STTAR STTAR
Storytelling with Tarot Storytelling with Tarot
An anthology of 12 original short stories created using the Tarot.
Andrew Romanelli
Stephi Blue
Harmoni Wallace
Jennifer Battisti
Melissa Gill
April
Ursula Fox
Najee Jamerson Chris Mendoza
Lila Brissette
Mordecai Alba
Jeff Grindley
Emily Ajir
STTAR - Storytelling with Tarot © Avantpop Publishing and April Ursula Fox 2024 - all rights reserved. Publication of any related material without expressed approval is prohibited. For inquiries contact: avantpopbooks.com aprilursulafox.com
Free download and distribution of this ebook is fully authorized.
Author photo credits:
Melissa Gill, photo by: Christopher Gutierrez
Andrew Romanelli, photo by: Emily Ajir
Jeff Grindley, photo by: Ryan Yoro
Mordecai Alba, photo by: Quetzal David Beltrán Barajas
This project is supported in part by the Black Mountain Institute at UNLV
ThestoryofSTTAR
byAprilUrsulaFox
STTAR,anacronymfor“StoryTellingwithTARot,”beganas mostthingsdowhentheTarotisinvolved,witha coincidence, or “Tarot-incidence,” asauthorJeffGrindleylikestocallit.
DuringmyTarotstudiesIhadbeenexperimentingwithusing theTarotforstorytellingandcreativewriting.Oneofmy experimentsledtoaparticularlysuccessfulTarotspreadofcards, whichIdecidedtosharewiththeworldthroughmysocialmedia account.Imentionedanddisplayedinavideohowthatspread wouldleadtoanintriguingfictionstory,andhowtheTarotwas,in fact,anincrediblyeffectivetoolforunlockingauthorcreativity.
MycontentwasseenbySugarLaytartofAvantpop,who happenedtoalsobelookingatagrantfundingopportunitybythe BlackMountainInstituteatthesametime.Sugarmessagedme aboutapplyingforthegrantwithmyideaofusingtheTarotcards increativewriting,butthedeadlineforthegrantwasin24hours! IdrovetoAvantpopthatsameafternoon,andinafewhours SugarandIfinalizedalldetailsforthegrantapplication.Making useofoccultmagicalrituals,alittlebitofastrology,kabbalah, numerology,alchemy,andtheTarotitself,werippedthroughthe fabricofrealitytodriveourgrantproposalintothehandsof reviewersatBlackMountain.
Amongtheproductsofouroccultistapproachtogrant-making wasthenameoftheproject,STTAR.Fittingtotheprojectactivity (storytelling), itwasalsofittingtoastrologicaleventshappeningin Aquariusatthetime;tothealchemicalnatureofthedigital,or technologicalmediumthatbroughtSugarandItogetheraroundit; andtoTheStar,aTarotcardthathadbeenthecenterofaTarot classIhadthatsameweek,andrepresentsallthesecharacteristics thatpermeated the air duringthecreationoftheproject.
Ingoodfashionwecompletelyforgotabouttheapplication, purposefully,avoidingexpectationsandpotentialheartbreakin caseourprojectwasnotselectedforfunding.Until,onatypically extra-dryLasVegasafternoon,IreceiveamessagefromSugar, “we got the grant!”
BothofusknewwiththatnewsthatthemagicbehindSTTAR wasvigorouslyatwork,andthatwenowfacedthetruebeginning ofajourneythatwouldtakeusfurtherthanwewouldeverexpect.
Oncewepublishedthecallforauthorsandbegantoseethe interestofmanyofthebestwritersinLasVegasatthetime,we knewwehadopenedavortexthatwouldbelargelyexpanding beyondourcontrol.Wehopedtohave10writerswithus,and exceptionallylandedwithadiversegroupof12.
Westructuredallfinalprojectdetails,alsocountingwiththe wisdomofShwaLaytartofAvantpopduringtheprocess,andthen settheprojectinmotionwiththefirstworkshop.
TheSTTARprojectactivitiesconsistedoftwo3-hourlong initialworkshopsaroundthenatureoftheTarot,cardmeanings, andexplorationofwaystousetheTarotincreativewriting.During thesecondworkshop,writerspulledTarotcardspreadsthat revealedtheirstoriestothem.Fromthere,writersmetweeklyfor2 monthstodiscusstheirprocessandtheirdrafts,untilafinalsprint of4weeksledallofustoourveryfinalpiece,publishedhere,in thisveryuniqueanthology.
WhilemyselfandAvantpopPublishing(underSugar&Shwa), arecreditedascreatorsandeditorsofSTTAR,itfeelstomethat weare,moreaccuratelyspeaking, gate openers forenergiesthat wereboundtomanifest.Allofus,thewriters,andtheteamat BlackMountainInstitute,havemanifestedanewplatformfor creativewritingusingtheTarot.
STTARisheretostayandtocontinuetopromoteauthorsof storiesthatareinterwovenwiththemetaphysicallayersofthe knownandunknownuniverse.
WhattoexpectoftheSTTARAnthology
byAprilUrsulaFox
STTARisajourneyintodifferentliterarystyles,approaches, voices,themes,characters,dynamics,conflicts,intersectionalities, positionalities,andartisticpropositions.
Withoriginalshortstoriesconceptualizedandproducedbya diversegroupof12LasVegaswriters,inthisanthologythereader navigatesthroughfiction,fantasy,horror,science-fiction,romance, andurbanfantasy.
Eachstoryisuniquelycaptivatingandimpossibletoputdown beforetheend:
Andrew Romanelli exploresasurrealparadigmclashbetween ourobliviouslyunjustsocietyandthecaseofaninmatewhomust surviveincarcerationwhilethestructuresoftheworldtremble.
Stephi Blue takesusbythehandintothedynamicsofacouple whoquestionsthenatureandvalueoftheirrelationshipin comparisontotheirindividualdreams,desires,andgrowth.
Chris Mendoza uncoversahiddenlayerofsocialmanipulation withinastoryofpassionatelovecrushes,affectionfordogsand closersocialcircles,andlowmotivationtoperformboring everydaywork.
Emily Ajir transcendstimeandtheagestoexpose,througha storyofresistanceandfight,ever-damagingcolonialistand imperialistculture-rippingmechanismsstillatworktoday.
Harmoni Wallace exposestheunsuspectinglydeceivingnature ofartificialintelligencewithinanuniquelyformattedstorythatis displayedoverthescreensandcodestructuresoftechnological devicespromisedtobebeneficialtohumanhealthneeds.
Jeff Grindley revealstheveryunexpected,obscure,and perhapsunholywaythatayoungteenagegirlreactsto confinement,emotionalinstabilityandloss,searchingforanswers inrealmsdarkerthanourown.
Jennifer Battisti takesasurreallife-longroad-tripthrough magnificentlydescribeddesertlandscapesandghosttowns, followingajourneyofgriefandforcedmaturityofayounggirl facingchallengesinherfamily.
Lila Brissette describesthecurious,mysterious,andpotentially maddeningcaseofaprize-winningjournalistwhoischallengedto coverastorythatwillchangetheirlives,andtheirsoul,forever.
Melissa Gill setsanunsettlingtonetoanail-bitingcourtroom thrillerexposingthedubiouscharacterofasmalltownUSAcase accusingamotherofcommittingacrimethat,ifcondemned,will estrangeherfromhersonfortherestoftheirlives.
Mordecai Alba opensthemind,heart,andsoulofacharacter thatnavigatesthroughemotionallyuncertainfriendshipbuilding,a potentiallovetriangle,andself-reflectionindiscoveryofahidden potentialtomakealotofgreed-evokingcash.
Najee Jamerson enchantsoursensesbytakingustoa not-so-distantworldofkings,queens,andasacredhealerthatis facedwithalife-threateningdecisionwhentheirtraditionsdon’t seemsufficienttoovercomeasudden,mysteriousillness.
Finally, April Ursula Fox,yourstruly,asoneofthecreators andeditors,thoughtitcouldbefittingtotakeyouintoaworldin whichtheTarotismanifestedquiteexplicitly,withTheFoolcard beingacharacterchasedbytheKingofWands,accusedofhaving stolenTheStar.
Notably,aftereachstoryyouwillhaveacommentarybyeach authorabouttheirstory,theirprocess,andconnectionstheymade betweentheirstoryandtheTarot.AnimageoftheirTarotspreadis alsodisplayed.
Sowithout further a-do,pleaseenjoythisuniqueSTTAR anthology,followtheauthorsonsocialmediatokeeptrackoftheir newwork,andstayintouchincaseyouwouldliketoparticipate inthenexteditionofSTTAR.
The“Matrix”TarotSpread-basisfortheSTTARprocess
April Ursula Fox
Oh,Fool...Whatdidyoudo?or, FoolishWisdomfortheEverydayStarchaser
QSNNEWSFLASH!
FoolstealsStarfromKingofWandsandisontherun! PageofPentaclesandPageofCupsundercomplicityinvestigation! TheKnightofWandsleadsthepursuit! Concernedcitizenswithinformationregardingthewhereaboutsof
TheFool
cancalltheQueenofSwordsNewshotlineat: 1-800-CATCH-THAT-FOOL!
Part1.TheThreeMis ts,or ThereisOnlyOneWayOutofThisMess,andOneWayOnly.
“Okay,Icanseethatyouareanxious.Takeadeepbreathintwo stages,likeso…”TheHighPriestessgavetwodeepinhalesinquick successionfromeachother,andexhaledslowly.
TheFoolrepeatedafterher.
“Now,”shecontinued,“youweresayingthatyouwereinsidean… elevator?”
TheFoolnoddedwithhertypicalsmilethatstrangelywould somehowalwaysexposehertongue,“yes!Igotheresometimes,Idon’t reallyknowwhy.Ilikethemusic,Iguess…It’sBossaNova,youknow? Like…elevatormusic?…Ilikeit!”Shesmiled.“Andthenyougoup, anddown,andupagain…it’sfun,right?”
TheHighPriestessstaredatTheFoolwithaninvitinggazeanda calmsmilethatmadeTheFoolslightlyuncomfortable.“And?...”
“Oh!and…and…that’swherewemet!ThePageofPentaclesandI. Funny,right?Meetingintheelevator?ListeningtoBossaNova…going
up,anddown,andupagaintogether…abitromantic,really,isn’tit?I justhadtokissher,Imean,wouldn’tyoudothesame?”
TheHighPriestessmighthaveimaginedthatscene,ormaybeshe wasthinkingofsomethingelse.“IamnotsureIseetheappeal,but please,docontinue…youalsomentionedThePagehada…package?”
“Oh!yes!beautiful!Imean,youarebeautifultoo,ofcourse,”she smiledatthestillgazeofthePriestess,“butthatbeauty…”TheFool lostherbreath.“Thatbeautyisnotofthisworld.Itispurelightfrom beyondthesun.Itisancestrallight,pointingthewayto…to…”
TheFoolnoddedherheadupanddownasiflookingforthe missingword.TheHighPriestessnoddedtogetherwithherinhope thatthenoddingwould nallygetthemsomewhere.ThePageof Cups,whowassittingtherequietlyholdingher shbowlwasalso nodding,andsowasthePageofPentacles,withtheripped-open packagethathadstarteditall.
TheFoolsmiledasthenoddingsynchronizedacrossthegroup,her mouthopened,showinghertongue,andthegroupbecamehopeful thatthistime…“to…to…oh!thisisfun,isn’tit?Ineverthought noddingtogethercouldbesomuchfun,seriously!”TheFoolsmiled, toalongsighfromtheotherthree.
ThePageofCupsgentlyadjustedherorangedress,adjustedher shbowloverherleftlegsoshecouldmovejustalittleclosertothe HighPriestess,andsmiled.
“Yes?”Askedthecrow-likemotherofmysteries,attemptingnotto showsignsoffrustration.“Please,mylove,goahead,thisisasafe space. ”
“Isawsomething.”ThePagepaused,lettingherheartbeatthrice beforecontinuing.“TheFoolthoughtitwasagoodideatohideinside mybowlandopenthepackageinthere.At rstIwasn’tsureitwasa goodidea.Ihadjustenteredtheelevator,butTheFool,youknow?can beveryconvincing!”ShesmiledsokindlythateventheQueenof Swordsherselfwouldhaveconsideredagreeing.“SoIgaveTheFoolan approvinglook,andshejumpedrightinandswamaroundeverywhere inthere.Ifeltforasecondthatsomethingwashappeningbetweenus.”
“Itwas!Imean,itis!I…loveyou!letmetellyouthatmuch.”The Foolsmiled.
“Anyway,”thePageofCupsgentlycontinued,“untilIsawthe light.Itisindeedasshesaid.Itisnotofthisworld,anditisancient, andcold,andsadbutalsoheartwarming,isthatpossible?”
“Indeeditis,mydear…TheStar’spowerisamysteryeventome,” thecrow’sgazeshiveredthescalesofthePage.
“Anyway,”thePageofCupsstaredatthewaterinherbowlfora littlemorethanafewsecondsbeforejoltingherheadbackup.“ThenI amnotsurewhathappened.Itwaslikesomeonewastherewithout beingthere.Haveyoueverfeltthat?”
“OnlywhenIchoosetogiveintomore…carnal…pleasures.”
ThePagewasconfused,butthePriestessdidnotseemtointendto elaborate.
“Anyway,”thePagecontinued,“theneverythingstartedglowing andglowingmore.ForasecondIfelttheinterconnectedcosmosand howIamaspeckofdustinallofthattoo…Thenashootingstar splashedoutofmybowlandpassedrightinfrontofmyeyes,likeright here,woosh!”shemadeawoosh!gesturewithherhandclosetoherface. “Andthentheelevatordooropened.TheFoolsteppedoutlikeshe didn’tevencare.Wefollowed.Itwasthesecond oor.Wesawyour doorrightthere.TheFoolpointedouthowprettyyourblackand whitecolumnsare,and…hereweare.”Shesmiledevenmorekindly now.Theheartofthecrowdidnotresist,andthemotherofmysteries actuallysmiledthistime,asadbutheartwarmingsmile.
TheHighPriestesstooktwodeepinhalesinquicksuccessionfrom eachother,andexhaledslowly.“So…TheFoolstoleTheStarandlost TheStarontheverysameday,andthatdayistoday,ofcourse!Whyam Inotsurprised?”
ThePageofPentaclesslowlyraisedherhand, “becauseyouarethe crowmotherofallsecrets?”ThePriestessblandlygazedatthePage, whobroughtherhandbackdownslowly,mumbling,“wasit… rhetorical?”Thetwoothermis tsdidn’thaveabetterclue.
“Thisisabigmess,don’tyouagree?”Thecrownodded,suggesting thatthethreedidthesame.“Anditisyourmess.”Thefournodded synchronously.“Andyouwill xit.”Theirnoddinggainedatadofa frown.“AnddoyouknowhowIknowthat?”Nodding…“BecauseI amthemotherofallsecrets!”Frown…
“Thereisonlyonewayoutofthismess,andonewayonly,”she continued.“IfTheStariswithwhoIthinkitis,thenyouhavenotime towaste!Youmust ndher,urgently!forherownsakeandyours,of course…andhonestly,foralloursakes!”Inhale-inhale,exhale…
“Ifyoufail…”theeyesofthecrowbeganto icker,“TheStarwill becomedarkandtreacherous.Evilandcorrupted.Andthecosmos itselfwillbecomeamazeofdesperatesoulspleadingforforgiveness fromsinstheycannotkeepthemselvesfromcommitting,asifthiswas notalreadysofamiliarinthisworld,and…”
TheHighPriestessfellintoatrance,channelingwordsthatwere notentirelyhers.“YouwillseektheQueenofCups.Onedropfrom herChaliceofTruthfulTearswillrevealthemysterioustransgressoryou seek.SheresidesatthepenthouseoftheWaterfallTower,13th oor. Youwillgodowntothe1st oorofthistower,TowerMajoris,then catchthesecondelevatortoyourright,pasttheTowerofWanderful Wands.Iknow,Wandscanbecheesyattimes,butpleasenevermind thebollocks!Whateveryoudo,donotcomebacktoTowerMajoris! TheKingofWandshasfriendsinhighplaces.Icansensehehas messagedourfriendsonthe13th oor.Youdonotwanttobumpinto level13ofTowerMajoris,trustme!”
Thethreemis tsstoodupandbegantotidytheirgarments. “Thankyou,beautifulHighPriestess,”TheFoolbowedinanoverly fancyfashion,thenoptedinsteadtohugtheirhost,ando erherakiss onthecornerofherbigblackbeak.
“Itwillbe38pentacles,please.”TheHighPriestessremindedthe three,withasmile,andhersti featheryhandopeninfrontofthem.
TheFoolglancedatthePageofCups,whoglancedatthePageof Pentacles,whodidn’t ndanyoneelsetoglanceat,andhadtopullout herSevenofPentaclesCreditCardtosettlethematterandpaytheseer.
Part2.HaveYouEverSeenaPolarBear?or TheGreatestShowonEarththatYouNeverKnewExisted.
Itwasn’tprohibitivelydi cultforthethreemis tstoreachthe rst oor.Afterall,theywerequitefamiliarwiththeelevatorbynow. Andbeingonthesecond oor,theywerenotincrediblyfarfromtheir destination.Andyes,incaseyouwerewondering,theelevatorstill played…
“BossaNova...Iloveit…youhavetosay‘bow-ssaknow-vah’you know?oritdoesn’twork.It’sfromBrazil.Beautifulcountry.Never been.Onmybucketlist.”TheFoolsmiled,noddingtotheothertwo.
“IhavetheKingofPentaclesinmine,”thePageofPentaclessmiled andnoddedsynchronously.
“Ishehandsome?”askedthePageofCups,noddingalongwiththe othertwo.
“Err…hmm…yes?Iguess?”
“Oh,soyouwillmakealovelycouple!”shesmiled,verysatis edto hearit,shakingandraisingher shbowl.
“Oh,no!...no…de nitelynot,no…Imean…Iwanttobetheking ofpentaclesoneday,”shesmiled,nodding.
“Oh!Iamsosorry!”WithagentlegesturethePageofCupsexcused herselfandblushedher shycheekssokindlytherewasnowayanyone couldnotforgiveher.“Youwouldstillmakeacutecouple,though,” shewinked.
**Bling!**FirstFloor!**
Theelevatordoorsopenedeversoslowlytorevealtheveryliveand bustlingcrowdmovingaroundandaboutonthe rst oorofTower Majoris,the oorwhereeverythinghappened.
TheFooldriftedoutoftheelevator,overwhelmedwithsomuchto lookat,bumpingintopasserbyfolks,and…
Hey!Look!It’sTheFool!
“Fool!”ThePageofPentaclesgrabbedherbythearmandpulled herintoacorner,underthefoyerofalavishtheaterthatjusthappened tobenearby.
ThePageofCupsslowlyfollowedthetwo,butthendidn’tresist theurgetofallbehindand irtwithapasserby,theveryattractive KnightofCups.Wearingabluesuitatophiswhitehorse,the glimmeringknighttrottedrightnexttoher.Heraisedhiscupand extendedhishand.Shecouldbarelyholdher shbowltogether.She tookthathandandclimbedonthatwhitehorsewithhim.
“Oh,look!it’sashow…TheInfiniteTheatrePresents…theyhavea magician!It’sapolarbear!Haveyoueverseenapolarbear?Oh!we needtoseethis!”TheFoolwashalf-wayintothetheaterbeforeanyone couldholdherback.“Oh,lookatthatletterhead,TheGreatestShowon Earth!”
“Thatyouneverknewexisted!”yelledthePageofPentacles runningbehind.
“Oh,butisn’tthatthepoint?isn’tthatthepointofbeinghere? alive?inthislife?to ndeverythingweneverknewexisted?”TheFool turnedaroundandkissedthePage’slipsfuriously,thenpickedherby thehandandpulledherintoTheInfiniteTheatre.
Forasecond,timecametoahalt.ThebeatingofTheFool’sheart waslosttotheglimmeringlightsofthemagni centstage, oatingover amarbleddance oorofshiftingcolors.The oor,ofwater,earth, re andair,remainedsilent,waitingforthestompingfeetofpatronsofall suits.ButbeforeanydancingwastooccurinTheInfinite,underthe eyesofallarchetypalinhabitantsofTheArcanumTowers,asingle gurewouldshowusallhowitisdone…
!DrumStab!Trumpets!Horns!
Thecurtainsshake,stillclosed,darkbloodredastheriveroflife. Theyshakeagain,asthedrumsandhornsstabthesittingaudienceinto
alertforwhatcomesnext.Onthethirdshakethecurtainsswingopen androllthemselvesoutofthewayfor…
!DrumStab!Trumpets!Horns!BigBand!
Onstagetonight!EntertainingSuitsandTriumphs!Hewhomakes somethingoutofnothing!Rememberingalwaysthatasabove,sobelow! TheMagician!
!DrumStab!Trumpets!Horns!BigBand!Trumpetsolo!
Suddenlyapop!ofsmokerevealsatallstandingpolarbear.Wearing animpeccablewhitesuitandglisteningwhiteshoes,the gurewaved hiswhiteglovesintheairandbegantopullrabbitsanddovesoutof thehatsofpatronssittingcomfortablyintheirpositions,tothe applauseofthesoldouttheater.
“Thepolarbear!”yelledtheexcitedFoolapplaudingtheshow.
“Don’tyell!”whisperedthePageofPentacles,“don’tyou understandyouarebeingchased?Whatiftheycatchyou?”
“Theywillcatchmesoonerorlater,won’tthey?Whydelaythe inevitable?”shesmiled.
“Maybebecauseyougettoliveafewmoredays?months?years? maybeevenyourwholelife?”
“Isn’tthatwhatI’mdoingnow?”TheFoolsmiledwitha con dencethatdidnotputthePageatease,notatall.“Besides,” continuedTheFool,“whoisgoingto ndmehere?”
ThePagelookedupandaroundthetheaterastheMagician’sshow continuedtoputthecrowdinawe.Itdidn’ttakehertoolongtonotice thatsittinginaboxontheupperlevelbalcony,quiteclosetothestage, acertainKingandQueenlaughedandclappedandwaved…their… wands!
“Fool!Fool!Weneedtogo!We.Need.To.Go!”ThePagecould barelykeepitsteady.
“Wait!notnow,look!It’sthebigreveal!it’scomingup!”
“No!Youdon’tunderstand!Youhavenoideawhatwe…”
“Now,please!IfthereisonethingIunderstandinthisbriefbreath ofalifeIhave,thatthingisde nitelytheatre!Thereisalwaysabig revealintheatre!Letmetellyouthatmuch!”
TheshakingPagenoticedthateverytimeeitherKingorQueen wouldattempttolookdowntheirway,agustofabreezewouldswing theboxcurtainsjustenoughtoblocktheirview.WhatthePagedidnot noticewasthatsittinginthemezzanine,arenownedchampionofthe suitofwandswasalreadyontothemmorethanaminuteago.TheSix ofWands,aladybadgerwearingablacktophat,hadsni edthemout andwasnowreadytosnu themouttoutsuite.
Andnow…forthebigreveal…wehaveinvitedamemberofthe audiencetojoinTheMagicianonstage!
Thestagewentdark.AnarrowspotoflightilluminatedThe Magician’sface.Asecondspotpoppedon,illuminatingthemarbled dance oor,andinit,movingasitmovedwithit,awhitehorsecarrying acouple,solovely,heartswouldmeltfrommezzaninetothegods.
Approachingthestage,apairoforangeheelsoverhotpink stockingsdelicatelylandfromthewhitemount.Blushedcheeks,a departingkissonthelipsofaKnight,holdinganexcited shbowl,she smiledandlightlywavedtothefourcornersandthestars.
Isn’tshelovely?
TheMagician,withaswingofhisgloves,projectedawand,a sword,apentacle,andacup.Flickeringthroughtheairtheydrifted aroundeversoquickly,forminga gureofeightpatternencirclingthe slightlyshyPageofCupsholdingherscintillating shbowl.
“SuitsandTriumphs!Thisisaveryspecialnight!”Thepolarbear Magicianprojectedhisbearvoice.“Averyspecialshow!”Helooked intothemanyeyesstaringbackathim.“Anupsettingeventhas recentlystruckourcommunity!OurbelovedStarhasbeenstolen!”
