“Fortunes, ten dollars,” the jeweled crone had croaked. “Your future awaits. Take my hands; you’ll see.”
You ducked into the dim tent. Carnivals were such a gas.
A year has come and gone, but still you sit—hawking the same vague promise, waiting for someone to take your outstretched hands.
Rebecca Cuthbert lives, writes, and reads in Western New York. Her work has appeared in Brevity, Slipstream, Neworld Review, and elsewhere, and it is forthcoming in Blueline Magazine. She serves as managing editor for Leapfrog Press and is a content writer and editor for LiveWriters.
Brilliant. screenworthy. But great lit as is.
Beautiful Rebecca!
Loved this. Really stuck with me and continued to creep me out long after reading.
So Eerie and unsettling! Loved it
I liked it very nice
Verrrrrrry eerie. I feel like I’d wait, and then scream once someone finally grabbed my hands. If ever.
Wow, awesome turnabout. Loved it!
Beautifully fitting for these COVID-pergatory times.
Absolutely fantastic!
Creepy in a perfect kind of way (she croaked 😳)
Amazing how so few words can paint such a vivid picture and leave you pondering and going back to re-read over and over.
Terrific imagery!
Your writing absolutely draws us in and paints a vivid scene. Excellent!