Published by 50-Word Stories (fiftywordstories.com).
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“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.
Man, that’s good – wow!
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Thanks, John!
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