Dr. Apples®: The Psychic Chronicles – Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

Tantrum’s Trail

As I am still experiencing this moment under my psychic trance……

The scene before me unfolds with a clarity, the chaotic classroom crystallizes. The fight draws closer to Dr. Apples, trapped against the wall, as Marcus and Thomas’ fists swing wildly, sometimes connecting, sometimes missing, their targets. The room buzzes with the energy of the brawl, shouts and cheers punctuating each hit, while Dr. Apples remains in the storm’s path. The gap between him and the violence narrows relentlessly, each moment pulsing with the imminent threat of collision.

 As the clash between the boys seems inevitable, a left hand shoots out, firmly grabbing one boy by the sleeve, halting his momentum as if anchoring him to a stop. Almost simultaneously, a right hand clasps the back shirt of the other boy, twisting and lifting him just enough that his toes barely scrape the floor to regain his stance.

 These hands belong to Mrs. Calloway, who, even amidst the burgeoning chaos, stands as unwavering as a lighthouse in a tempest. Her grip is unyielding, her presence commanding, filling the room with an authority that resonates deep, vibrating with a base that seems to echo through every corner of the classroom.

 Her voice, resonant and imbued with an unyielding resolve, pierces the chaos. “Enough! I want you all to have a seat! This instant!” The command, laden with an authority that seems to vibrate through the very air, silences the room. Her tone is sharp, clear—a vivid reminder of her indomitable presence.

 The effect is immediate. The classroom, once teetering on the edge of complete upheaval, shifts into action at her command. Desks are hastily straightened, papers retrieved from the floor, and order is restored as students hurriedly find their seats. The once imminent brawl dissipates, leaving behind a tenuous peace, all under Mrs. Calloway’s vigilant watch.

 In the aftermath, Dr. Apples cautiously unglues his hands from the wall. As the classroom’s rhythm finds its new normal, a peer’s eyes linger around him with judgment, picking up scattered papers near his desk. Dr. Apples takes tentative steps to his own desk, where amidst the disarray on the ground, his effigy doll awaits him. The doll, once a vibrant beacon of his concealed magic, now lies diminished, its subtle blue glow fading into stillness.

 He kneels, a quiet reverence in the act, as he gathers the ripped arms and broken string. The threads that once bound the doll with care and intention are now shriveled and curled. Herbs are peppered around the floor.  With the fragments of the doll cradled gently against him, Dr. Apples stands and walks to the classroom door. The noise of his classmates, still simmering with the aftershocks of the conflict, fades into a distant backdrop against his singular focus.

 As Dr. Apples approaches the exit, Mrs. Calloway’s voice cuts through the lingering tension. “Leaving?” she calls out, not with the sternness she used to quell the fight, but with a tempered concern that softens the room’s edges. Dr. Apples pauses, turning to face her. Their eyes meet—a silent exchange fraught with unspoken understanding. Mrs. Calloway nods, a subtle gesture granting him leave, acknowledging the tumult he’s faced without binding him to words.

 He steps out, leaving behind the classroom’s disharmony, now muted and distant. The door closes softly behind him, sealing away the day’s conflicts. Outside, the corridor stretches before him, a path leading away from the echoes of turmoil, towards the promise of solitude and reflection.

 As he walks home, a scowl erupts on his face and without turning back, voiced his frustration loud enough for all to hear. “Vous êtes tous stupides (You are all stupid),” Dr. Apples declared, his voice seething with anger. “Ignorant! You, ya mama, and your cousins—all of them!” He sniffs to keep from shedding a tear.

Dr. Apples’ steps evolve from a simple walk to firm stomps, sending echoes through alleyways lined with colorful shotgun houses. The Spanish moss hanging from nearby oak branches sways gently, an eerie response to his heavy footsteps in the still, humid air.

As he glances down at the effigy doll, his frown deepens. Almost in reply, beads of moisture swiftly form on the petals of window-box flowers. Each of his stomps causes the shadows from the iron-wrought fences to stretch and contract against the sidewalks, mirroring his agitation.