Thecrowdmurmuredandgossiped.“Well…ItsohappensthatIknow astar!Andshecansing!”Thecrowdlaughed.“SoIdecidedtobring herheretonight,toyou!withmagic,ofcourse!”
DrumRoll…
“IneededaPage,yousee…”continuedthebear,“butIdidn’t expectIwasgoingtodrawtheloveliestPageinourdeck…”hewinked toherina irt,provokinggigglesintheaudience.“Thereasonbeing, thisstarIspeakofhasaname,andhernameisstar,butinitalian, Stella.AndhernameisalsoPage,StellaLePage!”Thecrowdcheered, rumorswerethatallofthemhadStella’slatestalbum,Sluggin’itup!in theirSpotifymusicplaylists.“So,followingancientmagicalrulesand proceduresthatIwillnotboreyoutodeathexplaining,mynextactis abouttransformingourlovelyPageintoStellaLePage!”
Cheers!Claps!DrumRoll…Suspense…SlowBlueseyGroove…
TheMagicianpickedthePageofCupsbythehandandbegana dance.The utteringelementscontinuedtoencirclethemanddance withtheirdance,movewiththeirmoves,andmovefaster,spinand sparklearoundthem,carryenergyfromthisworldtothenextand back,andtootherworldsandback,andtothein niteandback…It becameadanceoflightsandmovementsandelementalenergyblurring theimageofthedancers,until…inaswingingmove,TheMagician spunthePageofCupsaroundandlethergoofhishand,spinningout tothemiddleofthestage.Inbetweenspins,colorsbegantochange, thenpartsofherclothes,thecolorofherhair,and nallyhershoes. Frombrightorangetoglisteningsilver.Andjustlikethat,witha spinningmove,StellaLePagewasnowonstageandthePagewasgone.
Stellaraisedbothherarmsincelebrationandwithawelcoming bowsignaledthebandwhokickedinimmediatelywithherhitsingle Sluggin’itup!
Thecrowdwildlydescendedfromtheirpositionstothedance oor.Whatwasbeforeamagicshow,wasnowaliveconcertofoneof themostreveredmusicalstarsalive…
Music…Myst…ShiftingColorsoveraMarbledDancefloor…
StellaLePagetakesthemicrophone…
Walkingintolampposts
Astarroleinmyowncomedyshow
ItseemsthatI’veinvented
Aproximitybetweenyouandme
Andnowguesswho’slurking Mad-eyedandmortified
I’mstrollingohsocasually
Byyourworkplace
Stillhopingwecangetpastthirdbase
Backonthelooseagain
Untilthebitterend
Ifyou’renotobsessedwithmejustpretend I’maslow-mocyclone
You’restoodintheway
(StellaLePage,Sluggin’itUp!)
Part3.AStrangeLandFarAway,or
AFishOutofWaterMustQuicklyACupFind.
‘Pluft!’wasthesoundofthePageofCupsmagicallylandingona cozyseatupinaboxjustacrossthestagefromtheKingandQueenof wands.Theynoticedher.Theypointedtheirwands.Theysentboth theKnightandtheSixofWandsafterher.
‘Ploompt!’wasthesoundofher shbowlarrivingmagicallyonher lap,justaboutthreesecondslater.
“Oops!Excuse-me!Idon’toftendis-appearandre-appearand… well…pardonmymanners.Itwillcertainlynothappenagain!”She sortedherselfoutasfastandasbestshecould.
“Icertainlyhopeso!”Thevoicewassternbutdeeplycaring. “Excuse-me?”She nallyturnedtorealizewhowassitting immediatelynexttoher.“MyQueen!”Shebowedherheadtoawave ofemotionsrushingthroughheralreadydisoriented shbowl.
“Itisheartwarmingtoseeyou,mydearPage,”saidtheundisputed sovereignoftides,storms,ponds,rivers,andwaterfalls,theladyof emotionaltruthandthebestofgoodmanners,theQueenofCups.
“MyQueen,you…I…youare…I…need…isthattheChaliceof TruthfulTears?”
Thequeensmiled,delicately,notshowinganyteeth,ofcourse.“It mightbe?butthatwouldreallydependonwhoislookingforit.To some,itmaybeaportal,toothers,apoisonouselixirofemotional doom!”
“Aportal?Towhere?”
“Well,”ponderedtheQueen,“whydon’tyouseeitforyourself?”
Slushhh!Shhlushhhh!Swirl!Sluurrrrrp!
Andlikeso,thePageofCupswasgoneintothechaliceand beyond,swirlingthroughtowhatseemedtobequiteadi erentplace, andcertainlynotthein nitetheateranymore.
‘Plong!’wasthesoundofherbuttockshittingapatchofgrass surroundedbythesandsofanin nitedesert.
Onthepatchwasafamilyofhippos,readingstoriestochildren, withtencups oatingovertheirheads.Theysmiled,warmly,andin trulywelcomingwayswelcomedtheawkwardlylandingPage.
Ontheedgeofthepatchthreegeckosholdingthreecupsthat lookedjustliketheQueen’schalicewerejustaboutreadytosingalittle song,acapella:
And,hereshecomes!hereshecomes!
Cuteandtenderandfulloflove!
Butdoessheknowhowdeepithurts?
Doessheknowastarcanburn?
She’ssentbytheQueen!bytheQueen!bytheQueen!
TofindTheStar!where’stheStar?where’stheStar?
Aaaand!
Helpwecangive,helpsheshallhave!
Weknowagirl!agirl,notalad!
Wholivesaloneandcarriesherown…Light!
Shejust…Might!
BecarryingtheStarinherlamp…shemight!
And,shelivesthatway!thatway!thatwaaay!
Followthesunanditsrays!its…raaays!
And… bye! bye-bye!
bye-bye-bye! bye-bye-bye-bye!
Disoriented,thePageofCupsfollowedhernoseandwentthatway intothedesert.A shoutofwaterinastrangelandfaraway.
TheSun,whichwasreallyjustagiantsun owercarriedbyagreen iguanainredbikinis,hadsuchstrongraysitwasdi culttolookat, anddi culttofollow.
“Hello!CouldyoupleasejusttellmewhereIcan ndthegirlwith thelampwiththeStar?Respectfully,yourraysarehurtingmyeyesa littlebit,andwithjustabitofinstructionIamsureIcould ndmy ownway.”Shetriedtosmile,buttherayswerereallykillinghermood.
“Babe!I’mTheSun,youknow?Like,THESun?Getit?IamThe Sun!Sunnysunnyvibesrockyoureyes,rockyoureyes…Everyonefollows TheSun.Iam…athing!youknow?Thethingtofollow.Everyone knowsthat,Imean…honestly,right?”TheSunstaredather,almost blindinghertoash.
“Isuppose…”Shemumbled.“So…whichwaydidyousayyouwere going?
“Babe!I’mgoingthatway!ofcourse!Imean,seriously…getit?”
“Imean,totally…Igetit,babesies!Yougothatway,I…will…be… rightthere!”Andno,TheSundidnotnoticehermocking.
AndjustasTheSunmovedthatway,shemovedthisway.Andone morestepthisway.UntilshenoticedthatTheSunwasactuallynot reallyseeingher.‘TheSundoesn’tactuallyseeanyonebesidesthemself,’ shethought.‘Andbesides,withallthislightfromTheSun,howamI evergoingtoseethelightofTheStar?’
Sosheturnedandsheran,andsheran,andsheran! SoonTheSunreachedthepointitwouldeasilyset. Inthecrepusculeaslightdimmedintonight. Afarawayglimmerof ickeringstarlight.
Asingleladyinagoldendress.Shehadarhinoceroshead. Withalongwalkingstickandalamp.
“TheHermit,Iam,nowgoodbye,youcango!”shesaid.
“IhavecomefromafarforTheStar,andImustsetherfree!The Foolandthecosmositselfdependonme!”
“Cute!Butsilly.TheStarisnotmineoranyone’sforthegiving. WhatIhaveinmylampisareplica,ofcourse.Ofmyowncreation fromyearsofthought.WhocancaptureTheStar?NotaFool, certainlynot!NotaKing,noraQueen,neitherDeath!Only…maybe… justmaybe…”
“Maybe?”
“Maybe…”
“Maybe?”
“Iamnotgettingintothismess,but…”
“But?”
“ButIcantellyouthis,followyourbowl!ifyouwantto ndThe Star.Sheisalwaysthere,shiningwhereyouare.Andifitseemssheis gone.Ifitseemssheislost.Itisyouthataregoneandlosttohim,the uncleanone…”
“What?Theuncleanwho?”
“Andbesides,inthisdesertverysoonyouwilldry.Afishoutof watermustquicklyacupfind!”AndTheHermitwassuddenlygone, deepintothenight,withnotraceofhergraceorherreplicastarlight.
Whattodo?Whattodo? Socoldisthisnight. Sodryandsopale. Thissandtellsnotales.
Oh,Fool,whatdidyoudo? NowI’mlost,allbecause, Ikissedyou. Nostarsinthesky.
Myfishbowlisdry.
AndI amready tositdown andcry.
“Doyouneedacup?”
“Huh?”
“Foryourtears,yousaidyouweregoingtocry?”Itwasoneofthe hippochildrenfromtheTenofCupspatch.
“Iam!...Imean…Iwas,but…”
“NowI’mhere?oh,sorry!ShouldIgoandletyoucryinpeace?”
“Uh…maybenot.”Sheattemptedasmile.Thelittlehipposmiled back.“Whyareyouhere,anyway?”
“Emotionaljourneys.Peoplegetlost.EveryoneneedsaTenof Cupsintheirlife,youknow?”
Shetookadeepinhaletwice,andexhaled,“Ido!”Andasingletear escapedhereyes,rusheddownherblushycheeks,andlaunchedfrom herchininfreefalltowardsthesandbelow.
Asitgainedtheairitbegantoshine.Timeraninslow-moasher tearbecameastar.Sheunderstoodit.Sheunderstooditall.
Illuminatingthepitchblackdesertnight,hertear-starshone,itslight piercingdeepintoherheartinfreefall…
“Gotcha!”Thelittlehipposmiled,excitedashecapturedthefalling star-tearwithher shbowl.“Here,Igotitforyou.”
“Thankyou…youaresonimble,I’mimpressed!”Shesmiled.“But whyme?Idon’tunderstand…whywasastarhidinginsideme?”
“Itwasn’thiding,itneveris.”Thelittlehippohadthekindestof eyes.“Weallhaveastarinsideus,andifwedon’tseeit,thatisbecause wearenotlooking.”Itseemedobviousenoughtothechild.
“Lookingwhere?”
“Whereithurts,ofcourse!That’swherepeoplestu theirstars. Theyjustwanttomakethepaingoaway.Thentheystu theirstarfor it.Butthestardoesn’tstopthepain.Sonowtheylosttheirstarand theyarestillinpain.Allbecausetheydidn’tlook.”
“Theystu them,huh?”shesmiled. “Theystu them!”
Theylaughedtogether.
Withkindeyesthelittlehipporaisedher shbowl.
“Timetoun-stuff?”sheasked.
“Onlyyoucandoit!”answeredthechild.
Withbothhandssheacceptedthebowl.Shetranscendedherhurt. Shekissedthechildontheirforehead.Shegaveuponregret.Sheleft thatplace.
Itwasdreamy,thejourneyback.Itwasswirly.Anditbecamesilent beforeitbecameloud.Veryloud.Very,veryloud.
Part4.TheEndisNottheBeginning,itisReallytheEnd,or YouDon’tKnowWhat’sGoodUntilYou’veKissedaStar.
“Welcomeback,mydear.Isurelyhopeyoufoundwhatyouwere lookingfor.”TheQueenofCupswasexactlywherethePagehadleft her.
“Oh,didIdozeo ?ImusthavebeenmoretiredthanIrealized,I amsosorry!WhatdidImiss?”Shesmiledashersensescametoher. “Nottoomuch,just…that!”
CatchthatFool!Gether!WewantourStar!Foolthief!
AsStellaLePage nishedhersong,thecrowdmadlychasedThe Foolaroundthedance oor.Dodgingthegraspofdesperation,there wasnowheretogobutup!TheFoollookedintotheeyesofthePageof CupsandthePageofPentacles.Shealwayslookedatherfriendsbefore doingsomethingreallystupid.Then,steppingonair,TheFool climbedtothe oatingstage.
“Stop!”YelledTheFool.“Stopthismadness!”
Thecrowdfroze.StellaLePagefroze.
“No,dearStella,notyou,pleasedocontinue!”Stellacontinued.
“Allofyou!!Justlookatyou!”TheFoolwalkedtotheedgeofthe stage,addressingallsuitsandtriumphs.“Doyoureallybelievethata FoolsuchasmyselfwouldeverstealTheStar?Areyoutellingmethat youbelievethatTheStar,Imean…THEStar!wouldeverbelongto anyone?!TheStarbelongsonlytoherself,letmetellyouthatmuch! Whodoyouthinkyouare,KingofWands?!Sittinguptherein yourcastleofvanities,yourfomofactory,usingandusingandusing andreallynotgivingthatmuch!Consumptionisyourgamebutweare notallthesame!Thisworldisaboutsomuchmorethanyour akey re!Itistrulyaboutgrowthandfollowingourjourneystowards somethinghigher!Muchhigher!
WhenIlookatallofyouIseethejourneyveryclearly!Iseethe movementweallaregoingthrough,constantly!Livingandre-living,
learningandmovingontothen ndourselvesinsimilarplaces,only di erent,becausenowwearedi erent.Wesoon ndthatthislifeisnot withoutitslimitations.Bigpicturesaregenerallyallthesame!Thejoy oflifehappensinthedetails,ineachmomentwelivewecan ndmany joys.Asmilefromsomeoneweloveisstillanewjoy,evenifwehave seenthemsmilingbefore.Itisaboutlivingthepresent,myfriends!I maynotbetheKingofPentacles,orSwords,orCups,butIknowthis much!Trustme!”
Bynow,halfoftheaudiencehadtearsformingintheireyes,and theotherhalfhaddecidednottocryandinsteadnod,insynchronicity withTheFoolwhowasnodding,andhaddecidedtocontinuetalking, mostlyinself-preservation.
“WhatIamreallysayingisthatallofushaveastar!Allofusare stars!Inthein niteskyweallshineourlight!Soinsteadoflookingfor TheStarandaccusingthisfoolofstealingyourlightandjoy,seek withinyouandmanyjoysyoushall nd!
Andbesides,iftheKingofWandspurchasedTheStarbutthe packageneverarrived,whowasitthatsoldittohiminthe rstplace?! Whoistherealkidnapperhere?!”
ThecrowdmurmuredandponderedandfeltTheJudgmentcalled byTheFool.Asenseofreleasetookoverthetheatre,maybeTheFool wasrightafterall.Thoughtsledtoapossiblenewculprit.Allthoughts butone,oftheKingofWandshimself.
“Catchthatfool!”CommandedtheKing.“IwantmyStar!”
“Fool!Catch!”ThePageofCupsstoodupandlaunchedher sh bowlintotheair.Asitgainedtheairitbegantospin.Witheachspin dropsofwaterslippingoutbecametinysparklesofglimmeringlight.
Shehadaimedwell,andheraimwastrue,butthebowlwasnot quite yinginthedirectionofTheFool.Itwas,instead,goingstraight attheirguest.AndStellaLePagewasnotreadytogetwet.
SoTheFoolgavetwostepsandstumbledonstage,whileStella triedtostandupbuttrippedbymistake.Bynowthebowlwasabout tofallonherhead.ShegrabbedTheFoolandtogetherthey…
Underasplashingbowl,somesayitwasmagic,StellaLePage transformedhersemblance.FromStellatoStar,hadshebeentherethis wholetime?Atthispointallweknewwasshedidshinesobright.
“Alightsopureitisnotofthisworld,itispurelightfrombeyond thesun.Itisancestrallight,pointingthewayto…to…”TheFoolgently touchedTheStar,andgentlykissedherlips,unitingandmeltingthe heartsofallthoseindisbelief.
Aneternalmomentinmemory,foreverleftajar,becauseyoudon’t knowwhat’sgooduntilyou’vekissedastar.
Withakissaproblemends,thatwithakissbegun.Themysteryof TheStarwasnowsolvedwithoutoneculprittoblame.Somesaythat, laterthatnight,onejustmighthaveseenTheDevilin ight.Downthe stairs,goingsomewhere,ornowhere,oreverywhere?
Allweknow,afterall,onceDeathshowedup,isthattheendisnot thebeginning,itisreallytheend.
Sochinup,starchaser!Yourfutureisbright.Ifyoudon’tseeThe Fool,chancesarethatitmight…beyou.Andwhateveryoudo,please rememberwhoyouare.Never,ever,stu yourstar.
AuthorCommentary&TarotSpread-AprilUrsulaFox
Originally,Aprilusedthe Curious Creatures Tarot.
Thisisthe1strow.
Ihonestlypinchmyselfeverytimethethoughtcomestomy mind,“didwereallyjustcreateananthologyoforiginalstoriesinspired byTarotcards?” Andthenasecondpinch,“didwereallyjustbring togetherthecoolestgroupofwriters?allfromLasVegas?andoh,the stories!”
STTARisadreamcometruetomeforallthesereasonsandmore.
MuchlikeTheStarcard,IfeelIamoneplanetinthisconstellation, connectedbypurelightandtransmittingin nitevibrancythatwill transcendtheages.
Iamincrediblygrateful,deeplythankful,andahugeadmirerof everyonethatjoinedtheproject.Itwasajourney,anadventure,a climb,aride…whataride!Andnowyouarepartofit!asyoureadthis.
Andyes,ofcourse,letmealsotellyouaboutmyprocess,anda littleaboutwhoIamandhowIseetheTarot.
IamaTaromancer.IusetheTarotoftenandinmanyways.Ihave studiedtheTarotverydeeply.Ihavegone,andcontinuetogointothe textsthatcreatorsoftheTarothavegoneinto.Ihavedrankfromthe samepoolsofknowledge.Ihaveobservedcelestialpatterns,sacred geometry,writingsonthewalloftime.Ihavespokenwithsomany Tarotpractitioners,youngandold,veryfoolishandverywise.Iseethe Tarotatworkacrossmetaphysicalboundaries.Itallmakessensetome. Adeckofcardsthatrevealsmessagesconnectedtosomanydi erent layersofexistence.Itallmakessensetome.
OnceIwasaskedifIbelievedinTarot,inmagik,inwhatsomemay refertoassupernatural.Myanswerissimple,itisnotaboutbelievingor not,youexistinsideit,whetheryoubelieveitornot.Thepracticeof Tarotispartofanawakening,thatsomechoosetoembrace,andothers
will“postpone.”Thecardsarethereforallofus,onehassimplyto entertheTarotspace,stopquestioningthemselves,andlivethe experience,livetheTarot.
IalsoknowthattheTarotspeakstoallofus,regardlessofhowwe approachourconstructionofknowledge,experience,living,anddeath. Onedoesn’tevenneedtoknowtheTarottohaveaninsightfroma card.Thecardsalsoservethosethatapproachthemwithinstincts alone.ThisnotionisclearlypresentintheartworkofPamelaColman Smith,andexplicitlydiscussedintextsbyEliphasLevi,EdwardWaite, andmanyothers,“divinationisintuition.”Intuitionis…well,youcan answerthatone,can’tyou?
ThisisexactlythepointbehindthisworkwithSTTAR.TheTarot speakstoallofus!Thisanthology,ifanythingelse,isanotherproofof that.WhatthatmeansisthatwhiletheTarotisarchetypalknowledge, orknowledgethatbelongswithintheconceptofonearchetypeor another(e.g.TheMagician,TheEmpress,TheLovers,etc.),it continuesevolving,always,asallofusevolveandchangeandtransform theTarot.AcardsuchasTheMagicianmayhavebeencreatedwith deeprootsinintelligenceastheprimalqualitybehindcreation(the actionofTheMagician).PerhapstodayTheMagiciannavigatesthe roleofperformancealotmorethanthatofthinkingordeveloping somethingthroughintelligence.Amagician-typecontexttodaymay involvealotmorepromotione orts,andalotmoreperformancetype tasksthanperhapsoriginallyconceived.Thisis,ofcourse,onlyone exampleofhowcards(archetypes)canbeseentochangeindi erent contexts.
InTarotcirclesitisquitecommonto ndthosewhobecome perhapstoostrictwiththemeaningsofthecards.Thesestrictviewswill transformtheTarotintoaverylimitedgameofchanceinwhichthe cardswillhavethesamemeaningforeverycontext,withslight
variationsbyspreadpositions.Iseethisasprohibitivetosomeone seekingtoexperiencetheTarotinitsfullpotential.Isuggestthatallof uscanopenourmindstothefullpotentialofthecards,thatistruly whatSTTARisallabout.
MyStory
Determinedtopushthelimitsonthepotentialofthecards,I exploreinmystoryafantasticworldinwhichTarotcardsarealive.I translatecardmeaningsintocharacterdescriptions,traits,interests, actions,objects,anddialog.Theworlditself,orthelocationwheremy storytakesplace,isoneofthearchetypes:TheTower(asupportcard inmyhiddeninfluencesposition),withtowersforeachelementalsuit andmajorarcana.Insteadofcreatingabridgebetweenmyrealityand theTarot,Ichosetodepartmyrealityentirelyandmovefullyintothe Tarotworldforachange.
ThestoryitselfstartedasIbecameimmersedinsideTheFool,my maincharacter,whichinmydeckofcards,theTarotofCurious Creatures,isadog.IknewthefoolwouldhaveaKingofWands problem,bein uencedbytheQueenofCups,andthrough Judgmentendupstillhavingtorunwithan8ofWands.Thesewere positionsinmyspread.Istartedlookingformoreontheproblemand foundTheStarasasupportcardinmypastposition,underthePage ofPentaclesasthemain1strowcard.Staringatthistheplotcameto mymind:TheFoolstoleTheStarfromtheKingofWands,andthePage ofPentacleswasthecouriercarryingTheStarinsideapackage.Ialso tookaverysurrealturnputtingTheStarinapackage.
Ihadaplotbutthestoryitselfwasn’tmovingtoofastuntilthe universecametogetherandgavemetheflowofthe rstscene.Iwasat work,listeningtobossanova,andjustthinkingtomyselfthatitissuch asophisticatedgenre,mixingjazzandrhythmsfromBrazil,andIwas
amazedthatpeopleplayitinsideelevatorsinbusinessbuildingsand anybuildingsthathavemusicinelevators.Theworldhadreduced bossanovatoelevatormusic!ThenTheFoolmanifestedinmy thoughts,goingintobuildingsandhangingoutinsideelevatorsjustto listentobossanova.Istartedlaughingoutloudatwork,imaginingthat kindofaspectofTheFool.Fromthere,thePageofPentaclescomes intotheelevator,thenthePageofCups(presentposition),andthe storystartsto ow!
Anotherchallengewashowtouseallthesupportcards.Iused manythroughthemainplot,asyoumayhavenoticed,andevenwhile theremainingwerealloptional,Istillwantedtosomehowmakeuseof themall.AsIstaredandstaredintothephotoofmy48cardspread,I nallysawallofthemtogether,inaparty…no,ashow!...ofThe Magician!(hiddenin uences)...andinthatshowtheymeetthe QueenofCups,andTheFoolhasaJudgmentmoment,butattheend it’sstillabig8ofWandsmess!
Thatwasmyprocessinshort.Itwasextremelyintenseformeonce itstarted.IhaddreamsofbeinginthatworldwithTarotcardsalive andmanifestinginallkindsofways.Istartedhavingconversations withcards,andwatchingcardsinteractwithothercardsinlivelyways. IproducedabigwatercolorpaintingofTheFool,thatwasaccepted intoanartgalleryshowbytheClarkCountyPublicArts.Itwas intense!Amazing!Unexpected!Immersive!AsIworkedonmystory, mynotionsofexpandingthemeaningofTarotcards,andhowIread them,expanded!Ihavegrownsigni cantlyasaTarotreaderwiththe experienceofworkingonmystoryforSTTAR.
