The tent and the fortune teller
Flash Fiction
The tent was tangerine. The fortune-teller was usually cloaked in purple.
The tent was frayed and patched in places. Ditto the fortune teller.
The fortune teller didn’t belong to the tent, and the tent didn’t belong to the fortune teller.
The tent wasn’t a refuge. The men working in the sewers had constructed it over an open manhole on the edge of the road.
The fortune teller didn’t fall into the open sewer. The open sewer didn’t fall into the fortune teller.
The fortune teller, dressed in a black suit and a purple tie drove past the tent at midday. He heard the noon gun boom at the moment he turned to look at the tent. What an odd place to pitch a tent.
The tangerine tent looked at the fortune teller in his purple car. What a horrible colour for a car.
The fortune teller looked away.
Unfortunately the tent couldn’t do the same.
