George stepped inside the makeshift tent and took a seat opposite the old woman. In a heavy Eastern European accent, she said, “I see you have some secrets that you have been zealously guarding. But don’t worry, I won’t divulge them to anyone.”

“Good, because if you did, I’d have to kill you,” George said, a broad smile on his face. The woman was not amused.

“I have a proposal for you,” she said. “Stop trying to be funny and I’ll continue telling you what’s in store for you. I see a date on a calendar. There’s going to be a big event coming up next week.”

“Yes, that’s when my girl and I are getting married,” George said excitedly. “Tell me, are we going to have a long and happy marriage?”

Just as he asked the question, the skies darkened, the winds picked up, and it started to sleet. The curtains of the structure they were sitting in started flapping wildly in the wind and both George and the woman stood up and began to run out of the tent, looking for shelter from the storm.

But once outside of the tent, a powerful gust of wind lifted up the heavy, wooden chalkboard that advertised “Readings,” and it came crashing down hard upon George’s head, killing him instantly.

The woman looked down on George’s body and said, “The event I saw on your calendar wasn’t your wedding, George. It was your funeral.”

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Written for Donna McNicol’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Photo credit: Wendy Van Hove. Also for these daily prompts: Your Daily Word Prompt (zealous), Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (divulge), The Daily Spur (kill), Word of the Day Challenge (proposal), Ragtag Daily Prompt (calendar), and Daily Addictions (sleet).