The Fortune Teller
A flash fiction Tarot reading
The old gypsy woman pointed to the chair and snapped, “Siddown.”
The ladder-back creaked as Roger sank into it. Scooting forward to the red-draped table, feeling the chair wobble beneath him, he wondered how old this thing was. Maybe as old as the woman herself. Would it crumble beneath him? Would her wrinkled face and toothless smirk dissolve into ether before his very eyes?
The fortune teller’s tented booth, situated at the end of the carnival midway, smelled of cigarettes and dust and rotting wood. He settled his elbows on the table and took a nervous look around. Garish reds, purples, and greens formed a backdrop for a strange collection of trappings that suggested a horror movie. His teeth chattered even though his mind told him it was all illusion, a charade, part of the show. A stuffed owl glared at him from the top of a tall cabinet as though contemplating a rabbit. To the other side, a stuffed falcon with wings spread appeared to be diving for his throat. And were those shrunken heads and jars of animal innards lurking in the corner? Stacks of ancient cards cluttered an old cherry bookcase behind the woman while, in the center of the table, a crystal ball, like a great jaundiced eye, glowed faintly yellow.