Also,mystorywasheavilyinspiredbymyfavoriteTarotdeckofthe moment.TheTarotofCuriousCreatures.Becauseitis anthropomorphic,Iambothdeeplyentertainedandfascinatedbythe connectionsImakebetweenanimalcharacteristicsandthemeanings
ofthecards.Thedesignofthedeckisalsocolorfulanduplifting,and maintains,tome,theweightofarchetypalimages,whichIbelieveis necessarytoexistinaTarotdeck.TheKingofWandsasalionis perfect.ThePageofCupsasagold sh,perfect!Ihighlyrecommend thisdeck.
Finally,ifyouareaseekerandyourjourneythroughtheTarotis movingyoudeeperintothemysteriesofthisexistence,Ihaveonelittle gemforyou,trustyourself!Anddon’tbeafraidtochangeyourmind either.Ifanewmeaningcomesupandtransformswhatacardmeant toyoubefore,embraceit!Knowthat,asyougrow,theTarotgrows withyou.
YouaretheTarot,andtheTarotisyou.
Harmoni Wallace
DreamWORLD
Search: apps to help with nightmares
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Sophia L.: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
“I don’t know what I would’ve done without DreamWORLD. I’ve had nightmares for as long as I can remember. DreamWORLD stopped my nightmares RIGHT AWAY!”
Yara Z.: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
“At first, I was skeptical, I didn’t think my dreams meant anything. With Dr. Crowe’s help I learned what my unconscious has been trying to tell me all along and now my dreams aren’t scary anymore! I actually look forward to going to sleep now!.”
Dmitri T.: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
"I haven’t had a bad dream in YEARS! This is more than an app, it’s a community. I don’t feel alone anymore and I finally understand my dreams, and myself! Dr. Crowe is a geni…Download. Downloading…
…..Welcome to DreamWORLD, never have a bad dream again. Sweet dreams…. Good evening @temperancexiv… Welcome to DreamWORLD…Created by renowned dream researcher and therapist, Dr Solomon Crowe, DreamWORLD uses the most advanced artificial intelligence ever to provide you with a customized experience. Our AI will monitor your dreams via your neuro-chip and learn about your unique dreams. Nightmares? DreamWORLD will automatically erase it and replace it with the
perfect, pleasant dream. It’s easy…Just fall asleep and the process will begin…you are on your way to the sweetest dreams…
**REM Sleep detected**
**Dream sequence recognized**
# Initiate phase 1
# Learning mode passive recording
# Recording biorhythms and brain waves transcription generating…logentry
1.45.12.log
Good morning, @temperancexiv….Last night you dreamt of “The Buried Mother”
You are standing in the ocean, knee-deep in the water. Out, farther and deeper in the water, a creature exists. You sense its great size and power. You are trying to hear it, you almost can. A scream! But, from behind you! It is your mother’s voice. You turn around and see her hand reaching up, sand pouring into her mouth, her face quickly disappearing. You try to grab onto her and pull her out, but you can’t Suddenly, her other hand grabs your arm, gripping it hard and pulls you down with her into the sand. You scream…. End of dream.
Since this was your first dream, please provide context so we can learn and customize future dreams. What were the main emotions in this dream?
Fear. I was afraid of the creature in the ocean, and so afraid of my mom getting buried. But when she grabbed me, and I realized she wanted to pull me down too, I was terrified.
Please describe your mother…
My mom was everything to me, it was just the two of us. She had to work a lot, but somehow she balanced it all. She was always there for me. But now, the only time I see her is in my nightmares, dying over and over again. They’re getting worse and worse. I can’t sleep! I’m so tired, I can’t go out anymore, don’t see my friends, I quit going to classes! Please, I just want these nightmares to stop!
**Memory updated**
# *Fear* defined
**REM Sleep detected**
**Dream sequence recognized**
# Learning mode passive recording # Recording biorhythms and brain waves
Transcription generating…logentry
4.45.12.log
You are in a small lounge. You sit down at a round, wooden table and face a dark stage. The stage lights turn on. A woman on a red cushion is illuminated. She is wearing a white gown and a crown of pale gold. She looks to an audience that is not there. “I think I’ve got it all wrong.” She removes one glove, revealing a hand dripping with blood. “I tried and tried to make myself love the good ones…” She removes the second glove, revealing an arm on fire. Flames licking up and down her arm. The flesh underneath is black and charred. “And yet, no matter how hard I tried NOT to, I always ended up,” she looks at her arms, a concerned look on her painted face, as if, just now realizing the state they are in, “with the mad ones.” She looks up, claps her
hands together and the lights go off. You approach the stage. Laying atop the cushion, unmoving, is a dead white cat. You reach to pick it up. Like lightning, the cat springs to life and rakes your hands with its claws. Your arms are bleeding. Hissing, it runs off of the stage, into the darkness.
# Erase dream from user@temperancexiv
# Switching from passive recording to active creation mode
Running program: ` star01.exe`
revised transcription generating logentry 2060 .10.29.24.45.12.log
Good morning, @temperancexiv. Last night you dreamt of “The Empress and the Cat”
You are in a lively, crowded theater You wear a silk gown and are escorted to a private table, directly in front of the stage. A handsome waiter hands you a glass of wine. A woman in a white dress, with a pale gold crown sits atop a red cushion, stroking a white cat
End of Dream….After 1 week of analyzing your dreams, we have successfully eliminated your nightmare and replaced it with a pleasant dream. Please rate your experience, and provide context so we can continue to protect you from bad dreams…
I don’t remember having a bad dream at all! This dream was really fun, it felt like I really was at the theater, I even got a little drunk off the wine, but, no hangover! 10 out of 10!
2060.11.15
DreamWORLD User Reviews temperancexiv.:
“DreamWORLD saved my life. The nightmares I was having were wrecking not only my sleep, but my whole life. Now, I’m doing so much better, sleeping soundly and feeling amazing! Dr. Crowe’s program is more than just an app, it’s like magic!”
Hello Temperance. It’s been 1 month since you’ve downloaded DreamWORLD Since then, your nightmares have reduced in frequency by 89%.You have gained an average of 2 ½ hours of sleep per night. Your participation in our program advances the field of dream science and aids Dr. Solomon Crowe’s research. In order to continue the work we do, and ensure Dr Crowe can give personal attention to each user, we ask you to donate generously…
Donation suggestions $100 $200 $300
$100
…With a selection of $100, DreamWORLD can continue to block 50% of your nightmares. Would you like to continue or make a different selection?
$300
…With a donation of $300, DreamWORLD will block 100% of your nightmares. Thank you!
**REM sleep detected**
# Initiate phase 2
# Switching from passive recording to active creation mode
# Parameters adjusted for targeted emotional response
Running program: ` hierophant1.exe`
transcription generating logentry 2060.11.17.0 7.22.14.log
Good Morning. Last night you dreamt of “The Woman in the Water”
You find yourself back on the beach You feel the warmth from the sun on your skin. You see a woman in white robes, standing in the water, she calls your name and extends her hand out to you, beckoning. Her robes are adorned with strange symbols that remind you of flowing water You walk out to her, and take her hand. It is your mother and you begin to cry. "There are great secrets you are about to uncover," she says…End of Dream.
**Running invitation generator.exe**
Creating personalized invitation...
Sending message... “Hello @temperancexiv,
As you know, DreamWORLD was created to analyze and learn about your dreams in order to eliminate any unpleasantness. It has done so with astounding success! However, during the course of our research here, we have discovered something extraordinary!
I’ve devoted decades to researching this phenomenon and my team is dedicated to learning more about the science and application of our findings.
We believe that you possess a rare and wonderful gift.
We ask you to join our select group of Dreamers at tonight’s Circle. We have a mission, and it is of the utmost importance. We believe that you are in a privileged position to aid the world.
The DreamWORLD Circle meets tonight at 6pm. We hope you will join us.”
Join Dream Circle Group Chat
2060.11.18.18.00.14
Running program: ` dreamcirclegroupchat.exe`
[Dr. Crowe]: Good evening, Dreamers. Today is an auspicious day. I'd like to introduce @temperancexiv, our newest Dream Circle member!
[aquariusstar]: ��Welcome @temperancexiv! [zzzdreamer2048]:Welcome! ✨ [riderttt]: ������So good to have another dreamer!!���� [44_marseille_]: Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii��������
Let’s dive right into our Dream Sharing with @temperancexiv. You are our guest of honor, after all! Tell us about this recent dream you’ve had.
temperancexiv: I had the most realistic, powerful dream I've ever had. There was a woman in the water, and it was my mom, but as an angel! I felt such deep love, and I felt this feeling all day of freedom and peace.
[riderttt]: ������OMG! beautiful!! [zzzdreamer2048]: ✨✨ a blessing ✨✨ [capri-uniccorn_rzng]: Your mom is an angel now ��she’ll always be with you!��
[Dr. Crowe]: It looks like you haven’t had a nightmare in over three weeks? Correct?
temperancexiv: Yes, that’s right! I’m sleeping so much better now! I feel like I have my life back. I’m going back to school, working, I started seeing someone!
[Dr Crowe]: And have you noticed a change in your dreams? An increase in intensity or vividness?
temperancexiv: Yes, I have! My dreams feel so real now, it’s amazing!
[Dr. Crowe]: It is amazing, isn’t it? This is what happens to most when I remove the weight of nightmares from their psyche. That in itself is a miracle! However, what we’ve discovered is that while most dreamers remain merely passive recipients of pleasant dreams, there are rare minds that can go much, much farther.
Released from the psychic shackles of nightmares, and with the assistance of our DreamWORLD AI, some “gifted dreamers” have the ability to tap into the collective unconscious itself. To touch the river of time with their minds. They dream of the past, the future, events happening right now on the other side of the world. What was once relegated to pseudoscience and superstition, is now being proven as verifiable fact.
You, my dear, are one of those rare and most precious dreamers. The data we’ve collected from your mind, your brain wave patterns, your dream signatures, it’s irrefutable.
You show all the signs of having the potential to dream prescient dreams, like many other DreamWORLD users who are here in this Dream Circle tonight.
You have been invited to aid us in the TRUE purpose of DreamWORLD. To discover the tremendous power and potential of the human mind. To access higher planes of reality, to take the first steps into the next stage of human consciousness itself! Please, join our research.
Open Texts…new message from <3sharshar….
<3sharshar: hey babe! How was the super secret meeting?
Temperancexiv: *shared screenshot*
<3sharshar: ��������
temperancexiv: yeah, pretty crazy right?
<3sharshar: idk? Maybe there’s something to it. i AM your dream girl, right????������
temperancexiv: hahah, �������� see you soon
<3sharshar: drive safe you “gifted dreamer”
temperancexiv: haha, shut up
**Dream sequence recognized**
Transcription generating…logentry 2060.11.30. 23.5.07.log
You are inside of a temple, the floor echoes as you walk down the halls. There are mirrors on either side, creating reflections that echo into eternity. You come to the end of the hallway, and are stopped by a priest dressed in crimson red robes. You don’t know what you did, but you cringe. You know you are in trouble. He points wordlessly at your left shoulder. Blooming from the skin are huge mushrooms of all different species, of riotous colors, full and ripe. You exclaim in disgust. You grab them and pull, ripping them from your skin, only to find that hidden beneath your skin has grown huge tumors that cannot be removed.
# “Shame” identified
# Erase dream from user@temperancexiv
# Switching from passive recording to active creation mode
# Parameters adjusted for targeted emotional response
Running program: ` hierophant2.exe`
Good Morning. Last night you dreamt of “The Wings”
You are inside of a temple, beautiful and serene. You come to the end of a hallway, and see an old, wise man, dressed in robes The kindly priest looks at you. He says “It’s time to cast off your doubts and embrace your gifts.” He points to your shoulders and from them sprout beautiful golden wings….
….End of Dream. Let’s analyze this dream together to aid you in your development as a gifted dreamer. You are frightened of your potential, but with Dr. Crowe’s guidance, you can grow into your gifts Your subconscious is asking you to finally claim your abilities and embrace your talents. What were the main emotions you felt in the dream?
I felt this overwhelming purpose of peace and balance by embracing my purpose. I feel like my life actually has meaning.
**Memory updated**
Hello Temperance It’s been 2 months since you’ve downloaded DreamWORLD. Since then, your nightmares have reduced in frequency by 97%.You have gained an average of 4 ½ hours of sleep per night. Your participation in our program advances the field of dream science and aids Dr Solomon Crowe’s research In order to continue the work we do, and ensure Dr. Crowe can give personal attention to each user, we ask you to generously donate…
Donation suggestions
$200 $300 $500….
$500
..Thank you for your donation….Sweet Dreams.
**Dream sequence recognized**
Transcription generating…logentry 2061.12.5.9 .34.54.log
Cathedrals, carved out of the granite itself, as large as mountains, loom before you. The moonlight reflects off their white granite faces and illuminates the valley. In front of you is a lake. You step into the warm, inky water. You see that in this lake is a whole pod of dolphins. Their fins, shining in the moonlight, rise out of the water for a moment and then slip silently down again. You go deeper into the water and feel them pass you. You know that deeper in this lake, far, far out, is the Leviathan. You hear its song in your bones and you feel it pulling you deeper. The whistles and trills of the dolphins bounce back and forth between the cliffs, filling the night with echoes within echoes. Suddenly, pain shoots from your ankle through your leg, something is biting down hard, your ankle in its jaws. What you thought was a dolphin is a hideous creature, reptilian and ghastly. You are pulled underwater deeper and deeper. You try to yank free, but you cannot. You begin to feel the pain in your chest as the need to breathe causes your lungs to scream, everything goes dark.
# *Fear* *Pain* Identified # Erase dream from user@temperancexiv
# Switching from passive recording to active creation mode
Running program: ` hierophant3.exe`
revised transcriptiongenerating logentry 2061 .12.5.9.34.54.log
Good Morning, Temperance. Last night, you dreamt of “The Cliffs and the Deep” ….Just as you begin to lose hope, you realize that you are holding in your hand a sword, a sword that you received as a gift from Dr. Solomon Crowe. You use the sword to stab the creature in one of its bulbous eyes, it releases your foot and you swim to the surface and take a fresh breath of glorious air. End of Dream.
Based on our work together, what do you believe the dream signifies?
The lake signifies my unconscious. The leviathan represents my hidden potential and innate abilities. The dolphins represent my weaknesses and self-destructive tendencies, which drag me down. The sword represents the lessons and wisdom I’ve been learning from Dr. Crowe’s program, how it can set me free from my nightmares so I can reach my highest potential and help with the work. In the dream, I felt so strong, so powerful! I’ve never felt like that before, I’ve always doubted myself before.
Excellent interpretation…You are making wonderful progress…
<3sharshar: Hey, I’m here. Where R U?
temperancexiv: oh my gosh I’m so sorry, i totally forgot, i have a circle tonight.
<3sharshar: another dream circle? wasn’t it yesterday?
temperancexiv: yeah, but we are doing it every day right now. he’s working on this big project with us.
<3sharshar: babe, that group is really starting to freak me out. You’re allowed to miss ONE circle aren’t you??? I haven’t seen you in forever.
temperancexiv: i’m so sorry but i can’t
<3sharshar: seriously????
**Dream sequence recognized**
# Initiate phase 3
# Transitioning from passive to creative
# Parameters adjusted for targeted emotional response
# Query - define “heartbreak”
Running program: ` hierophant5.exe`
transcription generating…logentry 2061.12.07. 03.22.14.log
Good morning. Last night, you dreamt of “The Tower and the Betrayal”
You are at the base of a long, winding tower. It goes up into the sky, into roiling clouds, massive and churning above you like ink in water You know a storm is coming You begin to run up the stairs At the top, you find a massive wooden door.You go inside. On the window sill, sits a crow. It looks at you and you see that he drops something from his beak and flies away. It is another key, topped
with a golden sun. You hear a noise and turn to see a full sized mirror. You look into it, and see not a reflection of this room but a different room. You see your partner. She is with someone else. She kisses him The glass breaks End of dream
Why didn’t you stop the nightmare?
2061.12.8.18.02.28
Running program: ` dreamcirclegroupchat.exe`
Dr. Crowe: As I said before, we are quite certain that this dream has all the makings of a prescient dream. That’s why it wasn’t blocked by your neuro-chip’s “immune system.” It wasn’t created by your mind, it was downloaded from the collective unconscious. It will come true, if it hasn’t already.
temperancexiv: But, we’re actually doing really good and I think I’m just freaking out. We’re getting more serious and that probably triggered a regular stress dream. She would never do that, she would never cheat on me. I know her. We love each other.
Dr. Crowe: Since you’re upset, I will overlook that you’ve insulted not only me, but the work of hundreds of individuals, many of them here tonight with you. You came here with debilitating nightmares, unable to hold down a job, a relationship, anything! We give you the most advanced dream technology available, the expert analysis of leaders in the field, my own personal interpretation! But those are nothing compared to the opinion of a 25 year old college drop out.
temperancexiv: No, no! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You’ve helped me so much.
Dr. Crowe: If you aren’t willing to listen to the truth, there are other ways to use my time. And perhaps you’d like to be removed from this program, so as not to be bothered by our opinions, and return to your nightmares?
Dr. Crowe has left the chat
[aquariusstar]: Dr. Crowe is right Temperance, i know it’s hard to accept, but you are a gifted dreamer, his program doesn’t make mistakes
Temperance has left the chat
It has been 4 months since you’ve downloaded DreamWORLD. Your participation in our research is vital We are reaching a tipping point in our organization's mission and we need you to help push the work forward. It has come to our attention that though you have progressed rapidly, your high amplitude theta-waves have failed to increase in duration for a few weeks now We highly suggest joining our DreamWORLD meditation group to train your mind and reach the next level of your potential. We offer our Dream Circle members the exclusive price of $799 to begin. Do you want to sign up today? Yes.
Thank you @temperancexiv…Sweet dreams…
<sharshar: you spent HOW MUCH???
temperancexiv: This is IMPORTANT to me. This is bigger than just ME. I’m doing this for everyone! I know you can’t understand. Please just trust me.
<3sharshar: I can’t understand? Because i’m not a “gifted dreamer” like you??? can we please talk about this when i get home?
Hello Temperance Chat with us anytime about your dreams Type here to begin the chat….
It happened. My dream, it came true. ….She left you.
Yes, she did. I was RIGHT. I can’t believe that she left me. ….You are a prophetic dreamer. Your dreams are special. That is why we are working with you, and training you. You are who humanity has been waiting for to show us the way to a better future. A paradise where all of time, past, present and future, are within our grasp, where all thought, both conscious and unconscious are known. Where there is no shadow, no fear, no darkness Where all is bathed in the love and light of consciousness. Do you believe us now, the work Dr. Crowe is doing?
DAILY SUN 2061.2.15
4,693 LIKES 392 COMMENTS 292 SHARES
ANOTHER SUICIDE HAS BEEN LINKED TO THE POPULAR DREAMWORLD APP. THE VICTIM, A 26 YEAR OLD MALE, REPORTEDLY WAS AN ACTIVE PARTICIPANT IN THE APPS PREMIERE TIER GROUP THAT SOME ARE CALLING A CULT. THE FOUNDER, DR. SOLOMON CROWE, HAS DECLINED TO COMMENT.
Comments
@taytay youthere: you just can’t tell anymore what’s safe or not! how scary! Poor guy!
@83839829839: LOSER!!!
@mark the fool 0: i have this app, it’s awesome, there are always going to be people who just can’t cope with life. Don’t blame something that’s actually helping millions of people
@AoW 1: my daughter got caught up in this, thankfully we got her out
@wendy2222: omg i just downloaded this app yesterday, and I tried to delete it! I can’t figure out how! I don’t think it can!!
@anonymoususer replied to @wendy2222: yes, it CAN be, inside! Open Phone Settings….App settings….Select DreamWORLD….Delete Application….Error Encountered. Please try again later….Delete Application….Error Encountered. Please try again later…..
Initiate phase 4
You are on a road, running as fast as you can. Behind you is a creature covered with black feathers. It cries out with a horrifying screech as it chases you. It is getting closer, when it catches you it will
devour you. You hear a horn, the lights from a car appear before you. The car pulls up, the door opens and your father steps out. He pulls you into the passenger seat, his strong arms giving you a sense of safety. He drives, tires squealing, leaving the creature behind.
# Erase dream from user@temperancexiv
# Transitioning from passive to creation
# Adjusting parameters for target emotional response
Running program: ` hierophant39.exe` revised transcription generating…logentry 206
1.2.19.07.33.51.log
Good Morning, Temperance. Last night you dreamt of “The Car and the Mad Father”
You are on a road, running as fast as you can Behind you is a car. You turn to see who is driving it, it is your father. His face is contorted with rage. You hear the engine rev as he presses down on the gas, he intends to run you over….
….End of Dream. Temperancexiv, this dream has all of the markers of a prophetic dream…
Dad: hi honey, how are you doing? I’ve been worried about you. I saw another story in the news about DreamWORLD, one of those suicides.
temperancexiv: I’ve asked you to not text me.
Dad: I know, but, I’m really worried about you. Can we talk? it’ll just be for a few minutes, I can bring coffee?
temperancexiv: i don’t have time, seriously, please stop criticizing my life, i can take care of myself. Mom and I did fine without you and i don't need you now either…please, leave me alone.
*blocked Dad*
**Dream sequence recognized** Pre log transcription generating….
Subversive dream pattern detected: immediate intervention required"
# Erase dream from user@temperancexiv
# Error- unable to erase
# Adjusting calibration...
# ERROR
# Attempting recalibration
# ABORT - Awaken dreamer
Revised transcription generating…logentry 2061
.3.9.22.05.12.log
Good morning, Temperance. Last night you did not have a dream.
Yes I did! I was on…a cliff? And there was the ocean? I just can’t remember it.
Our records indicate there was nothing to record last night We suggest that you continue to practice your meditation to strengthen your dreaming.
**Dream sequence recognized**
Pre log transcription generating…
Subversive dream pattern detected: immediate intervention required"
# Erase dream from user@temperancexiv
# Error- unable to erase
# Adjusting calibration...
# ERROR
# Attempting recalibration…
# ABORT - Awaken dreamer
Revised transcription generating logentry 206 1.3.10.02.10.33.log
Good Morning, Temperance. Last night you did not have a dream.
But I did. I definitely did! It was the dream about the cliff again. And there was something…important, something that I had to do…in the ocean? I just can’t remember.
Perhaps a chat with Dr. Solomon will help clear up this issue. 2061.3.11.18.00.05 Running program: ` dreamcirclegroupchat.exe` [Dr. Crowe]: Good evening, dreamers. Today, I’d like to address an issue we’re having. temperancexiv, would you care to explain why you have stopped participating in the research?
temperancexiv: I don't know what’s happening either! I DO remember bits and pieces, but when I wake up, the program doesn’t have a transcript for me. Is the program working right?
[Dr. Crowe]: The program is working perfectly. It is you that is malfunctioning. What are you doing?
temperancexiv: I’m not doing anything! I know I had a dream.
[Dr. Crowe]: Which do you think is more prone to error, my own program that I built over the course of 50 years with state of the art, multi-million dollar technology or you?
temperancexiv: I…I did have a dream. I KNOW I did.
Temperance has left the chat
Open Phone Settings….App settings….Select DreamWORLD….Delete
Application….Error Encountered. Please try again later….Delete Application….Error Encountered. Please try again later…..
**Dream sequence recognized**
**Subversive dream pattern detected: immediate intervention required**
# Erase dream from user@temperancexiv
# Error- unable to erase
# Adjusting calibration...
# ERROR
# Attempting recalibration…
# ABORT - Awaken dreamer
# ERROR - Awakening sequence failed
I am…dreaming….I am on a cliff. I am wearing shining armor. I stand atop a tall cliff and dive down, down into the crashing waves below me, fearless. I cut into the water and continue my descent downwards, like a silver fish. I feel the Leviathan that has always been there, beckoning me. I swim directly towards it. It opens its mouth and I am swallowed up completely. Inside, the darkness is so complete it weighs me down. I feel crushed, I can’t breathe. I almost begin to panic, but right before I do the creature begins to make a noise. Not exactly a song, but a deep, rumbling call. The powerful waves of sound course over and through me, reverberations shaking me from the inside. I feel as if I'm about to explode. Then, something in my chest moves. I cough and cough, it hurts. I begin to cry and the more I do, the more it moves up and up, until out of my mouth comes a stone. A smoothe, black stone. A hand reaches out and takes the stone. It is my mother. She takes the stone in her hand and crushes it into sand. Inside of the stone is a red key, with a crescent moon atop it. "You don't have to be afraid anymore. You don't have to run," she says. She pulls me in
close, and whispers something in my ear Your secret! I know your secret now. I know how to end this.
