Seer cat sees good things in your near-future~

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Let me know if you want a reading! I have plenty of openings!

Celebrity Tarot

I will do a 1 card reading from my Starman Tarot deck for any celebrity you want to know something about. I read through Spirit, which might be different from other readers.

I will tell you not only what I see in the card, but any words or phrases I hear, whatever vision is conjured, what emotions are evoked and what they tell me about the situation and person(s) in it.

Send me an ask about the celebrity you want to know about! Anyone past or present!

On addition of my Palmistry post…

One thing that I didn’t mention in that post was what hand you are supposed to read.

Palmistry is a form of divination and for that matter there isn’t a ‘right’ way to do it. There are so many ways. But I’m going to tell you the one i preffer. If you have another technique, feel free to put it on the comment section so everyone can learn and grow in this path.

I like to read the hands in this way: considering your non dominant hand for the things that you got, and may your dominant hand be what you do with what you have.

Hope this clarifies some of the questions that some of you had and I’m always happy to help you on your path.

Drawtober 2021

Prompt 3: Fortune Teller

Would it be worth it?

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[ID: Emerging from the darkness are two hands hovering over either side of a glowing crystal ball. Beams of light and stars erupt from the crystal ball and pass through the Fortune Teller’s fingers. Inside the crystal ball is a skull with smoke billowing out from the eye sockets and mouth. The words, from top to bottom, read in all caps: “Fortune Teller, find your fate. Only at the Grand Finale.” End description.]

“I do on occasion perform. I can read fortunes.”

Mollymauk:@ledasubatomica(Instagram/Tumblr/Twitter)

Photographer: @aerobyn_cosplay (Instagram/Twitter

I hate volunteering, but I’m such a sucker for it. I operate a good portion of my life out of guilt, so when my daughter’s school asked me to help with their Fall Festival Fundraiser, I caved and said okay. 

            My first idea was making balloon animals. I got a how-to book from the library and tried to make cheerful puppies, rhinos, and giraffes, but I ended up with latex arrangements that looked like something between livestock genitalia and objects suitable for organ transplant.

            Then I thought I’d work up an act with a trained monkey, but the simian I’d borrowed from a friend took off down the street with a fistful of my obscene balloons and ended up frightening some old people in a barbershop. Animal Control now has me on their super secret pet-owners-to-watch list.

            Finally, I decided to do a psychic act. That was all it was supposed to be, an act to raise money for the school. I didn’t think anyone would be fooled by it. I assumed most of my customers would be children, and I planned to tell each one that I saw a new pony in his or her future, and that their parents secretly planned to buy him or her a four wheeler and to expect it parked next to the tree on Christmas morning. For the adults I’d planned to tell folks they would soon meet someone special, travel to an exotic place, and maybe their in-laws would die soon.

I covered myself in purple and black scarves which made me look like Stevie Nicks on a thin day. I couldn’t find a crystal ball, so I had to settle for a holiday snow globe with smiling reindeer inside. I set up my snow globe on a rickety card table inside a camping tent, and I waited.  

My first customer was a large woman in a jogging suit who demanded that I contact her cousin Kitty and ask her where she hid their grandmother’s recipe for hazelnut lemon logs. 

I stammered with uncertainty for a moment. “My powers don’t extend that far,” I said. The woman had a look on her face that told me she was expecting the real deal for the three dollars she was paying. “Just tell her it’s for her cousin, Millie,” she said, leaning into my card table.

“Actually, I just tell fortunes,” I said. “And I have a strong feeling you have doughnuts in yours.” I don’t know why I said that. It was just one of those impromptu things that come into my mind sometimes when I’m trying to break the tension of a situation with levity. 

Millie put a hand on my snow globe. “You have to tell her I need that recipe. It’s the only copy left, and I can’t remember where it got put. If she could just tell me how much nutmeg and lemon juice to put in.”

            Now, anybody coming to this fall festival could see that my claim to the psychic realm was dubious at best. How I got the only nut job in town for my first customer just proves my personal theory that I am a magnet for people who need therapy.

            “I need that recipe,” she said. “I’m hosting the Garden Club meeting next week and I need those logs.” She was pushing the table into my stomach and she was beginning to sweat on my snow globe.

            “Why don’t you bake some oatmeal chocolate chips instead?” I suggested.  “Everyone likes those.” She looked at me as if I’d suggested she served up some mashed potatoes mixed with dog hair.

            “Kitty always made them for the fall Garden Club meeting, and if I don’t make them it’ll be our first fall meeting without those hazel-nut lemon bars.” Millie looked as if she were going to cry, and I was starting to panic. I pulled off my head scarf and folded my hands in a serious steeple. “I’m sorry. This is just a fundraiser. I don’t really have the power to speak to the dead.”

            “Dead?” Millie snapped. “Kitty isn’t dead. She’s in a coma.” 

            “How long has she been in a coma?” I ask, because no other response that comes to mind seems right. 

            Millie relaxed her hands a little. “It happened July fifteenth at our family reunion.  She was riding in one of those little paddle boats at Callaway Gardens out on the lake and somehow she fell out and hit her head. I kept yelling at her to stop trying to stand up and wave at everybody like that but she wouldn’t listen. Now she’s laying up at Grace Rehab just like a fish on a dinner plate.”

            Somehow the picture of Kitty at the rehab center lying there with her comatose hazelnut secret was too much to bear. I grasped my snow globe, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. The sun light outside my tent dimmed just at that moment, and I could hear Millie sucking her in breath. I wanted to peek one eye open, just to see if she was buying it. I didn’t.

            “Kitty is far, far away. She’s waiting to cross into the light, but she can’t go yet.”

            “She’s still alive,” whispered Millie.

            I opened my eyes, then shut them once more. “Yes, yes, and she says…she says a half a teaspoon and an eighth of a cup…respectively.”
            “An eighth of a cup,” Millie snapped. “I should have known.” She muttered to herself as she fished $3 from her purse, shoved the bills at me, and made her way out.  Watching her from my tent entrance I saw her get into a long yellow Caprice and say something to a man sitting behind the wheel. I could almost make out her words as her lips moved, “An eighth of a cup.” The man nodded as if he’d known all along, but he kept his mouth shut as he backed out of the parking space and they were gone. At first I felt a little guilty for taking her three dollars under what felt like false pretenses. But I guess sometimes we need to hear what we already know to make it feel more real.

            Just then a little kid came running at me waving three dollars up in the air. His father, a tall good-looking man with black hair trailed behind. I made my mind up then and there that this kid had twin puppies and a trip to Dollywood in his future.

When I lived in America I was a regular on Spindale public radio in North Carolina. These essays are from my collection that aired on WNCW.

Cathy Adams was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her first novel, This Is What It Smells Like, was published by New Libri Press, Washington. Her short stories have been published in Utne, A River and Sound Review, Upstreet, Portland Review, Steel Toe Review, and Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, among others. She earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Pacific Lutheran University’s Rainier Writing Workshop and now lives and writes in Xinzheng, China, with her husband, photographer, JJ Jackson.