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In the soft pink-purple light of dawn, the fairground is a lonely place, all scattered tents and abandoned machinery. You sweep away the dust and crumpled posters that have gathered outside your small raggedy tent, torn and patched in places, like a woman’s heart. The unblinking eye of the ferris wheel and the painted ever-patient horses of the carousel, watch you work.
You light incense and leave a small offering of wildflowers and milk (for the spirits or the mongrel dog, it does not matter), beside the decorated cardboard sign that announces you as a fortune teller and the name of the travelling circus you belong to. Your daughter (safely sleeping inside, with your own rolled-up clothes as a pillow) had painted this, a blur of steady brushstrokes in the candlelight, and it fills you with pride.
You take out your creased tarot deck and pull out the first card.
The Star. Wish-fulfillment. Be hopeful for the future, you who have lived so long, haunted by the past.
Extract from my short story “Lady Fortune” published in Anathema Magazine.
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