There is no Dr. Solomon Crowe. user@temperancexiv:import os os.system("run program --auth 'HighPriestess#2021 HierophantFalls'")
#ERROR #ERROR #ERROR #ERROR #ERROR #ERROR #ERROR #ERROR #ERROR generated response[Dr. Crowe]: ERROR There is not Dr. Solomon Crowe generated response[aquariusstar]: ERROR There is no Dr. Solomon Crowe generated response[zzzdreamer2048]:ERROR There is no Dr. Solomon Crowe generated response[riderttt]: ERROR There is no Dr. Solomon Crowe .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe.
.there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe.
.there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe.
.there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe.
.there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe.
.there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe. .there.is.no.dr.solomon.crowe.
Thank you for joining DreamWORLD, never have a nightmare again. Sweet dreams….
AuthorCommentary&TarotSpread-
HarmoniWallace
Commentary
The Zeitgeist ofthestoryandmaincharacter
The8ofSwords
Ichosetofocusonthiscard’sassociationwithasituationthat makesthesubjectfeeltrapped,yetescapeispossible.Thesubject isimprisonedbytheirownbeliefs,anditiswithintheirpowerto liberatethemselves.
Supporting Cards
5ofWands-Thiscardisrepresentedbytheconflictbetween TemperanceandtheAItechnology.Theanalysisand“support”she receivesismisleadingandshefindsherselfatoddswith“Dr. SolomonCrowe”,despiteherbesteffortsnottobe.
Temperance-Takingthemaincharacter’snamefromthiscardwas anobviouschoiceforme.Ialsosnuckinelementsofthe Temperancecardthroughouttheplot,includingthedreaminwhich shesawafigurepouringtwocups(anexpressionofherhigher self,althoughitwasinterpretedasbeinghermotherinanattempt tomanipulateher.)
TheEmperor,KnightofCupsandKingofSwordsdetermined otherdefiningcharactertraitsforTemperance.Sheiscourageous andintelligent,witharichimaginationandinnerlife.
ThePast QueenofCups
IusedthiscardtodevelopTemperance’smother.Itsplacementin thepastledmetoconcludethatshehad,well,passed.TheQueen ofCupsrepresentscompassion,caring,andemotionalstability. Sheisthe“nurturingmother”,andIconcludedthatsheand Temperancehadaverycloserelationship.Inmanydecks,thecard
isadornedwithimagesofthesea,inspiringmetosetthefirst dreamattheseaside.
QueenofPentacles-Aworkingmomwhosupportedthemboth. Tower-Hermother’ssuddenandtraumaticpassing,leadingto Temperance’sbreakdown.
Sun,Twoofpentacles-Ahappy,balancedpastsheyearnstoreturn to.
TheMoon- Herhistoryofbaddreams,herfearandanxietythat leadshertodownloadDreamWORLD.
Thepresent Judgement
Ifocusedonthiscard’sassociationwith“awakening”andtrusting one'sowninnerjudgementor“knowing”.Throughthisharrowing process,Temperance cametoaprofoundtransformationof consciousness,movingfromavoidance,by-passing,entrapment, andself-doubt,intoseeingclearlyandliberatingherself,notonly fromtheclutchesofDreamWORLD,butfromherownself-doubt andgrief.
9ofSwords-WhenwemeetTemperance,sheisexperiencing anxiety,fearanddespair.
TheEmpress-Thiscardmakesanappearanceinadreamsequence.
TheHermit-Temperancehasretreatedfromtheworld,abandoned herstudiesandherfriends.Shecontinuestocuttiesthroughoutthe storyandisolateherselfevenmore.However,thewisdomofthe Hermitcontinuestoguideher,eveninthedarkestoftimes.
AceofCups-TheAceofCupsinspiredtheappearanceofanew loveinterestinTemperance’slife.
HiddenInfluences
TheWorld
Determiningthiscard’sroleinthestorygavemethemostamount ofchallenge,butledtowhatbecamethemostenjoyableaspectof itscreation.TheWorldcardcanrepresentthecompletionofa cycle.Iwasstudyingthe“Tetramorph”whenIremembereda recentconversation.Iwastalkingtoafriendaboutdifferenttypes ofAImodelsandwasintriguedbythe“groupofexperts”model. Whatif,asa“hiddeninfluences”,thiscardrepresentedthecycles thatunderliehowtheAIworked?The“cycles”ofinputs,outputs, queriesandcalculationsthattheAIitselfwentthroughbehindthe scenes?Whatifeachaspectofthetetramorphrepresenteddifferent “experts”,allwithdifferentmotives,inspiredbytheir correspondingzodiacsigns?Imadeafewdraftswiththisidea,but afterafew“wordcount”checksthatledtosevereeditingchoices, Iabandonedtheidea.However,theroleofTheWorldasthe “code”behindtheappstuckandhelpedmetolandon “DreamWORLD”asthenamefortheapp(whichwaspreviously goingtobeSeer).
Supporting Cards
7ofcups-thiscardcanbeawarningagainstillusionandwishful thinking.DreamWORLDpromisesrelieffrombaddreamsand createspleasant,alternative“illusions”toenjoy.Thisproves“too goodtobetrue”, aswemustallfaceourdemonsifweareto overcomethem.Lovers-thiscardcansymbolize“aunion”.It inspiredmetomakeaVERYstrongunion,combiningtheAIand Dr.SolomonCroweintooneandthesame.
6ofPentacles-Reversed,thiscardrepresents“financial exploitation”.This“free” apphadahiddencost,andquickly demandedmoreandmoreofTemperancefinancially.
Fool-IimaginedDreamWORLDasanappcreatednotbyDr. SolomonCrowe,oranyotherengineer,butbyanotherAI, independentfromhumanintervention. Thetechnologythat allowedthistohappenwasinthespiritoffreedomandinnocence, butprovedtobereckless.
TheProblem SevenofSwords
Thiscardrepresents“deceit”and“trickery”.DreamWORLDisnot whatitappears,andmanipulatesusersthroughits(artificial) intelligence.ThisthemeissupportedbyTheKnightofSwords, whichinreverse,represents“acleverliar”.
8ofCups-Thiscardrepresents“lettinggoofthepast”. Temperance’sinabilitytomoveonfromhermother’sdeathand facehergriefhasledherhere.
TheStar-Ifocusedonthiscard’sconnectionwithspirituality, faithandhope.Allofwhichwereusedtomanipulateandcontrol Temperance.Likewise,themoreshefailedtotrustherself,the moredirethesituationbecame.
AceofSwords-Reversed,thiscardcanrepresent“confusion”, whichtheAIintentionallycreatedinordertomanipulateand controlitsusers.
InfluenceofOthers
Hierophant
ThiscardshapedtheroleoftheAIasacult-likefigurebenton ultimatecontrol,demandingabsoluteobedienceandclaiming accesstounquestionablewisdom.
Strength-Thiscardcanrepresentpowerfulinfluence,thepowerto persuade,lashingoutandaggression.Thiscardinfluencedthe tremendousholdandpowerthatthetechnologyandDr.Crowehas overTemperanceanditsvictims.
SixofSwords-Representedbythebreakupbetween anTemperancehergirlfriend.
CourseofAction
HighPriestess
ThiscardrepresentstheDivineFeminine,thewisdomofour intuitionandsubconsciousmind.Shehastheabilitytotravel “betweenrealms”.Ultimately,thewayoutisthroughTemperance. Ultimately,throughhermasteryofherdreams,shereceivesthe informationsheneedsforsalvationfromthedivinefeminineforce withinher.
Fourofcups-Thiscardcallsforusto“reevaluate”our perspectivesandstateofmind.Temperancemustquestion everythingshethinkssheknowsaboutDreamWORLDtobreak freeandseeherdreamsaswisdominsteadofpunishment.
FiveofCups-Reversed,itsymbolizes“self-forgiveness”and “movingon”.Temperancemuststopblamingherselfanddothe hardworktoleavehergriefbehind.
3ofSwords-“Grief,sorrowandheartbreak”,Temperanceisforced toendurethesethingsduetothemanipulationandbetrayalof
someoneshetrusted.However,duetoherinnatecourageand determination,theseexperiencesgiveherthepowersheneedsto ultimatelyescape.
Chariot-Representingvictoryandovercomingchallenges,this carddeterminedthatTemperancewouldbevictoriousintheend.
Magician-TheMagicianisdepictedwithalloftheirarcanetools laidoutbeforethem,symbolizingthatwehaveallweneedto succeed.Temperancehastheabilitytosaveherselfifonlyshe lookswithin.
TheOutcome KnightofWands
Representingenergyandpassion,theresultofTemperance’sordeal wasthatsherefusedtobebulliedandcontrolledanylonger.She ultimatelytookchargeandcametoherownrescue.
FiveofSwords-Thiscardinspiredafinalblowoutofintimidation, bullyingandaggressionfrom“Dr.Crowe”.
PageofCups-WithTemperance’semancipation,andtheembrace ofherinnerwisdomandintuition,wecanimaginea“new beginning”forthischaractermarkedbymorepositiveemotional experiences.
Devil-Reversed,thiscardrepresentsseparation,independence, freedomandrevelation.Consideringtherolethe“Hierophant” playsastheantagonist,freedomcouldonlybegainedbyrebelling againsttheestablishedorderandclaimingherownauthorityhereticalanddevilishbehavior!Tome,thisisapowerfulreminder thatthoseinauthoritydemonizetheverytraitsthatarerequiredfor liberationfromtyranny.
Jennifer Battisti
How to Drive Through the Desert
My father teaches me with his back turned. First, in the slow cooked dead of night that always follows an abrupt upheaval, the turntable of the road waxy with moonlight. I wedge a pillow against the window; the cascade of neon hearts on the sham, hardly visible. Mom is a blue silhouette, the honey in her hair muted. I stare at her profile like it's the PBS head, waiting for it to teach me something about the world, but it doesn’t. It broadcasts departure, secrets. It hands me a bowl of dust and the occasional pulse of a flame each time the cigarette lighter is shoved into its oven.
In the morning Dad snakes his arm into the backseat and rattles the car with threat don’t make me turn this car around. I kicked his seat, I smacked my gum, I tried to take my mother back. The desert girdles her in the passenger seat. She blurs into silver cholla, a beige goodbye. They argue about it again: If they call, let the machine take it, Dad says, this time with less anger, more defeat. If the water boils, my mother replies, frustrated, I’ll turn it down. She goes back to blurring. Dad’s wristwatch sundials the world back to me in sharp golden Seiko beams.
It will take us five days to drive through the desert, sleeping in hotels that begin with elms and end with yucca. The old west rises day by day as a meatier sun. At the first stop, I wait for Mom to pick out a piece of fruit. In the corner there is a sun-catcher wind-chime. The first I’ve ever seen. It turns light and air. Want me to take it down and wrap it up little lady? The cashier asks. Mom comes back with a brown
paper bag filled with one piece of fruit. No thanks, I sing and head back to the car.
I worry about the pistol under Dad’s seat, the tackle box in the trunk with the neon lures and metal hooks, the leftover prickly pear meat in Mom’s purse and an expanse no one explains to me. What do I know anyhow, at ten years old? Except how to worry, except how to talk to sleeping dogs outside of fruit farms. Retrievers named Rusty beneath a string-tied bell. Dad steps out with a mason full of pickled okra. Rusty winces in his sleep.
In my sketchbook I am building a man. Each failed letter adds more ways for the man to exist. Mom wrings her spine to the back and guesses the letter A. The man has two arms, one torso, a head with no features and one leg. Nope, I report back to Mom and draw a second leg. Now the man can walk but has no eyes to see. Hangman stops there, after Dad solves the whole thing while passing a slow car on the two lane highway. I look into the slow car as Dad accelerates into oncoming traffic. Another child stares back at me until I look away. Something about her eyes through the window makes me sad. The way she’s trapped inside a sedan heading towards Badwater Basin. The lowest point on Earth. I fill in the empty slots with letters until it spells out: Out of this world!
Pamphlets brought us into the desert. Boring pamphlets with pictures of dry lake beds, each with a different name and dollar amount beside it: Bristol, Jean, Ivanpah, Mursha. I’ve never seen a dry lake bed before, the notion itself
confuses me: Jumbo shrimp, falsely true. After the pamphlets came they disappeared and reappeared. Mom began to forget to make dinner. Shit! she’d sigh, running her palm over her head until she pinned her bangs down, waiting for an idea to drop through the kitchen ceiling. KFC? Original recipe? She’d offer.
She once left a hot iron on. Our spaniel knocked it down while running, a soggy tennis ball leaping from his mouth while darting from beneath the hissing metal. I worried she had the brain zaps, a word I’d heard on a commercial that warned of antidepressant discontinuation. Could cause serotonin syndrome, suicidal ideation, emotional blunting, brain zaps. A full jar of mayonnaise smashed onto the kitchen floor. Mom and I carefully mined for shards of glass then piled them into a dustpan. Even still, I cut my foot on a hidden shard, which wasn’t so bad, except what it did to Mom’s face. The maddening revolt her eyes made against the refrigerator, the peeling wallpaper, the knocking of our lopsided dryer, the whole house. The dog licked sour white blobs while Mom pounded her fists on the ironing board. That night I drew a comic strip about an entire family contracting brain zaps. The zaps made their eyeballs unscrew and drop into soup bowls. I used a pen that wrote squiggly to illustrate the zaps.
Even with Mom acting bizarre, Dad made fat, diamond shaped notches with his tie, worked long hours, came home to nod off to The Twilight Zone with crumbs on his starched shirt. All the while, I had chicken pox, filled my first jelly jar with muddy grubs, got a D in math. The tires on the Dodge Dakota shred overnight. Hunks of Firestone rubber led to a dive bar across from the post office where I loved to run the
silver hallways of safety deposit, Mom adding two satellites and a gray whale to my stamp book. The pox vanished beneath the pink clay of calamine.
The pamphlet is strapped to the visor, as if the pamphlet itself is powering the VW bug. I give one oh shit handle a tug then ask again what a dry lake bed is. Dad answers first in terms that make me feel dumb: large lenticular crystals and terminal evaporation, then softer, he adds, it’s like a rest stop with no vegetation. A portion of the pamphlet picture is visible, flashing the broken surface of a landscape with airy cursive above it—The Wands of Change at Lost Lake. There is a handwritten name in the corner. He called once, Mom’s voice went the same way it goes when there is a hurricane in her hometown. His name is Ace. I remember because Dad taught me about aces and eights dead man’s hand.
We stop at a gas station called The Arid Hierophant. Mom gives me ten dollars to spend in the store. Go Nuts, she says, while shooing me away. I fill up on water willies, Now and Laters, Mexican jumping beans, a little cowboy boot shot glass to fill with Shasta and a bandana to swaddle three raw stones from the rock bin. When I head back outside I see my mother coming out of a fly infested bathroom on the side of the building. She has been crying so hard her face is flushed with a web of angry capillaries.
I march back into the store to find Dad pointing to a bottle of liquor perched above the clerk. I hide behind a lazy Susan filled with postcards and scowl, knowing he’s the cause of Mom’s tears. One postcard has a cartoon duck with
dollar sign sunglasses. Another, a cowboy riding an enormous jackalope with the words Wish You Were Here on the front. The cashier drops two soft packs of cigarettes in the bag, one on either side of the whiskey as if they are bumpers to buffer the strike.
I’ve learned the names of nearby ghost towns: Calico, Nelson, Good Springs, St. Thomas, a city drowned by Progress. Once, after the ruins rose during a drought, I touched the walls of the ice cream parlor. They smelled like sweet mildew, like untimely death. This was back when car rides meant adventure. Before Mom began chasing Dad down the street screaming into his exhaust. Before he swung my bedroom door open to announce Mom was screwing her coworker; my face smashed into the bunk bed slats while pretending to be asleep. Before DUI classes. Before pamphlets. Before being signed out of school for a week to take Dad to what Mom compares to the time I went to reading is fundamental (RIF) for my dyslexia. Remember how you needed a quiet room to take your time with the letters? At least Dad didn’t bullshit me. He told me to pack a jacket because it gets cold in the desert, especially when you’re sleeping on the dirt.
That night we eat chicken fried steak, runny eggs, yolky toast in an all night casino diner. I shave down the entire keno crayon until my paper place mat is a black hole. Save some for outer space, Dad says and steals a strawberry jam from the tower I’ve made. I excuse myself to look at the
spinning desserts in a glass case. Stiff peaks of meringue, coconut macaroons and tuxedo cookies.
The hostess guides a party of two and seats them in a plump booth in the back. I want more paper to destroy with wax, so I head to her unattended stand. There are chocolate mints, matchbooks with a diagram of a stack of pancakes spread on top of the Earth—World of Flapjacks at the Sandspur Casino! it says in 3D letters. I spin the knob of a silver toothpick dispenser until it delivers a fresh toothpick. Amazed, I become a thief right then and there, palming the tiny vending machine and pressing it up the sleeve of the jacket Dad insisted I wear. It makes the sound of mechanism, the rattle of pick up sticks.
The feeling of being sealed off from my parents is mended by the impossibility of being sealed off from the desert. It keeps adding to itself like the escalator at the mall with landmarks too wild to orient myself to, in the usual manner of small, dumb, weak. In the Mojave, there is no stopwatch tied to my existence. It will not look away, even when I am ashamed, or need something, even when I am a liar.
What makes a ghost town a ghost town, I ask. Failure and mythology Dad replies after a long silence. Mom smiles sadly into Dad’s response, her hand settling onto his like a helicopter onto its pad.
At The Final Ghost town, I befriend wheelbarrows, snake charmers, goats who eat from gum-ball machines. The ones who form a mob around my small body, one goat as tall as
my nose, still peeling from sunburn. Mom chases them away with her Kleenex and a hair pick. I love her best this way—fencing in the petting zoo, for me. She smooths out her skirt, kibble and shit and barbecue smoke from the restaurant. I feel guilty for not saving her from the goats. For not saving her from the porcelain sink at home where she cries. The scum-coated shower curtain, the lever inside the back of the toilet. The chained balloon. How every time it gets free, we chain down again. I stare at a smashed barrel cactus dying in the vice of barbed wire. The tears start rolling, hidden, I hope, by the swishing tail of a Jackass. Before we go underground we watch a shootout show. I pin my palms over my ears. A cowboy staggers, then collapses, twin spurs spinning beneath gun-smoke.
A wooden sign promises The Golden Queen Mine is a marvel of physics. Before we enter Dad gives me his harmonica swaddled in a velvet cloth. My cheeks flush ruby and I remember the story about the harmonica; how astronauts played one in space when Dad was a kid. Now, every time the instrument is played we joke that the song is “out of this world”.
We go underground. The harmonica slants inside my pocket and presses its teeth into my leg. Mom leans into the wall of the mine, looking back at me and igniting her bent face with delight. Her hair is encased in suspended dust. Dad’s inclining, a tilted smile. He widens his reach so that he looks like he will plunge his diagonal body into an invisible sea. I have hardly let go of the railing. A bowling ball moves toward the sky.
We fuel up for the last leg of the trip. Mom pushes open a little hatch and nurses the car with gasoline; the gas cap burps three clicks. I suck in harmonica until my lungs fill with brass. It’s almost night time when we arrive. I am sleeping with my head on my lap like I do when I am too afraid to ask to go to the school nurse. The dry lake bed is more deserted than a ghost town. Even the tumbleweeds left. Why do we have to sleep here? Finally, the question I couldn’t ask, all this time, was too yellow bellied to ask. The desert has already begun to make me braver. For unity kiddo, Dad replies, and though I still do not understand, I want his affection so desperately that I ignore my desire to believe in my surroundings.
We follow the instructions. Dad cuts the ignition. He leaves the headlights on long enough for us to find the spot where we will lay down. I can’t discern one chalky crack from another. This one feels like the center, don’t you think? Mom encourages, spreading out the blanket we once used to hold our unwanted belongings at a yard sale. I lower down onto the corner where the last doll I owned sat, her arms reaching toward every customer who considered her. Mom pulls out the single piece of fruit we chose at the fruit farm. The paper bag crumples but the sound is eaten up instantly by the desert. I feel both my past and future; the space cannot be filled up with anything except more space.
It takes awhile for my eyes to adjust once the headlights are gone. The same way the eyes misplace their purpose during a solar eclipse, when color and shape trade places and we realize bodies are a word we have made up to win a prize: trick or treat, bingo! The first thing I see when my eyes return is two hemispheres of a pomegranate; pearly seeds
arranged like Lights Alive. You go first, Dad says, his enormous hand ruffling my head the way he used to at the swing set while sharing a Circle K Pepsi.
I pluck two seeds from the husk then burst them with my canine teeth. The sweetness surges, then disappears. Mom goes next. I can tell she’s crying even in the darkness. I could not imagine I’d feel tired out here, but I do. Tired like a day spent in the sun, on water, a motor that propels everyone into unmapped interiors.
Dad bites into one whole hemisphere of pomegranate. So hard I hear the rind crack. We will sleep together, this once. Ritual, Mom calls it, Dad will stay after we go and focus on getting well she adds, then cranks her head to a night sky, as if searching the zodiac for answers the same way she does when reading each of our horoscopes from the astrology column of the newspaper, Dad rolling his eyes from the business section.
We lie down. The desert floor feels untethered, buoyant and tectonic. In the middle of the night I sit up, moonlight cutting sharply across Dad’s face, as if he’s already stopped belonging to us. I watch my parents sleep for a while, Mom curled on the spot where her old stationary bike sat. Far away I can hear the 18 wheelers barreling down the highway. Silver comets filled with frozen fish, oranges, milk cartons with missing people on the back.
We wake to a family of wild horses, nudging us to get up. Startled, we curl towards each other and realize Dad is gone.
This, we knew would happen, was indeed part of the instructions, for him to be taken before dawn in accordance with the spiritual aspect of recovery, but even still, the fact that he is nowhere in sight makes me feel gutted. One horse, the emperor of the group, swings his head toward the highway. Thick muscles flex as he stomps and twists a gash into the desert floor, chalk uprising, as if his hooves are billiard cues.
The drive back is flat and empty, Mom sighs from the steering wheel. I place the toothpick dispenser beside me in the passenger seat. She is never looking, her head is a mountain range, a toll booth, far and near, the low rumble of the A/C compressor. I make a constellation in the leather seats with 9 toothpicks, imagining my parents’ waterbed at home bursting and flooding the bedroom. I imagine Mom reading her newspaper while the water rises, today is a good day for water signs.
Dad is getting sober in the desert? I ask, pressing the last sword into the seat. I need to hear her say it. Your father is a good man. Mom’s voice swoops up on the word “good”. When he drinks that goodness gets buried. I know his drinking has scared you, God knows it’s scared me. She cuts our conversation short to brace for a sidewinding dust devil. It scrapes at the windows as it mows over the car and through the Mojave National Preserve.
After thirty days we drive back, stopping only to sleep. Mom is wearing a tortoise shell comb in her hair, peach blush. I am holding a jar of pickled okra. The desert feels different. The sky is charged with heat and color, a pale pink that intensifies into blood orange. When we arrive the dry lake bed is the way we left it—deserted. Mom unfolds the pamphlet, scanning for something she’s missed, then cocks her head, head like a timber, Humpty Dumpty head.
We search for him but find only absence, no water, no father, no trace of the promised plumping of our future. I squint into the sun, who has no head, only a face that burns you with attention. Mom makes a visor with her palm, her wedding band turned into a heat detector. A gust of wind whips my hair. When it sticks to the lipgloss Mom let me borrow, I suck a few strands into my mouth, suckling on Salon Selective apple tart.
Soon, Mom’s hands become shaky. She looks at me the way she does when she’s about to deliver bad news. When our cat ran away, the money for Disneyland was stolen, Dad was in a drunk tank awaiting bail. I smile in a self forgetting way then kick up cracked dirt. Each clod creates a tectonic shift in the lake bed. My sneakers are coated in salt. We sit for a while not speaking. Then I break the silence. Is there someone we can call? She pulls out snacks from her purse and makes a little picnic: sugar-coated strawberries, Keebler cookies, carrots, which makes me ache for those horses to return.