Upon another look at the doll, his anger surges, causing the nearby streetlights to flicker even in daylight. A dog’s howl pierces the distance. Realizing his surroundings are out of sync, he halts, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. This inhalation serves as a bridge to calmness, his body pleading for equilibrium. As he exhales, the swaying moss stills, the air sheds its previous heaviness, and the streetlights darken. The distant howl fades, leaving only the cheerful chirping of birds.

Resuming his journey, Dr. Apples walks with measured, less agitated steps. He senses the immediate world pulling back from the brink of his emotional storm. The neighborhood, briefly caught in his turmoil, now reflects the calm he has restored within himself.

I sense it’s time to move forward.

Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I extend my hand forward, palm facing the unseen horizon of time. With a slow, deliberate clockwise swirl of my finger, I draw an invisible circle in the air—a symbol of the journey through the spirals of time.

I feel the pull of the future tugging gently at the edges of my consciousness. It’s a small act, yet it holds the power to part the veils between moments, guiding me through the fabric of Dr. Apples’ past with precision.

It’s a dance I’ve come to master.

 As the New Orleans houses fade….

I find myself with hazy vision before me.

I-I can’t stabilize into the next psychic vision. This rarely happens. me, scenes flicker and shift like channels changing on a TV, refusing to stabilize into a clear vision. I see…

 My vision blurs and I’m thrust into a whirlwind of changing scenes. It’s like someone’s flipping through channels on a television, each scene a fleeting glimpse into Dr. Apples’ world.

In a kitchen, Ms. BaRule and Dr. Apples sit across from each other. Her intense gaze locks on him, conveying volumes without words. As they begin to talk, the seriousness of their discussion is evident even though I can’t hear the words.

“He told her everything,” I whisper to myself, piecing together the silent drama unfolding before me.

 Ms. BaRule’s lips move, and although I can’t hear her, her determination and her promise to her son are clear: she vows to share all her knowledge with him.

The scene transitions smoothly, like tuning into a new frequency, captivating me with the kitchen table scene. Geometry here transcends the mundane as Ms. BaRule’s fingers trace patterns in the air, patterns that shimmer with magical light. Dr. Apples watches intensely as the air around them sparkles with the remnants of ancient wisdom coming to life.

With that, the scene shifts again.

Now inside a library that seems alive, books occasionally flutter off the shelves, orbiting Ms. BaRule as she recounts tales of distant lands and forgotten civilizations. Her rhythmic movements call the books to dance a ballet of pages and words in the air, captivating Dr. Apples, whose eyes follow their motion with childlike wonder.

With that, the scene changes once more.

In the living room, amid a discussion of artifacts, one of the relics—a small, intricate compass—begins to spin on its own, its needle flickering with mystical light. Ms. BaRule’s eyes twinkle knowingly, and Dr. Apples leans forward, mesmerized by the compass’s dance, as it tells tales of journeys fueled by more than the physical.

With that, we transition again.

Back at the kitchen table, surrounded by philosophers’ wisdom, the air crackles with intellectual energy. As they delve deeper into the mysteries of the universe, the now restitched effigy doll beside Dr. Apples glows a soft blue and pink aura enveloping them in a gentle, otherworldly light. Their laughter, rich and warm, seems to enhance the glow, the doll’s light pulsing in sync with their joy.

The magic here is real, intentional—a vivid thread woven through their extraordinary world, marking moments of learning and discovery with enchantment that illuminates Dr. Apples’ path.

Suddenly, the space around me vibrates, a tremor that hints at unseen forces at play. The images of Dr. Apples and Ms. BaRule dissolve. The world quakes, each tremor a stark reminder of the thin veil between this vision and reality. I should leave this psychic vision. An urge to flee grips me, yet fear roots me to the spot. Am I safer here, or is it already too late?