“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.