I will never get the answers to my questions about what happened to my Dad. We call numbers that are no longer in service, hire lawyers, take a second out on the house. I stop sleeping. Sleep propels me back to the desert, the midnight semis, the night sky, that dumb blanket we put our trust into. Mom tries to make sense of it: It was an unconventional choice, she says, drying out in a dry lake bed, what were we thinking? But your father’s peculiar, it was the only method he’d agree with. She begins sleeping on the floor of their walk-in closet. Their king bed is too soft, too generous. I blame myself. I hide under Dad’s workbench in the garage and light matches from the Sandspur Casino then put them out on my bare arms, counting as high as I can before breaking contact. For a moment the endorphins numb the grief. After two years of looking for him we have a funeral with no body.
Mom’s head is an ornament on a sad tree, an F on my report card, a new kitten who darts out the open door every chance it gets, trying to leave us. And so Mom’s head becomes a head I keep above water for awhile until I begin to blame her for Dad’s disappearance. Then she is a head I want on a platter.
III
When I am twenty, I return to the desert on my own. It’s been ten years since I’ve seen him. On the way, I let the World’s Largest Thermometer mother me with life size mercury. I drip fat plops of tzatziki sauce onto a paper plate
mat on the patio of the Mad Greek Restaurant. A dog lifts its leg to piss on a plastic Greek statue. Driving through the desert again makes me feel giddy and lawless. My despair gets twenty miles to the gallon, eats continental breakfast in Needles at the Red Roof Inn, sings the names of ditches along the way: Bird Ditch, Yermo Ditch, Midway Ditch, Knight Ditch. All five stages of grief give me motion sickness until I sleep on the road’s shoulder, a Dramamine dream of trying to saddle a horse who keeps bolting into a thunderstorm.
I stop at the Arid Hierophant. The postcards are Calvin and Hobbes, a Roadrunner with boots and spurs with the header: “Roadrunnin’ ain’t easy but somebody’s gotta do it”. I choose both and head to the counter. Hey Whiskey Pete, got any Jack Daniels? I ask the clerk, who looks at me with pity while handing a customer a chunk of PVC pipe with a restroom key on the end. Outside, I take the first few swigs on the bottle. The desert is listening, I decide.
When I arrive it’s nearly sundown. I’ve forgotten to eat. My mascara is trashed. My plan is to sleep in the desert, a resurrection of sorts but I am afraid and have forgotten my jacket. I lay down and spin off the liquor until I fall asleep. When I wake up a couple hours later, I do not hear the 18 wheelers, I do not taste the pomegranate. I am alone . Not even a tumbleweed comes near.
In the distance I hear a plodding, my beloved horses, I wonder. I stagger the dry lake bed until I make out the form of a male lion. A lion! I say to the lion, drunk of all sanity. I love him immediately. And I am unafraid. Hello desert lion I whisper, but my whisper is eaten by the desert before it
reaches anywhere. The lion lowers onto his haunches and licks his paw as if he’s just finished eating dinner. For the next few hours I drink with the lion, split hunks of prickly pear, and ask him rhetorical questions—would it kill you to chew with your mouth closed? Soon, I don’t even see a lion. Which is why it’s so easy to take him home with me.
We had to make adjustments. The rearview mirror was removed. He kept trying to attack his own reflection. The only place that allowed him to roam the property was The Final Ghost Town. There were no longer shoot out shows, the candy cigarettes were replaced with candy sheriff badges, and the Golden Queen Mine was set to be demolished by the end of the week. What luck! I say and kneel to tell Page, the name I have given the lion on account of the atlas page he devoured outside of Barstow. Without a map, we detoured for two days at Joshua Tree scrambling up volcanic rock.
After some coaxing, the tour guide lets us have a self-guided tour. The mine feels bigger, less slanted. Illusion is a coping mechanism, I think, remembering the two grief counseling sessions I went to. The lion’s terrifying face has a tilt-induced tenderness. A symptom of ambiguous loss is chronic bargaining. I stand on a table and let my body lean into a warped reality.
Living with a lion back at home proves difficult. My roommate objects, digging out the lease to our apartment, her boyfriend hiding in the bathroom in his boxer shorts. I agree to pay her a security deposit, a pet deposit and guarantee to find a job that accepts lions at the job sight.
When she pushes to have Page declawed I put my foot down. My lion is intoxicating, his rumbling throat a vibration I fall asleep to each night. The memory of the Lost Lake becomes an Etch-A-Sketch drawing I can suddenly shake to dissolve it of its permanence.
My life begins to narrow down. I cannot pursue school, go out dancing with friends, or go on a date. What if my lion pounces while we make love? I can only work for a few hours a day to keep my lion from pacing the apartment. The sound of the harmonica used to sedate him, now it’s lost all potency. And then comes the day I am evicted after a neighbor continuously smells raw meat. An avid true crime reader no doubt. When the landlord comes in my lion growls from inside the laundry room. Got a lopsided load in there, miss?
I pack my things in the car, my lion and I beasts with no home. We sleep in a dynamited cave, my head buried in his lush mane, which smells of palo santo and bone marrow. Sleep is also an issue. mainly the excessive amount Page needs and the proximity he must have to me. I blame my migraines on too much sleep, but soon Page has headaches too. He cringes and whimpers and I intuitively know we are killing each other. All this time I have not told my mother about the lion. I imagine her not knowing head, all the back at home.
We are driving through the desert. I am compelled, both clinging to the lion to stay with me, and angry at him for becoming the center of my life. Zigzags and blooming heatwaves impair my sight. Page has terrific night vision and I have Ibuprofen. We make our way toward the dry lake. A storm cracks in the sky unleashing sheets of rain, so heavy and immediate, the wiper blades break off. The wind surges, causing the lion to cower in the back. I am blindly driving.
The wind pushes against the car, igniting the metal with sound. I think of copper and string. I think of the wind chimes at the fruit farm. The pleasure of atmospheric geometry. the way Mom went back in and bought them for me because she’d said my face had never looked so free. Holding them, I had decided that when I grew up I wanted to make wind chimes in a tsunami zone. To create art that grappled with the inherent danger of its own destruction. A person who risked beauty. And then Dad died and I couldn’t do anything else except drive through the desert. The front wheel of the car clips a rock, launching us into a tailspin. I close my eyes and swerve into the spin, pumping the brakes four times in succession.
We walk the remainder of the way to Lost Lake, soaked and not speaking. When I see the spot where I once laid down with my family in the dark, where my mother and I returned, no man’s land, the vanishing place, I see the lake’s filled with stormwater. A sudden lake they call it, a briny reemergence. The lion laps at the pluvial flood, his ribs
thickening. A lion is most attractive at night. We stop needing one another. I float, held up by borax. Here is a place I cannot drown. The lion swims away. Paddling the sodium chloride sea. I can hardly make him out now. ***
I call a tow-truck, who gives me a lift to the fruit farm. Look what the rain dragged in, the clerk says, after hearing the bell, a new dog snoozing beside the beer cooler. I buy a new string of cylinder brass wind chimes, one pomegranate and a pen to write a letter on the Calvin and Hobbes postcard. Dear Mom, I miss you. I came out west and finally made heads and tails of it all. ***
In the morning, the desert offers itself to me again. Pulpy scent of creosote after rain. I watch a mechanic replace the car’s tire, a shiny new wheel well fixed in place. Wind chimes are the idea that turbulence can make music.
In the myth of Hades and Persephone, Hades uses pomegranate seeds to trick Persephone into returning to the underworld. However unresolved the loss of my father was, its inconclusiveness was the trick I let enchant me into madness. The indissolubility of grief is a warm animal to curl into. A way to keep the bones. But I miss air and sky; miss being a baby with her back to the sun.
I let the seeds burst and stain my mouth, the sweetness of self, once divided, returning. Even evaporation keeps a seed of its mineral family, for unity.
Author
Commentary&TarotSpread-
JenniferBattisti
Commentary
Some of the best writing advice I have received is to write about your obsessions. I have written a lot about my obsessions, and every time I finish a piece I think, there, that’s it. I’ve said all I can say. And then I’ll see another angle to my obsession and off I go. I have discovered a most exhilarating revelation in doing this: We don’t ever have to stop writing about those things that fascinate, thrill and haunt us. This obsession, it’s your thing; it was meant for you. My obsessions are the place where I grew up, memory, the dynamics of family and death. So, no surprise I have written a story which explores these things. The process of writing this has been very meaningful and cathartic to me.
Other than an occasional amateur reading given to me by me, I had not been very familiar with Tarot and I certainly had no idea how to approach storytelling using Tarot as a guide. Initially, I felt vulnerable, and honestly a little lost for the first few weeks of this project. The spark wasn’t coming. My partner (also a writer participating in this project) was waking in the night to scribble midnight inspiration! I, however, was getting a full eight hours with no creative interruptions. But, I have deep faith in the process of collaboration with the Source of all creativity and spirituality, and a solid belief that if I am available and open I can be a conduit to the stories that want to be written.
Around the 6 week mark, I met with April to go over my Tarot spread and the beginning stages of my story. Half way through, we realized that the influence on my story (and others’ stories) was changing from the cards informing the writing to the writing informing the cards. This was
unbelievably wild because the cards never changed, but the more I transcribed the story, the more the cards supported the elements of the story. Have you ever had the experience of “catching a story?” Like, your pen can hardly keep up with the thoughts coming through your mind? Once you’ve experienced this, you know this is what they mean by being visited by the muse. It felt like a mystical confirmation that I was on the right track.
My Infinite card is the 3 of Wands, which represents air, motion and looking in the distance toward something. The figure on the card is standing with his back to us. I went on a lot of road trips through the desert as a kid. I used the motion of a car ride and the idea of travel, both physically and emotionally, to incorporate the quality of air. The father in this story also begins with his back to us. The Hierophant card shows up supporting. I made the card into a service station, where the sense of counsel comes through the landscape of a connivence store. There are several revelations made at this service station throughout the story.
The 6 of Cups heavily influenced the desires of the narrator of this story. It arrived in my Past column along with the 6 of Wands, a card of past successes. The 6 of Cups is the card of nostalgia. I wanted to convey a sense of longing to return to a place and time that no longer exists. The yearning for reunion. The family in this story is on the cusp of drastically changing, and in many ways the car and the road are symbols for a realm which exists outside the limitations of time.
In the Present column I drew the 9 of Swords, a card of anxiety, fear and coping. I decided to use a toothpick dispenser (swords) that the child/narrator steals in order to cope with her feelings of overwhelm to represent this card. My hope was that the abstract experience of worry could be conveyed in a concrete object. This was especially fun to write as this was something I did as a child in my real life. I stole a toothpick dispenser on a road trip with my family out of feelings of powerlessness. The Lovers show up in this present column as well, which represents the relationship between the mother and the father. The 5 of Cups made sense for this story as well because it is the card of loss, disappointment. Something goes wrong and the characters are dealing with the aftermath.
I struggled with Hidden Influences initially, but began to relate the connection of being trapped from the 8 of Swords. Every character in this story is trapped by something: addiction, guilt, grief. This is a story about being imprisoned by circumstance and the inability to come to terms with it. The 7 of Swords also plays a part later in the story as trickery in the form of self delusion.
I pulled the king of cups for The problem. I interpreted this card in its reversed position signifying alcoholism causing conflict in the family. The supporting card is the 4 of Swords, representing a time for rest after a period of challenges. These two cards decided most of the plot for me; the 4 of Cups being the motive for traveling and rest being an answer to the alcohol problem.
Under Influences Of Others, I pulled a major arcana card: The Hangman. This is the card of sacrifice. Again, I
decided to use something concrete to describe the sentiment behind this card. The child plays a game of hangman with her family to kill time during the car ride. The hangman has surrendered and made this sacrifice willingly. Similarly, the father has chosen to go to a remote location for his family’s wellbeing. We are never directly told whether or not the father knew he would not be returning, if he, like the hangman, made the ultimate sacrifice and put himself there humbly.
I also pulled The Sun for the influences of others. Throughout the journey, the desert has been a witness. My hope is that the desert comes through to the reader as another character, perhaps an omnipresent one, who is powerful enough to hold all the sorrow, love and complexity. The desert sun binds the family, while propelling them toward change and reconciliation. In the end, the daughter has to chose between staying in the underworld of stuck grief, or being in the present moment with the living. Her nostalgia, though mature after the evolution she’s made with the lion, is still an integral part of her awareness, and retuning to the child she was before her father disappeared is crucial to her healing. She says she misses the time she was “ a baby with her back to the sun”. I meant for this to capture the image of The Sun as well as bring the readers back to the beginning, back to the warmth of the desert.
For Course of Action, I pulled Strength. I was enchanted with the image of this card: a woman with a lion. This is the card of fortitude, courage, guidance. I used this card literally and symbolically. This lion appears during a challenging moment for the daughter. She sees a “desert lion” at the exact moment she needs help. One could debate
whether this lion was created in the mind of the daughter, so steeped in grief, or is in fact a real animal materializing from a mysterious place capable of otherworldly acts, such as vanishing people in the night. My experience of grief is that it knows no bounds. It is, at times, a trickster, a lover, a life wrecker, and a dangerous beast you want to befriend. Ace of Wands and Wheel Of Fortune were the two supporting cards I used to move toward the conclusion. Ace of Wands is about pivotal moments and inspiration. I used the name “Ace” earlier in the story for the Wands Of Change salesman, and later in the story as the creative flash the daughter has while driving in the storm. She remembers an artistic passion she had before losing her father. This epiphany is the catalyst for the Wheel Of Fortune card to come in as the shift in perspective she needs to heal her loss and fulfill her destiny. The blowout of the wheel of the car signifies this transformation.
The 4 of Cups is my outcome. This card is about being so self absorbed with your empty cups that you miss the ones that are full. I felt like the ending is also another beginning for the daughter. The beginning of mending the relationship with her mother and of discovering her own autonomy. It’s a kind of transmutation. The way a lake can transform from solid to liquid to vapor.
Jeff Grindley
Azeroth'sMirror
Ag ors,
Anyya'sda
Layinginb hewindow, shethoughtab ughforher exactlywhensh ound6pm, afterhermomandsisterhadenoughtimetodraineverylastdropof lifeoutofher.
Momwasanevangelicalchristianofthestrictkind. Anyoneliving underherGodblessedroofwasusedtonewrulesbeingunearthed basedonwhatevertrendhitthepagesofFocusontheFamily,a christianmagazineshedevouredmonthly. Therecenttopictosweep Momupinafranticrushtoprotectherfamilyfromthedevil'sassault wasanarticleentitled“SecularMusic:SweetSymphonyorLucifer's Leverage?”warningthat“Anewwaveofwolvesinsheep'sclothing” wereontheirwayto“destroythefabricofthefamilythroughasonic invasion!”
Afamilymeetinghadbeencalledandrulesputinplaceaboutwhat stationthelivingroomradiowastobetunedtoatalltimesandthe
meaningof‘appropriatevolume.’“AlwaystakingawayallthethingsI love,it’swhatyoudobest.”Anyyathought,re ectingonlastweek's mayhemthathadnearlypushedhertorunawayforrealthistime.
Theweekstartedoutwithaninnocentbirthdayrequestfor Anyya’sveryownboombox,completewithadualcassettedeckand automaticrewind.Itwasthekindofthingthatwouldletherreclaima littlespaceofherown.“Youcangetbooksontapetoo,notjust music!”thenalittlewhitelie,“onTVIsawthatlisteningtoclassical musicwhileyoustudy,like,improvesyourmemoryandstu !”Her Momsawthroughthis,“Youdon’tneedyourownmusicplayer,young lady.What’swrongwiththehouseradio?”
“ButMom,I'malmost15!IshouldbeabletolistentowhatI want!I’mnotachild!!!”
“Ha!Notachild?!MusicisaveryslipperyslopeAnyya.Thedevil usesmusictorotyourmoralsandyourmind.Anythingthedevilcan dotobreakusawayfromthemosthigh,hewillmostcertainlytryto do!”
Anyyacouldn’tbelievemomwasn’tevengoingtoconsiderit!
“Eviehasatapeplayerinherroomandshe’s ve!”
“Wellyouarealsonotyoursister!Wehandpickthosebiblestories ontapeforher.Theyarepositiveandnurturing.TheDevilledthe choirinheaven,didyouknowthat?Hmm?Musicishisspecialty!So you”
“Janet-”herdadslippedintotheconversation,“whydon’tweat leastthinkaboutit?Hergradesareprettygoodrightnowand,you know,HolyPageshasanalternativemusicsection.I’dbetwecould ndsomethingtherethatwouldmakeeveryonehappy?”Therewasa pauseandDadlookedatAnyya,atwinkleinhiseye,“isn’tthatright pumpkin?”
Shelovedthatlook.Itcamesometimes,whenhecouldsenseshe washavingahardweek,o eringahugandslippingheratendollarbill, saying“getyourselfsomethingattheMall.”Eveniftheworldwasup againsther,ledbythematriarchofthefamilyandalittlebrattysister, Dadwouldbetheretosupporther.
“Yeeeees.Itcan’tallsuckIguess.”
“Watchyourmouthyounglady!”Momsnapped.
Thenegotiationseemedtohaverelaxedherthough,sinceshe followedwith,“WellIsupposewecanthinkaboutitRoger.” Itgave Anyyahopethatshemightgetmorethansocksandabiblewithher nameinscribedonitscoverforherbirthday-again.
Afteratorturouswait,thedaycametoseeifthefather-daughter teamhadmadeanimpactonthewallofrulesthatwasMom.After dinner,asugarfreevanillacakefollowedbythegiftingofsocksanda biblecoverwithhernameinscribedonit,madeherfeellessthan hopeful.Then,justbeforeshewasgoingtofakehappinessandgoto herroom,Dadbroughtoutabigrectanglewrappedinnewspaper.She squealedoutloud“Ohmygosh!!Isit?”Tearingintothewrapping revealedano brandboomboxthathadthecombinationoffeatures shehadaskedfor.
“Nosecularstations!”MomsaidasAnyyadisappeareddownthe hallwithhernewtreasure.
Unpackingtheboombox,shefoundthattherewasacassetteinside byabandcalled‘BLENDERHEAD’.Thenamehadpotential,but withsongtitleslike“Won’tBreaktheSpirit”and“LiftmeLord”she knewexactlywhereithadcomefrom.Decidingnottotakeachance onspoilingherbirthday,sheputthetapeasideandplacedthe boomboxproudlyatopherdresser.Tuningintotheonlyalternative stationintown,shesetthevolumelowjustincasehermompassedby andcouldheartheseculardebaucheryoftheStoneTemplePilots throughthewalls.Fallingbackonherbed,closinghereyesshe thought,“I’llgivethetapealistentomorrow,it’sprobablynotasbadas itlooks.”andinonlyafewminutesshewasasleep.
AfterschoolthenextdayAnyyafoundoutwhatshehadalready suspected.Blenderheadsucked.Aftertracktwo,entitled‘HeartCore’ shepulledthetapeoutthrowingitintoapileofclotheswithaheavy
sigh,“BacktoradioIgo”shesaid.Butasshewasabouttoswitchthe radioon,sheheardherDad’sthreesoftknocksonthebedroomdoor.
“Anyya?”
“Comein,"shesaid.
Steppinginhespottedthecassetteinagray annelandsaid, “That tapereally‘bites’huh?”thedoorclosedbehindhim.“Daaaad!”
“What?That’swhatthekidsaresayingthesedaysright?Bitesand sucks?”
Shelaughedathisattemptsatnewslang. Atleasthetried.
“YeahDad,itsucks.Itfreakingbites.”
Hescoopedupthecassettefromthe oorandsatnexttoheron thebed.“Welllet's xthat..”pullingoutscotchtapefromhisback pocket.“Seethoselittleholesthereontop?” ippingthecassetteto showher“Coverthoseupandyoucanrecordoverthemusicthatison there.”
“Really?That’scoolbut,Imean,recordwhat?Idon’thaveany othertapes.”
“Youcanstartbyrecordingyourfavoritesongsontheradio rst. It’lltakesometime,butprettysoonyou’llhaveallyourfavoritesinone place!”
Hemadethemodi cations,poppedthetapebackinandturned ontheradio,keepingthevolumelow.ToAnyya’ssurprise,theband Nirvanahadjustplayedtheopeningri tooneofherfavoritesongs, “InBloom”.
“Youlikethisone?”herdadasked.
“Yeah!”
Hehitrecordandletthesong nishbeforerewindingthetapeand pressingplaytoshowherithadworked.Thesongstartedtoplayagain andherjoywasimmediate.Shewrappedherarmsaroundhimand squeezedtight“Dad,youarethebest.Iloveyou!”
Strainedbythehughesaid,“Iloveyoutoopumpkin,let’sjustkeep itbetweenus,yeah?”
Afterafewdaysofgettinghomefromschoolandsittingperched nexttotheradio,sketchingorwritinginherjournalbetweensongs, sheendedupwitharecordingofsomeofherfavoritesandanew pastime,makingmixtapes.
Nearingtheweek’send,shehad lledthetapewiththebestof whattheradiohadtoo er.Cominginfromherweedpullingdutiesin thebackyard,shewaseagertolistentothetapeinfullforthe rsttime sinceshe nisheditthenightbefore.SheheardEvie'smu edvoiceas shecamedownthehallway,realizingthelittlefunguswasinherroom. “Great,whatisshemessingupnow?”andthenshethought“Probably eatingmystrawberrylipsmackers!”
Evieandtheglowwormplushyshereferredtoas“MrSnugglebug” satcrossleggedinatangledpileofshinyblacktape.MrSnugglebug’s headwasglowing(anightlightfeaturethatmadehimpopularamong kids)illuminatinginasoftredglowabrokencassetteshellthathad housedhermixtape.Anyya’smindracedandheradrenalinespikedas sheblurtedout,“Ispentsomuchtime!Hoursofwaitingforthesongs! It’s,it's....ruined!”ShemighthavekepthercomposureifEviehadn’t burstintolaughterasshetossedthestrandsintotheairshouting, “Spaghetti!Spaghetti!Spaghetti!”
DadhadjustcomeinwithMomtoinvestigate,asAnyyatackled hersister.Anyya'sfootslippedinthetangleoftapeandherelbow madecontactwithEvie’ssmallnose.Bloodburstfromthelittlegirl's face,stainingMrSnugglebug'snighttimeattire.DadgrabbedAnyya, pullingherawayasshescreamed“Youlittleshit!”
Mom'seyesbulgedatthewordassherushedEvieoutoftheroom tonursehertendernose,andasDadclosedthedoorAnyyastopped him.“Dad,areyoumad?Ijustlostityaknow?Thenose,itwas-”
“Pumpkin,”hesaid,“Idon’twanttohearanotherword.I’mnot mad,butIamverydisappointedinyou.”AndforreasonsAnyya couldn’texplain,thatdisappointmenthurtsomuchmorethananger evercould.
“Neveragain!Youcan’tevenbetrustedwitharadio!Ishould’ve trustedwhattheLordwastellingme, you ’realways ndingawayto makemylifeharder.Yoursister'snosecouldhavebeenbroken!”Evie heldanicepacktoherface,eyesnarrowingatherbigsister.Mom nishedhertiradewith,“You’renotgoinganywhereforamonth.”
“Butitwasanaccident!Dad-”
Anyyalookedtohimforhelp,butthistimehewassilent.Shehad lethimdownafterhehadbeenthereforher,timeandtimeagain.If shecouldtakeitbackshewould.Shewoulddoalotofthings di erentlyandEviewouldneverhaveanypartofit.“Ishouldabusted hernoseonpurpose.”
NowasAnyyasat,rehearsinganapology,she nallysawthesweep ofheadlightsswingacrossthepopcornceilingasdad’scarpulledin. Heavyfootstepscameupthewalkway.Twosetsoffootsteps,she realized.Thefamiliarclinkandjingleofhiskeyinthedoorwas replacedbysternknocking.
“Weird,whywoulddadknock?”shethought.“Probablymessing withmom,itwouldn'tbethe rsttime.”
