, and they both walk away. There’s always tomorrow. I shake coffee cup, and the next man drops a dollar in. My lucky day.