Prompt: They say Old Weezie’s been reading palms out of her run-down shack for a hundred years or more.
Her bright, glazed eyes stared out from beneath the crinkled folds of her coffee-colored skin. Her hands with their pale, soft palms and short-cut nails held mine - so much smaller and weak and translucent-white by comparison.
"You know, they say, child, Old Weezie been reading palms for a hundred years or more."
She did not look up at me, her gaze tracing the lines of my hand with itching intensity.
"Is it true?" I asked, my voice so small.
She did not answer my question. She turned my hand over and patted it gently.
"Well?" I asked, soft and scared.
"You got sad hands, child. Hands so sad." And she turned her fire-glazed eyes back to her cross-stitch, leaving me weak and translucent-white alone.