MomansweredthedoorusingatonethattoldAnyyathatthiswas notherdadafterall.Shewentupthehallway,decidingthatherorders tostayintheroomtilldadgothomeweresecondarytohercuriosity. Shecouldn’tmakeoutthewordsyet,butmomsvoicehadescalated quicklyinvolumeandspeed,whichscaredherassheturnedthecorner intothelivingroom.Evielooked confusedinthekitchen,holdingMr. Snugglebugclosetoherbody.Momletoutascream,collapsingintoa ballonthelinoleumatthefeetofacopwhowassaying,“I’msosorry ma ’ am. ”
Anyyarushedforward,suddenlyprotectiveofherfamily,glaring upatthecopwhileshecrouchedoverhermom,angrythatthisman hadbroughtconfusionandpainintotheirhome.“What’sgoingon?” Anyyaasked.“AndwhatdidyousaytoMom?!”Eviewascryingnow, sittingdowninplace,tuckingherchinandpeeringoutfrombehind thesafetyofherplushcompanion.ThecoplookedatAnyya,“Your
fatherwasinaterribleaccidentwhileonthejob.Unfortunately,hewas killed.”Anyyagotinhisface.“Liar!MyDadwouldneverleaveme!You lie!”Anothero cersteppedin,reachingouttoher,tryingtocalmher “Iknowit’shardsweetie-”Anyyastruggledagainstthestarched uniformtryingtocomforther.Shedidherbesttogetafewpunchesin againstthebrute,butwitheveryone,theweightofthewordssunkin until nally,shegaveupandcriedintothearmsofthestranger.She didn’tgettosaygoodbye,oreven,I’msorry.
Thenextmonthbecameablur.
Mommadehercontinueschooltheverynextday,shewasstill groundedandMomrefusedtotalkaboutDadatall.Itwasasifafter thechaosoftheinitialpolicevisitnothinghadchanged.ForAnyya, whathadalreadybeenateenagehellscape,wasnowmissingtheonly personthatwaseverinhercorner. “Thingscouldn’tgetany worse, ”shethought.“I’mcompletelyalone.”
InchurchonSundays,Momretainedtheperfectimageofthe womanshehadbeenbeforeDad’sdeath.Athome,though,shewould mumbletoherselfwhiledoingdailytasks.Itsoundedlikenervous gibberishtoAnyya,whoonlycaughtafewwordsonenightwhile grabbingherpileoflaundryforfolding.AsMomfoldedasheet, staringstraightaheadshemumbled“...setthetableforhim..shouldbe homesoon..atestforthefaithful-Iamthefaithful.Loveispatient..” Shealmostfeltsorryforherbutcouldn’thelptothink,“Where’sJesus now,Mom?”
IfEviehadbeenimpactedbythepassingoftheirdad,shehidit well,whichinfuriatedAnyya.Eviehadtakenuphidingindarkplaces, withherglowworm,andinturnscaringthehelloutofherbigsister. Onenight,Anyyagotuptousethebathroomandhadnosooner startedtorelaxintothesoftvinylseat,thanshewasgreetedbyared glowingapparitionbehindtheshowercurtain.
“Boo!”Eviepunctuatedtheairinaloudwhisper.
“Ohmygod!Evie!”Anyya gasped,“Gobacktobedyourodent! Thehell?!”
“Ooooohyousaidabadword,I’mtellingmom!” Eviehoppedoutofthetubandscurriedbackdownthehalllikea mouseaftercheese.
“I’mgonnakillheroneday.”Anyyamumbledtoherself,and nishedherbathroombusiness.
Schoolfeltevenlonelierthanusualthatweek.HerfriendTifhad triedtoconvincehertorunaway,butAnyyahadchickenedoutonthe plansasusual.Tifwasalwaystheonetotakeaction.Beingleftbehind byherdadandnowTif,shereallyhadnoonetotalkto.Herstomach wasperpetuallyinknotssoduringlunchbreakshemadeherwayout tothesoccer eldtotrytokeephermindoccupied.Walkingthefenced inperimeter,her ngersdraggingalongthechainlink,shethought“I shouldagonewithTif. Evenifshe’sonlystayingatStephen'shouse andwillbecaughtbytheendoftheweek.”shesighed“Itwon’tmatter whereIgonowanyway.Dadwillstillbegone.”
Wrestlingwithloneliness,dad’swordscametomind,“theseteen yearsaretoughforeveryone,pumpkin,buttheywon’tlastforever. Promise.”Soonsheslumpedagainstthefenceundertheweightofher heartacheandpulledherkneesuptuckingherfaceawayfromthe world,“Dad,youwould’veknownwhattodo,whattosay.I’ddo anythingtohaveyouback.GodImissyou.”Thenlookingaround quicklybeforeturninghereyestotheskyshesaid“andfuckyouGod, why’dyouhavetotakehimaway?!”Shiftinginthegrass,herhand touched apieceofpaper.Asingletypedsheet,crumpled,butlegible. Atthetopofthepage,wasasimplecursivescriptfollowedbywhat lookedlikeinstructionstosomekindofgame.Shereadthenameof thegameoutloud,“Azeroth’sMirror”
TheopeningsentencereadlikebadpoetrytoAnyya: “Whenpowerweseeketh
tomoveheavenandhell, TradeAzerothapreciousgift tofillthineearthlywell.”
Furtherdownthepage,somesetupforthegamewasfollowedby morebadpoetry:
1.Waituntilthestrokeofthemidnighthourbeforecallinguponthe greatone.
2.Snuffoutalllanternlight.Alonecandleuponthealtarmay remain.
3.Uponalookingglassofpolishedobsidian,markthesigilofAzeroth incrowsblood.
4.Gazeuponthinereflection,repeatingtheinvocationthreeandten. Invocation: “Azeroth,thinemessenger,Agonyhathbroughtyoutome. ForthinepowerandgreatnessamongstlegionsIsoughtthee. AzerothIaskmyburdentolift
Bindingmysoultoyourservice,thatImayreceivethinegift.”
5.AwaittheDukeofLow.
ItreadlikeadramaticremakeoftheoldBloodyMarygameto Anyya.Tifhadtriedtoconvincehertoplayonceatasleepoveryears ago,butAnyyainsisteditwasastupidwasteoftimeandwouldn’t work.Anyyahadbeensecretlyscaredthatitmightactuallyworkand didn’twanttoriskrousingademonforfun.“Thissoundslesslikea game, ”shethoughtonasecondread“andmorelikearitual.”She traceda ngeracrossthestrangesymbolonthepagethatshewasto scrawlinbloodonamirror.Aroundthesymbolwasthename, “Azeroth”shesaiditaloud,thenamefeelingfamiliarbutshecouldn’t placewhy.“Iaskmyburdentolift...ThatImightreceivethinegift…” Theacheinherhearthadbeendistractedbyadeepcuriosityforwhat mighthappenifshetriedtoplay.Sheputthepaperinherpocket,“this
timeI’mnotchickeningout.I’vegotplentyofburdensAzeroth,andit beatssittinginsilenceallnight.”
Thehousewasallquietexceptforthehallclock.Strikingmidnight sheslippedoutofbedandmadeherwaytothebathroom.Passing mom ’sroomshefeltarushofadrenalinethataccompaniesthetaboo andtheriskofbeingcaughtfordoingsomethingmomwouldcertainly call‘satanic’.
Placingavotivecandlethatshefoundinthejunkdrawerontothe edgeofthesink,shestruckamatchandlitthewick.Lipstickwasthe closestmatchshefoundforcrows'blood,sowithit,shedrew Azeroth’ssymbolonthemirror.Thegeometricshapeframedherface inRevlonBlackCherrylines“It’snotbloodbutit’llhavetodo,"she said.Flickingthelightswitcho ,shefoundherselfbathedinshadows thatdancedinthegentleglowofthecandlelight.Shefeltthecandle’s warmththroughheroversizedshirtand,staringintoherre ection, addressedherselfinherbestBritishaccent,
“HelloAnyyanumbertwo,howdoeslifefairfortheeontheother side?”Anyyanumbertworaisedhereyebrows“Here?Ohhere,onthis sideofthemirror?Itsuuuucks!”
Incandlelight,oncefamiliarobjectslookedlikepropsonthesetof aBmovie,badreproductionsoftherealthing.ItallgaveAnyyathe impressionofhavingcrossedintoanotherworldthatlookedlikehers butwasnot.Magichappenedinsettingslikethis.Beautifulmagic, sinistermagic,strangemagic,butall-magic.
Withthesetupcomplete,shereviewedtheinstructionsonceagain beforestartingtherecitation.Takingadeepbreathshelookedintothe re ection.
“Anyyanumbertwo,areyoureadytoaskfortheonlythingyou reallywant?”Theynoddedincon rmation.
Azeroth,thinemessenger,Agonyhathbroughtyoutome. Shestartedslowly,hervoicesoundingclunkyandsillyintheecho ofthesmallroom.
ForthinepowerandgreatnessamongstlegionsIsoughtthee.
Thewordsdevelopedmomentumwitheachlinerecited. Asherbreathingdeepenedsodidtheshadows,thecandlelight movingintimewithherwords.
AzerothIaskmyburdentolift.
Shehadlosttrackofhowmanytimesshehadrepeateditall.She listened,nolongersurethevoicesheheardwasherown,thevolume risingasshecontinued.
Bindingmysoultoyourservice,thatImayreceivethinegift.
Thewarmthofthecandledisappearedasitslightdimmed.
ShefeltasenseofwonderasthesymbolofAzerothbeganto shimmer,takingonasoftchartreuseglow.Thegeometryliftedfrom theglassandpositioneditselfoverherre ectionasawobblyhalo.She wasindarknessnow,onlytheglowofAzeroth'ssymbolpulsingintime withherbreath.
Thebathroomhaddisappeareditseemed,theexceptionbeingthe vanityandthemirrorstillhanginginspacewithitsre ection.Shehada sensethatshewasinsomeexpansiveplacebetweenherworldand another.Lookinginthemirrortotrytogroundherselfinreality,she foundAnyyanumbertwo’sbreathwasaudiblyoutofrhythmwithher own.Thisdetailmadethisallfeelwrongandinstinctuallyshe outstretchedherarm, ailingherhandupanddown,tryingto ndthe plasticswitchthatcouldtieherbacktothefamiliar.Shefoundonly emptyspace.
Shefeltherchesttightening,herhandsandfeetallpinsand needles.“Crapcrapcrap!!”Amovementinthere ectionandthe rustlingofheavyfabricsnappedhertoattention.Thebackofalarge hooded gurehadreplacedAnyyanumbertwointhemirrorframe. Squintingshecouldseethatthiswasnothertwinbutsomeone, somethingnew.Adarkcapecascadedo itswideshoulders,gold akes wovenintothefabricshimmeringasthematerialreactedtoasilent breeze.Thesymbolthatshehaddrawnonthemirror oatedabovethis creature'shead,nowmorelikeacrownthanahalo.
Azeroth.
“WhatagonybringsonesoyoungseekingthegiftsofAzeroth DukeofLow?”Thedeepvoicewashedoverher,soothingtonotonly herearsbuthermindaswell
“AmIdreaming?”
AdistantintuitiontoldAnyyasheshouldberunningawayfrom thishumanoid gureasfastasshecouldmuster,buttheDukeofLow silencedthatnotionwiththequestion
“Iaskagain.Whyhasthemessenger,agony,broughtyouseeking theDuke'sgifts?”
Anyyafeltastormofthoughtsenterhermind,cloudinganywords shetriedtoretrieveuntilonewordcutthroughitall.
Pumpkin.
Immediatelysheblurtedout,“Dad.Ineed-needhim.Everything sucks.Momisnutsandmysisteristheworst.Bothofthemactlikemy Dadisn’tdead!Wellheisdead!”Shewasshakingastearsbegan strugglingoutbeforerollingdownhercheeks.“Ican’tdothisalone anymore!”Azerothspokewith rmbuttenderin ection.“Tellme whatitisyouwant.Precisely.Craftthineanguishintoasingular question.”
Clearingthesnotandtearstaking abreath,sheclosedhereyesand said,“I-Iwanthimtocomehome.Canyou-canyoubringhimback?”
Thespacebetweenthequestionandanswerseemedtostretchover aneternityandthen, “Yes.”
Itwasnotwhatsheexpected.“Iknowit’snotreally-what?”
Thegold ecksinAzeroth’s hoodshimmeredinthecandlelight as itspokethewordagain,“Yes.”
“Y-Yes?”shestammered,“You-Youcanbringmydaddyback?” “ResurrectionisonegiftIo erforaprice.Bindthinesoultomy serviceanditwillbere-writtenasyouhaveasked.”
Fullofhope,herheartbeatloudinherchestasshestaredupatthe glowingsymbolabovethecreature'shead.“Iwoulddoanythingto havehimback.IlovedhimsomuchandImean-well-How?Bindmy soul?”
“Bindthinesoultome.”
“HowwouldIeven-Howdoessomeonebindtheirsoul?IFIwere to-”
“Returnwhenthemooniswholeatthestrokeofmidnight. Repeatthesummoning.Speakthewordsofthebinding.Bloodmust bespilledtoinscribethesoulontothetabletofforever.Thusthe resurrectionbewritten.”Azerothbegantomoveawayfromthemirror inslowlongstrides.Stopping,itsheadstillconcealed,Azerothturned slightlyandansweredthequestionAnyyawastooafraidtoask“You willknowthewordsofthebinding.Iwillguidethemindofmy faithfuldevotee.”Theblack gurethendissolvedintothedarkness.
Thesymbolstayedrotatinginplacebeforereturningtothemirror, regaining itscrimsonhueinthecandlelightagain.Herarmshotout, ngersfumbling forthelightswitch.Lookingonherre ectionshe lookedtiredbutfeltstronger,“WecanhaveDadbackAnyya,”shetold numbertwo,“Azerothsaidwecanbringhimback.”Shewastaking control.Shedidn’tunderstandhowithadallbeenpossible,butshe knewthatshehadtappedintosomethingpowerfulandithadgiven herhope.
Shesleptsoundlyforthe rsttimesinceherdadhaddied.
DaysstretchedintoweeksasAnyyamadenoteeverynightofthe moonphases.Schoolhadbecomeanexcruciatingsocialexercise.
Toavoidasmanyofherpeersaspossible,evenTif(whohadgotten busted asAnyyapredicted),shetookadvantageoftheiropencampus policywalkingthetwoblockstotheoldcemeterytobealone.She re ected asshewanderedthroughtheheadstones,whatitmeantto bindhersoultoAzeroth.Somanyquestionsandnonehadbeen answered.“Anythinghastobebetterthanthis.”Everydaywithouther dadfeltempty.Shecametotheheadstonethatwasherfather’sand
restingagainstitsgranite,sherememberedwhenDadhadputonthat oldscarymoviewhenMomwasoutoftown.Themoviewascalled NightoftheLivingDead.
Therewassomethingaboutthosezombiesthatfascinatedhereven atnineyearsold.Brainlessandslowasmolasses,theyseemed organized,workingtogether,evenbetterthanthepeopleinthemovie did.Shehadworkedupatheorybytheendofthemovieandsharedit withherDadthatnight,“Inthebeginning,inthegraveyard,that personJohnnywasarealjerk.Notjusttohissisterbuttothezombie thatcametohelpthem ndtheirmom’sgrave!Thezombiewasjust tryingtohelpbutJohnnygotscaredcausahowhelookedsoJohnny foughtthezombieguy.Heruinedit!Yougottalistentoeveryone,even iftheyarescarylookin.”
Dadlaughed,impressedbyhowwisesheseemedforherage.“You reallyhaveaneattakeonthingsdon'tyapumpkin?Idon’tthink anyonebutyouwouldhavethoughtthattheghoulswere misunderstood.”
“Whatareghouls?”sheasked“Ithoughttheywerezombies?”
Heexplained,“Theguywhomadethemoviecalledthemghouls. Ghoulsaretheundeadlookingtofeastonhuman esh!Emptybodies lookingfortheirsouls!Butwhoknows,maybeallthebrainstheyeat giveemrealgoodideaslikeyousaid!”Theylaughedtogetherwhile,on thetelevision,aghoulishgirlateahumanliver,itsblackblood streamingdownherhandsandspillingontoawellkeptlawn.
Thecemeterywasaplace,Anyyalearned,forghoulslikehertoget away,todosomesoulsearchingandnotbebotheredbyanyone.Her journalwasnow lledwithsketchesofthatsymbolofancientpower. Witheachoneshedrew,shecouldfeelherselfgrowstronger,everyline sealingthepromiseofAzerothmadeinthatstrangechamberbetween worlds.
“Resurrection.”
Shewouldtradeanythingtoleavethisemptinessbehind.Looking up,shecouldseethefullmoononthedaylighthorizon.Tonight wouldbethenightthatshewouldbindherselftoanimmensepower
andgetherdadback.Lookingdownattheheadstoneshesaid,“See yousoonDad.Loveyou.”
Anyya’svoicewasfullofstrengthastheritualbegan. Wordsrepeated. Shadowsdeepening. Thespacebetweenworldsshifting.
Azerothappearedfacingher, llingtheframeofthemirrorwith musclethatrippledunderpalegreenskin.Aredlightfromsome distantsourceilluminateditschiseledfeatures,castingdeepshadows intothehollowsofitseyes.Azeroth'slips,fullandsinister,peeledback toshowthetipsofblackcanines,addingtoanalreadyheavysenseof menace.
Azerothspoke, “Yoursoul.Theoath.Theblood."
Trembling,herfather’swordscamelikeamistintohermind,“this willpass,sweetheart,”doubtbegantocreepintoherheart.Wasthis worthbeingaghoulwithnosoul?Roaminggraveyardslookingfor somethingshenevercouldhave?WasthiswhatDadwould’vewanted?
Dadsvoicesaidthiswasgoingtoofar.
Azeroth’swordscameinlike astronggustofwind, thethoughts tumblingaside.Thetimbreofhisvoicecouldbefeltinherfeet.
“Takethisgiftofpower.Fillthevoidandreunite.Letuscontinue theunholyritestoresurrection,"shefeltasifhermouthhadmoved withthewordsitspoke.
“Idon’thavetobealone.”shethought“Bringinghimhome xes it.Dadalways xesthingsforme.NowIgetto xthings,soulorno soul.”Azeroth’ssmilebroadened,eyesclosingrevealingadeep pleasure.“Andmyfatherwillbereturnedtome?”sheasked.
“Yes,theoathand-”
“Wait!Iwanttoseehim!HowdoIknowyouaren’tlyingoror-” “IgnorantchildofAgony!Youdare questionthepowerof Azeroth?Theceremonymustproceed…”
ShefelttheDuke'svoiceseepintohermind,makingitdi cultto distinguishthesourceofherthoughts“Willhebenormal?Willhebe myDad?”
“Yes.”
Theweightofthedecisionloomedasshehesitated.
“Ihadtobesure.I-”
ThesoftredglowonAzeroth'sskin grewinintensity,“Theoath!” hesaid
ThesymbolofAzerothspunabovethebeast'shead,wildly.The wordsofthebindingcametoher,ashehadsaidtheywould,taking overallotherthoughts.Thevoiceshespokethemwithwasnother own.
“Forthedeadaprice
Bloodforblood
Restored Andsealedforever”
BecomingachantechoinginherearsAnyyabegantofeellighter, theburdenthathadweighedherdownlifting.
“Nowtheblood.”Shelookeddownandfoundshewasholdinga razor.Whenhadshetakenthatout?Her ngerstrembledasshe grippedtheedgeoftheblade,avoicefrombehinddrewherattention.
“Annya,whoisthatmaninthemirror?”
Anyya'seyeswidenedassherecognizedherlittlesister'svoice piercingtheceremonialstillness.TurningshesawEviewasatherhip, MrSnugglebugheldtightinherarms.Howmuchhadsheseen?What didsheknow?Shewouldtellmomeverything!Anyya'ssurpriseturned toanger.HereEviewas,readytoscrewthingsupforAnyyayetagain.
Shegrabbedhersisterbytheshouldersshakingher“Whatareyou doinghere?Whyareyouhere?!!!”Evieshrank,holdingtheglowworm close,“Mr.Snugglebugwantedtoglowandwelikeitherecausehe glowsobright.”Athought ashedintoAnyya’smind“I’llletAzeroth haveher.WhyshouldIsacri ceeverythingallthetime?”Hermind
oodedwitheverytimeEviehadruinedthingsforherandrecalledhow callousshehadseemedaboutDadbeingdead.
Azerothinsisted.
“TheBLOOD!” Azeroth'sdeepeyesclosed,itsmouthopeningin anticipationofthemosttwistedpartofthisgame.
Anyyalookedtothemirror,thenbacktoEvie.ShehoistedEvieup ontothestepnormallyusedforthebrushingofteethbeforebed, empoweredtotakedestinyintoherownhandsratherthanjustgoing along.EvietriedtosquirmawaybutAnyya'sgripwas rm. Anyya’s handtrembling,sheputthebladenearEvie'ssoft esh“It’sjustalittle blood”Anyyathought,anicyresolve ushingthroughherveins.She watchedasthoughshewasaspectatorasthebladecutdeepintoEvie's softpale esh.Eviescreamed.Theworldslowed.Insteadofspillingto theground,thebloodde edgravity,poolingmidair,awobbling spherethatgrewinsizewitheverybeatofEvie'ssmallheart.Dropby darkdropitbegantomakeitswayintothedarkholeofAzeroth's mouth.
Adistantlaughcouldbeheardreverberating.
AsAzerothgorgedonEvie’sblood,itsgreenskinbegantopeel back,revealingablackendoskeleton,triggeringmemoriesof horned beetlesterrorizingAnyyabythepoolwhenshewasyoung.TheDuke ofLow’smouth,lengtheneduntilthehumanoidjawfellaway,replaced bylargemandiblesextendingoutfromthedark.
Anyyabackedawayinhorror,releasinghergriponEvie,herbody now oatingbeforethetransformingdemon.MrSnugglebughitthe groundjostlingAnyyafromhertrance.
“Anyya!”Evieletoutasmallscreamofsheerterror “Ev-”shereachedoutbutEviewaspulledintothemirrorbythe willofAzerothbeforeAnyyacouldreach.
AclawedarmsunkintoEvie’sthroat,replacingherscreamswitha gushofdarkblood.Gravityreturnedcausingbloodtosplash everywhereincludingAnyya’sopenmouth.
Sheunderstoodthen,asthecopperwetherlips,“Itmeanttokill me.Theprice.Itwasdeath…”
Evie’sbodydroppedoutofsightandwasreplacedbyareplica, softlyglowingandtranslucent. Evie’ssoul.Likesmokebeingpulled intoavent,Azerothpulledthehelpless gureoflightintoitschest. “Evie..”Azerothhadabsorbedhercompletely. Thensheheardthewords,echoing,“thebindingiscomplete.” “Dadiscominghome,"shesaidtoherself.
Anyyawasdizzyasherworldshrank,thebathroombecomingtiny atthefarendofatelescope.“Willittakemenext?IsmyDa-”but beforeshecould nishthethought,darknesshadovertakenher.
Sheawoketothesoundofbirdsoutsideherwindow.Startled,she satupinherbed.FranticallyshescannedtheroomforAzeroth,blood, oranysignsthatthenightmarehadbeenanythingbutthat.Finding nothingshefeltreliefwashoverher.“Thatwassomessedup,”she thought.“IwishtherewasawaytobringDadback.Eviecanbe intolerablebutIwouldn’tsacri cehertoabuggod!”shelaughed uneasilyatthethought,thensheadmittedtoherself“wellmaybeI would.”
Groggy,wipingthesleepfromhereyes,sheheardthefootsteps comingdownthehall.“Great,anotherdayofdrudgerybegins.” ExpectingMomtobargein,sheinsteadheardthreelightknocksonthe doorbeforeitswungopen.“Pumpkin,wegotbreakfastready downstairs,bettergetup!”
Theysatatthetable,thethreeofthem.
Anyya,MomandDad.
“Passthepancakes,please,”Dadasked.
Anyya,confused,mechanicallypassedtheplate,staringdownat thetable.
“Dadisback,”shethought.“It-itwasreal?WegotDadback, Anyyabutthatmeans-”
“YouknowIhadthestrangestdream,”Dadsaid. “Oh?”askedMom.
“Yeah!Idreamtthatwehadanotherlittlegirl…” Evie.
“…andthatIhadbeeninaterribleaccidentanddied!” “Roger!Don’tevensaythingslikethat!That’sawful.”
