From today’s Daily Prompt
The palm reader saw violence in me. Were it mine, done to me, or a horrible secret I carried like a gift left behind at the party, unnamed. It sits there waiting in the corner for someone to open it.
She had a lazy eye, which adds credibility to a fortune teller. She made spittle by her lower lip and spoke with a rasp:
An uneven lot, scoured out by some metal claw…it left tree parts like bones, tossed aside the river rocks in the ditch, at the back of the lot…something happened there...letters on the grass, made out of spray paint, they are moving like snakes, now…spelling something…Mr. Bingley? Lot number 12.
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Categories: death
Bill Pearse 
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