It started in ancient Greece, with Apollo and my great99-grandmother.
Cassandra, they called her. Cursed to know the future, yet never be believed.
It’s been passed down through the matrilineal line like some genetic abnormality.
But these days, it’s not really a curse. If I ever meet Apollo, I’m having his kids.
“£300 on Golden Chariot in the 5:30.”
The bookie almost snorts. “That nag? Don’t bother, love. He couldn’t go any slower if he was missing a leg.”
“It’s a gamble,” I say, and hand over the cash.
He’s running at 500 to 1. Maybe I’ll buy a house.
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The prompt here was ‘modern-day Cassandra’, and it’s the second ‘Cassandra’ story I’ve written.
You can read the other one here: Cassandra
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