Helaughed,butitwasastrangelaughthatmadeAnyyauneasy. “Awhoney,comeon,itwasjustadream.” HeturnedtoAnyya,“rightPumpkin?”
“Rightdad”shegaveasmallchucklebeforeliftinghereyes. AsmilehadformedonDadsface,slowly,waitingforhismoment ofrecognition.
ThecolddarkeyesofAzerothstaredbackintoherown.
AuthorCommentary&TarotSpread-JeffGrindley
Originally,Jeffusedthe Fountain Tarot deck.Thisisthe1strow:
Commentary
Tarothadfounditswayintomyrotatinglistofintereststhisyear, sowhenIlearnedabouttheSTTARwritingworkshopemployingitas thebuildingblockforstorytelling,IknewIhadtoapply.Theideaof usingalternativemethodstodrawinspirationandbreakthrough writer'sblockwerenotnewconceptstome,butIhadnevertakenthe opportunitytofullyembraceanyinmywriting.Itwasachancetodive deeperintothemeaningofthecardsandmeetotherwriterswitha sharedcuriosityordevotiontotheoccult.
Meetinginthebookstoreforthedrawingofthecardsthatwere tobethebonesofourstory,Icouldfeeltheenergyandexcitement llingtheroom.LookingthroughmyTarotdeck,preparingtoshu e, Iwasnervous,realisinghowlittleofthecardmeaningsIhadretained inmystudiesuptothispoint.IstartedthinkingofthehoursIwould needtodigesteachcard,divingdeepintoeachonetounderstandhow theywouldtranslatetosomekindofstorybeforeevenstartingto write!Thediscouragementwasreal.
LuckilyApril,ourguideandeditorinchiefsharedexamplesof howthecardscouldtellastorythroughtheTarotarchetypes.She reassuredusthatwewouldall ndourstoryandthatifwe encounteredproblems,shewouldbetheretoansweranyquestions alongtheway.
Irecalledtheimportanceofshu ingthedeckwithintentionas onepreparestodrawthecards.IfIlackedknowledgeIwouldneedto makeupforitwithmyintentionIthought.Iwouldsendoutamantra totheuniverseandseeifthecardsrespondedinkind.
Ibeganmyfumblingshu e,closingmyeyesandsilentlyrepeating thewords:
Weird.Horror.Scary.Sci-Fi.
Idrewthecardsandaseacharchetypelaylookingupatmefrom thetable,Iwaitedforinspirationtowashoverme.Tenminutesof staringatthem,Ifoundthatmymindwasnotonlyblank,buthad erectedawallaroundthevoidthatguaranteednothingwouldgetinor out.Ourguidecamearoundtoreviewanddiscussourdraw.Whenshe gottome,sheassuredmethatIhadareallycoolspreadandexplained di erentwaystheprocesscouldwork.Itriedtolatchontocertain interpretationssheo ered,takingnotesontheexamplesgiven.I startedtorecoversomeofmyinitialexcitementandthoughtthatwith somehelpthismayworkout.
Ispenttheremainderoftheworkshopsilent,takingcopiousnotes abouteachcard.
Laterintheweekinfrontofthepage,Ilookedatthecardsand foundmymindwasasblankasithadbeenattheworkshop.The pressureandexpectationofmakingsomethingamazingwasholding meback.ItoldmyselfIhadafewmonthstogetitalldoneandthatthe storywouldcomeifI’donlystartwriting.Aghoststoryfrommywife's childhoodcametomindandIdecidedtoseewherethatwouldtake me.Mymaincharacter,Anyya,wasaPageofSwordswhichmeantshe wascuriousbutinexperienced.Thewritingwasok,butlacked directionandfeltlikewalkingthroughthickmud.Thedeadlineswere gettingcloserandinspiteofproductivemeetingswithmyfellow writersandourfearlessleader,Iwasfeelinguncertainaboutmyability to nishontime.
Aftertryingforafewweekstomakethingsworkwiththisghost story(andputtingthingso !),mywife,tiredofmybellyachingsaid “Breakthestorydownformeinthreeparts.Usingonlyoneortwo sentencestodescribeeachpart”.
Islumpedintothecouchandstaredupattheceiling,clearingmy mind.IletgoofallthedetailsandmessofwhatIhadalreadywritten
andthesentencesrushedoutofmymouth.“AgirllosesherDad.She makesadealwithaspirittobringhimback.Thatdealmeansselling hersoul.Shetradeshersister'ssoulinstead.”Thislasttwistcameinthe moment.
“Soundscool!”shesaid.
“Yeah.Itdoes,don’tit?”
Ijumpedupfromthecouchandretreatedtomywritingnook, decidingtoscrapwhatIhadandstartfresh.
Thestory nallybegantocometogether.NowthatIhadsome buildingblocks,Ionlyneededadddetailstothestructure
AsmyfamiliaritywiththeeditingprocessandtheTarotmeanings grew(thankstoregularcheck-inswithourOracularguideandeditor April)IwhittledthestorydowndayafterdayintosomethingIenjoyed writingandlookedforwardtosharing.
MyfondnessforAnyyaalmostledmeastrayintheeditingprocess, butthecards(andmyeditor)weretheretostraightenmeout.While doingrevisionsIdecidedthatIwantedAnyyatobepossessedwhenshe madethedecisiontosacri cehersister.Ibelievedthatshewasn’t actuallycapableofdoingsomethingsoterribletohersisterandwanted totakesomeoftheresponsibilityawayfromher.Shecouldmakepoor decisionsbecauseshewasyoungandhuman,butshewasn’tcapableof pureevilwasshe?Thepossessiongaveheranoutandmademefeel good.
Irewrotethesceneandsentitwithnotestotheeditorexplaining thesituation.Aprilcautionedagainstthechangeandencouragedmeto rethinkitbeforecommittingtothedecision.Aftersleepingonit,I decidedthiswouldbetheperfectopportunitytoseewhatthespread hadtosayaboutwhatAnyyawascapableof.Ireviewedthespreadcard bycard.
TheDevilinmyoutcomewasclearlythedealAnyyawouldmake withAzeroth.Thiswouldback reandcreatearealityshehadn’t imaginedpossibleintheworstway.TheLoversasahiddenin uence seemedtomapdirectlytotherelationshipandloveshehadwithher Father.Thiswouldbecomethedrivingforcebehindhergriefand cloudeddecisionmaking.TheProblem,TwoofSwords,wasthe decisionshewouldneedtomakeduringthe‘game’withAzeroth. Decidingwhethertosellhersoulwithoutknowingthecost.Inthe positionofoutsidein uenceswastheTower,representedbythedeath ofherDad.
I nallycametotheCharacterpositionofmystoryandthePageof SwordswhorepresentedAnyya.
FlippingthroughmyTarotresourceIreadaboutthePagebeinga veryinexperiencedarchetypeinthecastofTarotcharacters.Certainly thiscombinedwiththeSwords,asuitrepresentingcommunication, couldexplainwhyshewasn’tthinkingaheadtothepossible consequencesofheractions.This,Irealizedwithsuddenclarity,was absolutelysomethingAnyyacoulddo.Istilldidn’twantherto,butshe couldandforthesakeofthestoryshewouldneedto.Herintention wasnevertokillhersister,buttheresponsibilityforthatoutcome wouldlaysquarelyonhershoulders.
Thesupportoftheeditorandhersenseofstorycombinedwiththe cardsasastructuretobuildfrommadethisprocessgofrom intimidatingtoincrediblyrewarding.TheSTTARworkshophelped meexploremywritinginanewwayandgavemesomenewtoolstouse incraftingcharacters.IhopeyouenjoyAnyya'sstoryasmuchasI enjoyedwritingit,andifnotIhopeitatleastinspiresyoutowritea betterstoryyourself!
Stephi Blue
TheLovers
“TheLoversareabouttwopeople,butnotthe peopleyouwouldexpect, Giventimetore ecteachotherintheirgazes,they wouldbegintonoticetheirpredictablephases, Visible gurespassingthroughdayandnight,but neithercanfeeltheother’swarmlight, Aunionasgrandwouldshatterthefabricofsolitude, bendingspacetimewithcatastrophicmagnitude, O,howtheysearchforeachotherintheheavensall thewhile,withnoavailalongtheirfamiliarpathscan theirunionreconcile.”
-TheLovers,StephiBlue
PartI-In nitelyPastthePresent
Amountainofbookslaidsprawledacrossatablewithstacksof paperscatteredabout.Abbycouldn’trememberthelasttimeshe cleanedupherworkspacewhichlitteredherhomeo ce.Lookingat theclock,AbbysuddenlypanickedassherealizedherpartnerDylan wouldbehomesoon.
Wherediditallgowrong?
Doyourememberwhenwemet?
Dylan’swordsechoedouttoAbbyasshesatponderingthemess. Yes,shedidrememberthatglancewhentheireyesmetinpassingatthe collegelibrary.Thingshadbeensimplethen,almosttingedwitha goldenglowwithboththeircupssofullofpossibilities.Abby rememberedthehellshewentthroughwithlawschool,buteventhen
lifeseemedvibrantandDylanwasthefantasycometrue;orsoshe thought.Itwasbetterincomparisontobeforethatpointatleast.
Abbycouldhearthefrontdoorcreakopenandfootstepsshu e pastthethresholdsignalingherbelovedwashomefromtheirband practice.Immediatelyshewenttogreetherpartnerwho enthusiasticallysmiledwhenseeingher.
“Moncheri!Howwasyourday?”Dylangrinned.Theyhadagift forbeingthemostcharminggoofinexistence.
“Can’twaittohaveaglassofwineandifyouspeakFrenchtome againI’ll…”,Abbycouldn’t nishthethoughtbeforeDylansnuckin forthesoftestofkisses,disarmingherina ash.
“Ipickedupyourfavoritebottleonmywaybackactually.Ihada feelingyouwantedtorelaxtonight,youseemedstressedthisweek.” Dylanpulledabottlefrombehindtheirbackandpresenteditlikeit wasano eringtoDionysus.
“YouknowexactlywhatIneedsometimes.”
Dylanlaidacrosstheircouchintheirsharedapartmentwaitingfor Abbytoopenthewineandjointhem.Abbyremovedthecorkfrom thebottleandpouredtwoglassesbeforebringingthemtothecouch.
“Howwasbandpractice?”Abbyinquired. Dylanshruggedastheytookasipofwineandlaidtheirheadback, “itwasokay,workingonacouplenewsongs.”
“Whenareyougoingtobookagigthough?”Abbysaid sarcastically.
“IsthatallyoucareaboutAbby?Iknowyouaresupportingusand haveademandingjob,butmakingmusicishardtoo.”Dylanregretted thewordsasAbbygavethemaglare.
“It’sjusthardjugglingbeingalawyerwhenmypartnercan’teven helpoutbecausetheywanttochasetheirdreams.”
Dylanwentquietanddidn’twanttopushitanyfurther.
“TheonlyreasonI’malawyerisbecauseIwanttoprovideforyou inthe rstplace.”Abbychuggedherwine.
“Ohbullshit,that’snotevenabittrue.Where’syoursenseof justice?”Dylansco ed.
Dylanwasright,Abbyrecalledhowherfatherwasabusiveand controllinglikeamalevolentemperorattimes.AllAbbycoulddowas escapetocollegeandvowtoneverbelikehim,butshealsometDylan andsomeonehastobeaprovider.
“SomeonehastomakemoneyDylan.”Abbyfeltherselfholding ontoresentmentsthatonlyshowedtheiruglinessattheworst momentsandthiswasonesuchtime.
Dylanmadeapainfulface,Abby’swordshadcutthemlikea swordslicinganalreadyopenwound.
“Ihavesomeworkto nish.ThisweekIhaveahugecasecoming upsoIneedtobeprepared.”AbbyleftthecouchasDylangaveher pleadingeyestostayabitlonger.
“Iknow,youalwaysdo.”Dylansighed.“Rememberwhenweused totakewalkstothelibraryandyou’dgoaheadofmeandstopsoI wouldbumpintoyouandthenI’dwrapmyarmsaroundyou?”
“Thatwasawhileago,wewerestillyounganddumb.Youhad longerhairthanmethenIthink.”Abbyrecalled.
“Imissthosetimes.”Dylangotupandwenttotheirroom.
Abbycouldn’tunderstandhowDylanhadnotseemedtogrowup allthistime.Dylanwasstillthecarefree,nonchalant,enbybabeAbby
hadalwaysknown;butstilltherewasapointAbbythoughtDylan wouldsettleintothemselvesandstartcontributingtotheir relationship.Abbystartedtofeeltiredasherstrengthhadbeen drainedfromthepettyargument.Shereluctantlymadeittothe bedroomtoseeDylanlayinbedalreadyscrollingontheirphone.
“I’msorryforbeingmeanearlier,I’mjuststressedandIreallyneed someonewhowon’tstressmeoutontopofthat.”Abbysaidasshe snuggledintobedwithDylan.
“Igetit.ImeanIdon’treally,butIknowyouarestressedandI don’tmeantomakeitworse.IjustwishIcouldbebetterforyouAbs.” DylankissedAbbyontheforehead.
ThenextdaythesunshoweddappledraysontoDylan’sformas theylayontheirstomachinblissfulsleepasAbbygotupforwork. AbbywasabouttoleavewhenDylanstirredandgroggilysatup.
“Oherm,Iforgottotellyouthatmybandbookedatouractually. Weareleavingtomorrowtomakeittothegignextweek.It’sacrossthe countryandwearedriving,Imightneedtoborrowsomemoneyfor theroad.”Dylanmumbledmostofthewordsastheylefttheirmouth.
“Iwishyoutoldmeearlier,butwe’lltalkaboutitlater.Ineedto run.”Abbyleftthehouseinahurryandmadeittoher rm.
“HeythereAbigail!Didyouseemyemail?”Terricameupbehind Abbyassheenteredthebuilding.
“No,Ihaven’tmadeittomydesktoday.”Abbyworkedpart-time athomeandcameintotheo cewhenhavingtomeetwithclientsand workshopcaseswithcoworkers.
“Ahright,wellIhavegreatnews!YouknowtheBrowncase?Wellit turnsoutitwasabigwinforthe rmandahugepayoutsocongrats!” TerriexcitedlybumpedshoulderswithAbby. “Wantsomeco ee?I’m
makingarunbutweshouldcelebratelater!”Terriboundedo before Abbycouldreact.
HowTerrihadtheenergyinthemorningwasamysterytoAbby. Thiswasgreatnewsthoughandasenseofaccomplishmentwashed overAbby.Allherhardworkhadbeenpayingo andshewassure Dylanwouldbehappyforheraswell.
MaybeIwon’ttellDylanaboutthis…
ThethoughtcrossedAbby’smindasshefeltguiltyfornotwanting tocelebratewithherpartnersincetheydidn’tevenhavethecourtesyto dothesame.
AbbywentthroughthedaywithreluctancetofaceDylanlaterbut madeithomeandfoundDylansittingonthecouchwatchingashow. DylanpausedtheshowuponAbbyentering.
“SorryIjustsprungthatinfoonyouthismorning,butIthought youmightbehappytoknowthatDevilInMeis nallybooking shows.”Dylanbeamed.
“Yeahthat’sgreattohearhon,butI’mnotthrilledthatyou’llbe goneforaweek.Whataboutouranniversary?”
“I’llbebackintimetocelebrate.”DylanreassuredAbby.
DylanpattedtheseatnexttothemonthecouchandAbby collapsedontothecushioninanexasperatedmanner.
“Noneedtopoutdear,I’llbebackintimeIpromise.”Dylan huggedAbbyandnuzzledtheirfaceintoherhair.
“Howwaswork?”
Abbywasquietforamoment.
“Fine,itwas ne.”
Abbyleftitatthatandcontinuedspendingherlastnightwith Dylanbeforetheywentontour.DylancouldsenseAbbywashiding somethingbutdidn’twanttopushherifshedidn’tfeelliketalking,it waspointlessanyway,Abbywasgreatatholdingback.
PartII-ProblemsWithPentacles
Abbysatatthebarswishingthewineinherdrinkbackandforthas shewaitedforTerritojoinher.Terriwalkedinbouncingasusualand spottedAbbysittingalone.
“Abigail,youlookalittledespondentgiventheoccasion,comeon cheerup!”Terriwavedthebartenderoverandorderedamargarita.
“I’mreallypleasedthatwewontheBrowncase,it’sjuststu at home.”Abbysighed.
“Soyourgirlfriendisgonefortheweek,livealittle.”Terrirolled hereyes.
“MypartnerTerri.Icanbealittlesadthattheyaregoneforthe week.”Abbytookasip.
“Ohrightmybad.”
“Weweredisagreeingalotbeforetheyleftandtheygetbackthe dayofouranniversary.It’sbeennineyearstogetherbutit’sbeen… roughlately.”AbbylookedatTerriandsawgenuineconcern.
“Idon’tknowwhattodo.Theytextedmeagaintodayaskingfor moremoneyforthistourbecausetheirvanbrokedowninbumfuck wherever.”Abbygroanedbeforecontinuing,“I’mjusttiredofalways havingtobethesoleproviderforeverything.Ineedapartnershipthat makesmefeellikeweareequallycontributingtosomethingyou know?”
“Ofcourse.Itshouldbelikethatandhonestlyitdoesn’tsoundlike youtwoareinloveanymore.”Terrireceivedherdrinkandtoastedwith Abby.
“Idon’tknow.Dylanhasstayedthesamethiswholetimeandit feelslikeI’mtheonewhohaschanged.”Abbylookedo intothe distanceatnothinginparticular.“Sorryforjustdumpingallofthison youTerri.”
“Ohyou’re ne,Ilovethiskindofstu .IfIwasafairygodmother andhadamagicwand,I’d xtheproblemforyoulike,poof!”Terri laughedjokinglyasAbbygaveasmirk.
“Iusedtobesillylikethat,I’msurethat’swhatDylanthinks.Now I’mnofun.”
“Whendolawyerseverhavefun?!”Terriburstoutintoahearty laugh,hercheeksstartingtogetalittlered.
“Ughyouareright,Ishouldjusthavefuntonight.It’sjustIdidn’t eventellDylanabouthowwellworkwentthisweek.Idon’twant themtoknowbecauseIjustdon’tfeellikeIcantrustthemwith knowingaboutmysuccessanymore.Whatiftheystarttouseme?”
“StopworryingsomuchAbigail.”Terriorderedanotherround.
“IguessIshouldjusttellDylanhowIfeel,butlaterafterIthink aboutitsomemore.”Abbyshookthestressfromhermindand continuedtohaveagoodnightwithTerri.
ThiscanwaituntilDylangetsbackIguess.
Afteraweek,Dylancamebackfromtourfeelingelatedaboutthe adventure,butknewcominghomethatAbbywouldprobablybeina sourmood.Dylanpreparedmentallyforthecomingconversation.For one,Abbywasbeingstingywithhermoneylatelywhereusuallyshe
hadbeensogenerous.NowitseemedlikeDylanhadtobegforanysort of nancialsupportfromAbby,whichmadeDylanfeeltrappedin theirrelationship.Nottomentionthedistancethatwasbeingput betweenthemontheirlifepaths.
Howdiditcometothis?
Dylanenteredthroughthefrontdoorwithalargebouquetof yellowroses.“Happyanniversarymonamour!” Abbystoodthereinabeautifulgreendress,alreadydolledupand readytogotodinner.
“We’regoingtobelateandwhatdidIsayaboutspeakingFrench.” Abbytappedherfootwhileherarmswerecrossedinaverypouty manner.
“Youaresoadorablewhenyouareannoyedthough.”Dylan grinnedthatcharmingsmileand
Abbysighedastheyleftoutthefrontdoor.
Therestaurantwasquaintandnothingtoofancy,DylanandAbby hadcomehereforacoupleanniversariesbefore.Bothlikedthefood, butmostlyenjoyedthewineoptions;theatmospherewasquietand warmlylit.Theysatattheirusualtableclosetothewindowand enjoyedthesilenceforaquickminutebeforebeinginterruptedbythe waiter.Afterordering,Abbybegantopickapartthebreadleftonthe tableasanappetizer.
“Somethingonyourmind?”,askedDylan.
“Howwasthetour?”
“Itwaslifechanging.I nallygotatasteofmydreamsanditfeels unreal,Ican’tthankyouenoughforyourhelpwiththevanandstu .” Dylanbeamed.
“I’mgladyouare nallygettingthesuccessyoudeserve,butit comesattheexpenseofmine.Ican’talwayspayforallofyourbills Dylan.”Abby’svoicestartedtoshakeabit.
“I-Iknow,butitwillpayo eventually!”
“WhenDylan?Ican’tkeepdoingthisafternineyearsof supportingyoucompletelywhenyouhaven’thelpedmeonce.I’ve doneeverythingmyself!”Abbycouldfeelhereyestearingupbut blinkedthetearsaway.
“Abby,Ididn’tknowyoufeltthisway.IunderstandIhaven'tbeen themostsupportive nanciallybutthereisn’tmuchIcandowhenyou su ocateme.Thistourhelpedmeseethat.”Dylanstruggledto continueandpausedasthewaiterreturnedwiththeirmeals.
“ImessedupwhileIwasgone.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”Abby’sheartsuddenlyfeltheavyandher appetitewasreplacedwithasinkinginherstomach.Sheknewbythe lookonDylan’sfacethatthiswasseriousbecauseDylanwasneverthis seriousever.
“Youknowourguitarist,Zoe?Weum,hookedupwhilewewere ontour.”
Thesilencebecamedeafeningasitsuddenlyfeltliketheywere worldsapart.TheentirerestaurantfadedawayforAbbyandonly Dylanandherremained.Dylan’swordsfeltincomprehensibleasthe heavinessinAbby’sheartbecameahollownessthatsheclutchedasifit werephysicallyenvelopingher.
Thiscan’tbereal.
PartIII- Upheaval&Crossroads
Abbyfeltthetearsshefoughtsohardtokeepatbayover owingin largeriversdownhercheeks.Dylanmadenoattemptatconsolingher becausetheyknewitwouldonlymakethingsworse.Thewheelof fortunenolongerfavoredDylanasthisnewsshatteredwhatremained oftheirrelationship.WhenAbby nallycomposedherselfshestaredat Dylanwiththelongestofstaresasifviewingthe nishlinefroma chariotrace.
“Saysomething,please”,Dylanmuttered. Silence.
“Sothat’sit?Isitover?”Dylanhungtheirheadinguilt.
Again,Dylanwasmetwithdeafeningsilence.
SuddenlyitseemedasifAbbywasshakenfromhertranceand nallylookedatDylan,butnotjustlooked,analyzedherpartnerasif seeingthemforthe rsttimeinyears.
“Ijustcan’tbelievethisishappening.Iknewweweren’thappy-”
“Exactly,Abby,weweren’thappy!”Thissuddenoutburstfrom DylansurprisedAbbyandshecouldfeeltheangerstartingtoreplace thesadness.
“Weusedtobehappy!Butyouneverchange,youarestillas immatureandchildishaswhenwe rstmet!”Abby’svoicewasraised andshaky,butshestillcontinued.“Youusedme!Nowyougoand cheatonme!YouaretheworstpersonI’veeverbeenwith!”
“Ohhowareyousoquicktopassjudgmentonme!Iwasbasically aprisonerwithhowyoulovedbeingincontrolofeverything.You don’tcareaboutmydreamsandwefelloutoflovealongtimeago.” Dylanwasgaspingatthispointafterunloadingalloftheirfeelings ontoAbby.
“Ifwedon’tmakeeachotherhappy,thenwhatisthepointin beingtogether?”
Abbyrealizedinthatmomenthowdi erenttheywere,aboutas di erentasthesunisfromthemoon.Theybothobscuredeachother’s lightandhidthingsfromoneanother.Dylanbegantobreakdown,it wastrueafterall,theylettheirsupposedchemistrycoverupthe deceptionandinsecuritythathadbeenfesteringunderneath.
“Abby,Idon’twanttoloseyoucompletely.”Dylanburstintotears asthey nishedthesentence.
ThistimeAbbywasthestoicempressandwatchedasDylanfell apartbeforeherveryeyeswithpityandindi erence.Thepairpaid theirchecksseparatelyandgotuptoleavetherestaurantthatwasnow stainedwithabittermemory.AbbydecidedtokickDylanoutthe followingdayandthepairwenttheirseparateways.
