Jaci Jones enters the kitchen in her working clothes: a full-length deep green velvet dress topped off with a matching turban over a long black wig. 
Finally got a client, Mum?
Yes, it’s only my regulars who come for a reading since that bastard Jimmy Rydal‘s crew destroyed my booth on the prom because he didn’t like my predictions; they even killed the goldfish. It scared me. 
Why do you keep doing it?
It keeps the wolf from the door and supplies you with biscuits.
I only keep a bit of my dole money for the biscuits; you get the rest.
You’ll look like a stick insect. Everyone knows biscuits dry your blood.
Wouldn’t there be a danger warning on the packet, like on fags?
Biscuit companies would go bust if people knew the truth.
Did you know your fortune telling booth was going to be destroyed?
No, I can’t tell my own future. The police said I was a fraud and taking money under false pretences. They never said that to Mystic bloody Meg on the telly, did they? Stop eating those biscuits. You’ll turn into a biscuit one day.
Just like you predicted Thatcher would never be prime minister. 
You can’t predict the behaviour of witches, Jaci laughs.
The front doorbell rings.
That’ll be Mrs Evans come for a reading. Have you fed the new goldfish?
Yes, I fed the poor little sod. Do the Mrs Evans of your world really believe that staring at a fish swimming round and round a glass bowl will let you see their future? Jaci slams the door behind her. I bet I was also a surprise, John thinks. 

An hour later Jaci enters the empty kitchen. Standing at the foot of the stairs, she shouts, John, you up there? Silence. 
Next morning, exhausted from worry and no sleep, she reports John as a missing person to the police. She’s fobbed off with the usual homilies that it’s too early to be talking about a ‘misper’.

A year later, the doorbell rings. 
Have you found him at last? Jaci asks the female constable. 
Best if we sit down, Mrs Jones.
In the kitchen the WPC hands Jaci a photograph. Is this your son? 
Jaci bursts into tears.
He hadn’t paid his rent and not been seen for weeks. He was found in a caravan in Brean Down.
Through her sobs Jaci says, We went there when he was a nipper before his father did a runner. How did he die?
The pathologist is mystified; not drop of blood in his body and dry as parchment. 
Like a stick insect, Jaci sobbed. 
The van was stacked with hundreds of empty ginger biscuit packets. You look terrible. Shall I make us a cuppa?
The WPC sets mugs on the table and says, I’m starved. I’m sorry do you have a biscuit?

I hope you enjoyed this story. Please feel free to pass it on to others who may be interested. You can read my previous 500 word stories on my website www.philcoskerwriter.com under ‘Writing’.>>>More

© Phil Cosker 2024
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