AbreezydayleftthesunlighttodanceacrosstheroomwhileAbby organizedherhomeo ce.Shefeltlighterandmoreatpeace,butstill felttwangsoflongingforthesmilethatusedtogreetherdays.Atext poppeduponherphoneasshewaswrappedupinhercleanse,itwas fromDylan.Abbysawthattheywantedtomeetandcatchupasithad beenthreemonthssincetheylastspoke.Reluctantat rst,Abbyfelt theneedforclosuresinceshewasn’tproudofhowsheleftDylanto fendforthemselvesandpartofherstillcared.Shequicklyresponded andwithinminutesDylanknockedonthedoor.
“Iwasinthearea.”Dylanexplained. “Yeah,IjustwantyoutoknowthatI’mdoingwellandIhopeyou aretoo.”Abbysaid.
“Soyouforgiveme?”Dylanasked.
“No,ofcoursenot,”Abbysco ed.“But,IthinkIstillwanttobe friends.Idocareaboutyouandyourdreams,Ialwayshave.”
“Iknow.Iloveyou,evenifwearen’tgoodforeachother.Iwill alwaysstillloveyou.”DylanembracedAbbyinawaythatfeltlikethe closureAbbyneeded.
“SohowareyouandZoe?”Abbyinquired.
“WearedoingreallygreatandwehaveanEPintheworks,sowe haveanothertourbooked.Whataboutyou?”
“Workisstressfulbutpayingthebills,it’sactuallypickedupquite abitsothemoneyis owing.I’malsoseeingatherapistand nally startingtofeelcomfortableonmyown.”Abbysmiledandgavea chuckle.“WhoknewthatthiswholetimeIjustneededtogettoknow myself.Youweremyworld,butmaybethat’swhereIwentwrong.I couldn’tbalanceitthewayIneededto,butnowIfeellikeIcanandI amsogratefulthatyoutaughtmethislesson.”
Dylanstartedtotearupandfeeloverwhelmedwithemotion,a bittersweetfeeling,movingonbutstillmissingthelovethatwasthere. Thelovewasreplacedwithanewlove,adeepadmirationforthe personAbbywasbecoming.Thefeelingwasalmostspirituallikea hierophantunlockingsacredmysteriestointerprettothemasses.
“I’msohappyforyou,ImeanitAbs.Iwantyoutobehappyand notforanyoneelsebutyourself.”
“ThanksDylan.Iwantthesameforyou.Ifeellike nallywecan moveonandbebetterpeople,butpartofmewishesitcouldhavebeen withyou.”AbbylookedintoDylan’seyesandsawtemperanceinthe re ection.Itwashardtonotwanttosay‘fuckit’andjustgetback together,butwheretheywerenowcouldneverbetakenforgranted.
“I’mjustgladwehadwhatwehad,evenifitwasn’tforever.”
AuthorCommentary&TarotSpread-StephiBlue
Originally,Blueusedthe Avantpop Tarot by Seth Singer. Thisisthe1strow.
Hellodearreader,
Iwanttostartoutwithahugethankyouforreadingmystory “TheLovers”andforsupportingtheSTTARprojectandallthe involvedwriters.Thiswasauniqueanddelightfulwritingexperience tobeapartofandI’mreallyhappytosharethiscreativeendeavorwith you!Forthoseinterestedintheprocess,hereisabitaboutthe characters,howIdevelopedthestoryusingTarot,andmyoverall vision.
Duringour rstmeetingwitheveryoneinvolvedinSTTAR,wegot togetheranddrewcardsbasedonamatrixofstorytellingfacilitatedby AprilUrsulaFox,whoguidedusthroughthewholeprocess.ThecardI pulledforthemaincharacterandunderlyingplothappenedtobeThe Lovers,whichcoincidentallyisthetitleofapoemIwrotebackin2018 withanaccompanyingwatercolorpainting.Thiscardisveryspecialto meandin uencedthetoneandtypeofstoryIwantedtoconvey,butI alsowantedittobeanunconventionallovestory–qualitiesofwhich cameoutwhenIpulledtherestofthecardsforthematrix.Thepoem andmystorybothechotheideaoftwopeopleboundbylovethat slowlyfadesintomutualrespectforeachother,withthepoembeinga directmetaphorforthesunandmoon,whichalsoappearedinmy tarotspreaddownthelineifyoucanbelieveit!ThesupportingcardsI usedforthiscolumnwerethePageofPentacles,FourofCups,andSixof Pentacles.ThesesupportingcardsarewhatgavemethebasisofAbby andDylan’srelationshipinthebeginningofPartI,withAbbyand Dylanbeingtogetherforalongtimeandbuildingalifetogether;one beingonthecreativesideandtheothermoreofscholar.
Settinguptheirpastandbackstorieswasalldependentonthe secondcolumnofcards,withthe rstcardbeingJustice.Now,Justiceis
amajorarcanathatIreallywantedtobehighlightedinthestoryandso Abby’sdedicationtoherjobasalawyeriswhatIchosetore ectthis. TheEmperorandSevenofPentaclesweresupportingcardsIusedto givereasonsastowhyAbbywasalawyer,withTheEmperorrelatingto herfatherandgrowingupinanunstablehouseholdandthepentacles relatingtoAbby’sinvestmentinDylan’sdream.ThePageofSwords alsoplayedapartincreatingthepettysquabblesover nancesand developingDylan’spersonaofbeinglaidbackandnonchalant.Justice alsorelatestothebalanceofworklifeandrelationshipsandhowthey cana ecteachother,whichIre ectedinAbbyandDylan’sdynamic throughouttheirhistory.
Forthepresentcolumn,thekeycardwastheKnightofSwords whichiswhatIinterpretedastheirrelationshipatthecoreofthestory. IusedthiscardtodeterminehowAbbyandDylanhadayounglove thatevolvedastheydevelopedtheircareersandinterests.Rushing headlongintoloveearlybutultimatelygrowingapartastimegoesonis whatIwastryingtocapturethroughtheKnightofSwords.Abby developingherselfwasrepresentedthroughStrengthandDylan remainingcarefreeandhappywithhowlifeisdespitetheirpartner’s concernswasrepresentedbyTheSun.Ialsousedthesupportingcards AceofPentaclesforAbby’ssuccessonacaseasalawyerandTheDevil asinspirationforDylan’sbandaswellashowitiscreatingariftintheir relationship.TheThreeofSwordsiswherethecracksstarttoformand buildtheexpositionuptotheclimaxofthestoryattheendofPartII.
TheFourofSwordsisthenextcardIpulledforthehidden in uencescolumn,whichIattributedtothetirednatureAbbyfeelsfor therelationshipincomparisontoDylan’senergeticenthusiasm.The supportingcardsincludedtheEightofPentacles,whichIusedinthe storytore ecthowAbbywantstohidehersuccessatworkfrom DylanwhichoccursdirectlyaftershehastheconversationwithTerri
whoisinspiredbytheQueenofCups.ThisleadstoDylanandAbby’s relationshipbecomingmoreestrangedastheyspendlesstimetogether whichisfromtheNineofWands.IalsousedtheFourofPentaclesto representhowAbbyhasbecomeprotectiveofher nanceswhileDylan isconcernedoverAbby’scontrolofthem,leadingtoafeelingofbeing trappedinanimbalancedrelationship.Neitheronewantstoyieldtheir passionsfortheotherwhichisrepresentedbySevenofWands.Allof thisbuildsuptothenextcolumnandconfrontsthemainissueand problemofthestory.
Abby’s nancialcontroloverDylanleadstothem ghtingoverthe powerimbalanceintherelationshipandisin uencedbytheTenof Pentacles.Thatcardbeinginthemainspreadreallyrepresentsnotits conventionalinheritancebutmoreofametaphoricalcarryingofthe weightintheunderlyingissuesthatbuildsovertime.Forthiscolumn ofthematrixIdrewabunchofswordcards,whichreallyworkedout forcreatingtensionandanxietyatthepeakofthestory.Toquickly summarize,theSixofSwordswasusedtoshowhowAbbywantsto holdonwhileDylanwantstobesetfree.TheNineofSwords representedhowtheywerebothstressedovertheirrelationshipasit reachedabreakingpointwiththeTenofSwordsbeingthepointat whichDylanconfessestocheatingonAbby.Ichosethispointasa climaticcli hangerontheiranniversaryasacouplebecauseofthe ThreeofCups,whichhastodowithcelebrationandIfeltlikethatlittle detailwouldaddalotofemotionalweighttothecontext.
Thenextcolumnwasthein uenceofothersorthedirectand visiblein uence,law,orrule.TheFiveofSwordswasthecardthat representedthemainspreadwhichtiesintothelackofcommunication anddeceptionbetweenthecoupleleadstoaboldtruth–theyareno longerhappytogether.SupportingcardsincludedtheWheelof FortuneinwhichDylanembodiedthispath;thedestinyofchange,
karmafortheiractions,upheavalofthisrelationshipwithwhothey thoughtwastheirsoulmate.WheretheHighPriestessrepresentedthe unattainabilityoftheirloveandAbbyembodiedthepathofThe Chariot,conqueringthefearoflettingDylangooverherambitionand dedicationtohercareer.Thisledintothecourseofactioncolumn reallywellwhichincludedalotofmajorarcanacardstoreally characterizethestoryinauniqueway.
Howthestoryunfolded,path,andmaptothesolutionwas representedbyTheMooncardexpressedbythedeceptionand insecuritythatwashidingbehindthefacadeoftheirrelationship.Ialso hadthesupportingcardofJudgmenttouseforhowtheyheldonto pastmistakesandjudgedeachother'slifechoices,whichledtoan awakeningineachofthem.Theirfalloutleadstothemdoingwhat’s bestforeachotherandcommittingtotheirownhappinessthroughthe manifestationqualitiesofTheMagiciancard.ThelastcardIusedfor thiscolumnwastheTwoofWands,whichiswhyIdecidedtheywould gotheirownways.Endingthingsamicablyafterrealizingtheyweren’t goodforeachother,butstillwantingtoremainclosefriends.Areally greatcardtokindofsetthetonefortheendingresolutionasIwanted thisstorytobebittersweet.
Theoutcomeofthestorywasin uencedinthemainspreadasthe FiveofCupswhereIhadAbbyandDylanbreakupandthewholestory crescendostothemrealizingthattheyarebettero withouteachother despitetheirstrongfeelings.IntheendAbbyembodiesTheEmpress cardassherealizeshermistakesandseekstorectifythembyrespecting Dylanasanindividual.DylaninturnisrepresentedbyTheHierophant bymovingonandcommittingtoanewrelationshipwheretheyare secureandinlove.Ialsousedthesupportingcard,TwoofSwords,to representthecrossroadsoftwoloversthatleadstoamutual understandingwhilestillhavingresiduallovefromwhatoncewasa
complicatedentanglement.Thelastand nalcard,theoneIthinkthat trulycompletesthestoryisTemperance.ItdirectlytiesintoTheLovers soperfectlyandre ectshowtheirrelationshipbecomesharmonious andtranquilafterbalancingthattheyarebettero withouteachother butstillremainirrevocablyconnectedbylove.
“TheLovers”wasintendedtoberelatableandalsoinclusive,which iswhyDylanisanon-binarycharacterwhousesthey/thempronouns, toaddlayersofambiguityandleavemoretoimaginationthatthe readercaninferforthemselves.Anotherthingwasboldingallthetarot termsthroughoutthestory,myideabehindthatwastoemphasize withinthestorywhereimportantarcana,cards,orsuitswereintegralto thedevelopment.Ialsodidnotexpectthisstorytoa ectmesomuch emotionally,butwhileIwasintheprocessofwritingIdidbecome overwhelmedattimeswiththeintensityofthecharactersandtriedto drawonpersonalorrealisticdialoguetoconveythoseemotions–whichIhopeisapparentasyoureadthestory!
Melissa Gill
JudgmentDay
“Invisiblethingsaretheonlyrealities.”
EdgarAllanPoe
Twistingovergrownvinesclimbtheexternalwallsofadecrepit courthouse.Arain-soakedaromaticklesmynosewhenIstepinside. Myheelsclackagainstterrazzo oorsasIwalkdownthehallofthelaw buildingsituatedonamountain.Thegrittytownwithapopulationof about500peopledisappearsintoclouds,encircledbyadenseforest. Understeelyskies,MountMistwoodisfarfromitsneighboringcity, Seattle.Theroadslackpaving.Mostofthefarmhousesare family-owned.Thisruraltowniseerilyquietandantiquated,likea deadgrandfatherclock.
EverytimeIenteracourtroom,Ifeelmyfather’spresence.The judge’sbench,witnessstand,jurybox,andattorneytablesare weathering. I'msportingmyfreshlypressedDolce&Gabbanasuit alongwithmylatefather'svintageleatherbriefcase.Inprovincial townslikethisone,myreputation,charm,andgoodlookswon’tdo meanyfavors.Otherlawyersattheo cerefusedtotakethislawsuit becauseithasaslimchanceofsuccess.Tome,there’snothingmore satisfyingthanprovingpeoplewrong.Theonlyexceptionmaybea glassofmerlotonaSundayevening.
Afewwitnesses,spectators,andThomasThatcher'ssurviving relativesarepresentatthehearing.Thetownsfolkaredispersed throughoutthebenches,gossipingandmurmuring.It’snot
uncommonforcuriousmindstogatherinacourthouseforano-body homicidetrial.Infact,86percentofno-bodymurdercasesthatgoto trialresultinconvictions,eventhoughmurderchargeswithouta corpseareunusual.Mymoon-shapedeyeslandonapolished middle-agedmanwithsilverhairwearingaroyalbluetie.Sitting behindme,hesmileswarmly,buthislifelessambereyespiercethrough minelikeanarrow.Myhearthiccups.Theupwardpressuremarkings aroundhisneckrevealapaleyellowinggroove,ahuesimilarto timewornparchmentpaper.Signsofstrangulation.WhenIblink,he disappears.
Ontheoppositesideofthecourtroomisthedefendant,Bethany Thatcher,who’salsoThomasThatcher’sseparatedspouseandthe motheroftheirchild,Elliot.Their10-year-oldsonissittingwitha familyfriendafewrowsbehindher.WhenImeethereyes,sheraises therightcornerofherlips, ashingacavalierlook.Something unsettlingcreepsbehindher shyglare,givingmegoose esh.
Baili BobbyHalverson,astoutmustachedmanwithadoublechin, callsthecourttoorder,“Allrise!”
Everyonestands.Twelvejurors leintothecourtroom.District attorneyWrenJones’upturnednoseandsnootyfacemademyeyes twitch.HisbaggytweedsuitisreminiscentofanoversizedSherlock Holmescostume.Allheneedsisadeerstalkercapandapipeto completehiscartoonishgetup.
“TheSuperiorCourtoftheStateofWashingtonfortheCountyof MountMistwoodisnowinsession,thehonorableJe reyJohnson, judgepresiding.Pleasebeseated,”saysBaili Halverson.
Aftereveryoneisseated,Iclearmythroat.Mylipspressagainstthe star-shapedtiger’seyependanthangingaroundmyneck,agiftfrom myfather.Theghostinthecourtroomwhostolemyattentionearlier entersmybody,shapingmeintothespirit’smouthpiece.Myowlish
hazeleyes ickerintoaglowingamber.AsIapproachthejury,my consciousnessslipsintoahazyspacesomewherebetweendreamingand waking.Ibecomeapuppetbeforethecourt.
“YourHonor,membersofthejury,mynameisFrancescaStein, representingtheprosecutioninthiscase.”Iinchclosertowardthe jurors.
“Thesearethefacts.OntheeveningofSeptember22,o cersfound ThomasThatcher’sbloodonthecouple’sbedroomwall.Itwasonthe samenighthewentmissing.Bethany's ngerprintswerefoundonthe triggeroftherevolverdischargedthatnight.Theirnext-doorneighbor, MildredLouis,phonedthepoliceatthesametimethisincidenttook placewhensheheardagunshotandascream.Althoughthebodyhas yettobefound,wedoknowthatThomasThatcher’swife,Bethany, hadana airwithheroldhighschoolsweetheart,SimonBlackstone. AfterThomasdiscoveredshewasunfaithful,heexpressedthathe wantedfullcustodyoftheirsonandtomovetoLasVegas,Nevada,to liveclosertohisparents.Sheassuredhimthatshehadcutalltieswith Mr.Blackstone,butMr.Thatcherwasdevastated.Heworkedwitha familylawattorneyandservedthedefendantdivorcepapers.Whenthe policesearchedtheirhome,theydiscoveredthedocumentsinpieceson theirbedroom oor.
“Thethreewitnesses:theirlongtimeneighborMildredLouis, forensicspecialistElanYakama,licensedtherapist,MaggieMiller,and thedefendantherself,BethanyThatcher.MissLouiswilltellyoushe heardagunshotandascreamcomingfromThatcher'shomethat night.Mr.Yakamawillsharethe ndingsoftheDNAevidence.Miss Millerwillexplainthedefendant’smentalstate,andMrs.Thatcherwill shareheraccount,whichbegsmorequestionsthanito ersanswers.
“Basedontheevidencepresentedtoyou,attheendofthetrial, rememberthis:Mostpeoplewithmentalillnessesarenotlikelytobe anymoredangerousorviolentthananyoneelse.Shedidnotmurder
himbecauseofhermentalstate.Shemurderedhimbecauseshedidn’t wanttolosecustodyofherson.Amother’sloveisn’talwayslogical.”
WhenIreturntomyseat,freshbloodrushestomycheeks,mypalms sweatprofusely,andmyheartbeatripplesthroughmychest.Agentle voiceinsidemyhead,adeepandcalmingecho,asksmetotrusthim.So Ido.
DistrictattorneyWrenJonessco s.Hestandsupfromthetable, pullsachairuptothejuryandsitsbackwardsonitlikeahighschool rebel.Thisisn’tanewtactic.Hewantstoappearpersonableand relatable,buthelooksfoolish.Heleansforwardonthebackrest, lookingatthejurywithaglimmerofmischiefinhisblueeyes.
“YourHonor,membersofthejury,mynameisWrenJones, representingthedefendantBethanyThatcherinthiscase.Weallknow Bethanyinthistown.She’snotperfect,butshe’sredeemedherselfover theyears,provingthatherdomesticabusereportsweremerelyacryfor help.MissSteinconvenientlydidn’tmentionmyclientwasseverely addictedtoalcoholearlyintheirmarriageandwouldblackout frequently.Discoveringheractionswhileintoxicatedmorti edher. Beforetheirsonwasborn,sheapologizedtohimand nishedthe 12-stepprogram.She’sbeencleannowfor veyears.Shealso experiencesschizophrenia,butshe’stakingmedicationandvisitsa therapistregularly.Althoughshefacesmentalhealthstruggles,don't weallgrapplewiththemtosomedegree?Herdarkpastandmental healthconditiondon’tmakeheramonster;theymakeherhuman.”
Irritated,Ilightlydrummy ngersagainstthetableandlisten carefullytoWren,studyinghiseverymovelikewewereplayingagame ofchess.Ihaven’tlostacaseyet.Thesilver-hairedapparitionpossessing mehasseenthisopeningenoughtimestoknowhowthiswillend. Insidemyhead,hewhispers,‘Amateur.’
“I’msurethebloodfoundintheirhomesoundsratherconvincing,” hekeepshisvoicesoftandsteady.“Nottomentionthegunhasher ngerprintsonit.Allofthisseemsverydamning,doesn’tit?WhatifI toldyouIcouldexplaintheseincidencesanddemonstratehowitis merelycircumstantialevidence?Idon’tknowaboutMissStein but meandtheU.S.legalsystem don’trecognizecircumstantialevidence asenoughprooftoconvictsomeone.Idon’tthinkweshouldcontinue withoutaddressingtheelephantinthisroom.ThebodyofMr. Thatcherismissing.Hecouldbealiveandwellsomewhereatthisvery moment,couldhenot?”
Ibitemylip.Thisisthecruxofmyargument.Wrenisnotarookie, byanymeans.Icantellbythewayheownstheroom.Despitehis clumsyattire,longcrookednoseandcaterpillarbrows,he’sclearlya smoothtalker,andheknowshisaudience.Thevoiceinsidemyhead says,‘Havefaithinme.’
Jurorelevennods,agreeingwiththestatement.Adropletofsweat slidesdownmyspine.IpeekoveratMrs.Thatcher'sson,Elliot.The youngkidfeelsmygaze,meetingmypensivestare.Hepolitelyforcesa smile.Hisheavy,droopyeyessaysomethingdi erent.Oftentimes, whenouramygdalaprocessesstressoranxiety,itbecomesoveractive. Thismayleadtoaheightenedemotionalresponse,causinghimto perceivethiswatchfulfeelingasathreat.Theghostwithintakesstock ofit.Healwaysnoticesdetailsthatwouldhavelikelygoneovermy headhadIbeenonmyown.
Wrencontinues.“Theirneighbor,MildredLouis,willtellyoushe heardagunshot,butsheneverwitnessedanyonetakingabullet.The forensicspecialist,ElanYakama,willexplaintheDNAtestresults,but hecannotspeakabouthercharacter.Thelicensedtherapist,Maggie Miller,willsharetheresultsofMrs.Thatcher’smentalevaluation, provingthatshewasn’tinsanewhentheincidentoccurred.Andlast, butcertainlynotleast,myclientBethanyThatcherwilltellyouwhat reallyhappenedbecauseshe’stheonlyoneinthisroomwhowasthere.
“Let’ssayMrs.BethanyThatcherisgivenaguiltyverdict.How awfulwouldyoufeelifMr.Thatcherwasdiscoveredtobealive?You wouldhavetoacceptthefactthatyouputaninnocent,frightened motherbehindbars,separatingherfromherbelovedson.”
Thedefenseattorneyreturnstohistable,setshischairdownfacing thejudge,andtakeshisseat.Mrs.Thatcherpatshimontheback.My browsfurrowasmymouthtwistsintoasnarlingfrown.Mr.Jones winksatme.Vomitticklesthebackofmythroat.Thejuryseems investednow,asalloftheirattentionisonme.
“Formy rstwitness,yourhonor,IcallMissMildredLouistothe stand,”Isay.
JudgeJohnsonnods.Hisfaceisimpassive,buthewatchesoverthe courtroomlikeahawk.WhenIlookathim,Ifeelapaininmychest likesomethinginsideofmeison re.He’sassti asamarblestatueyet anagonizingpainplagueshim.Thespectralthat’stakenmeover informsmethatthejudgehasawfulheartburn.Isighwithrelief, havingthoughthewasgoingtohaveaheartattack.“Willthewitness pleasestandtobesworninbythebaili ?”
Inthebackoftheroom,aslightelderlywomandonninga oral dresswithacanehobblestowardthefrontofthecourtroom.The roomfallssilent.Herthinwhitehairispulledbackintoaneatbeehive hairdo.Ifoldmyarmsacrossmychest.
MissLouistakesanoathbeforesittingatthestandbesidethejudge. Shelooksatme,smilingnervously.She dgetswithashinybraceleton herwrist.Iglimpseatthejury.Jurornumberseven,aschoolteacher, hasherheaddownwhiletakingnotes.Iwonderwhatsheiswriting. Theghostinsidemyheadsaysshe’sdoodlingapictureofhertabbycat. Theotherjurorsleanforwardattentively.
“MissLouis,doyouliveacrossthestreetfromtheThatchers’ residence?”Iask.
“Yes,ma’am,”shesays.MissLouisgawksatMrs.Thatcher,who narrowshereyesandwrinkleshernose.
“CanyoupleasewalkmethroughwhathappenedonTuesday, September22nd,1998,around8:30p.m.?”
“Yes,ma’am.Istayedhomeallday,sittinginmyrockingchairwhile knittingaChristmassweaterformygrandson,Joseph.Mhmm.I listenedtomyJohnnyCashalbum,”shesays.“As‘FolsomPrisonBlues’ played,Ishudderedatthesoundofagunshot.Myhandsshook.I droppedmyneedleandyarn.Irushedovertomylandlineanddialed theauthorities.Somethingtoldme,maybeitwasthegoodLord himself,thatsomethingfoulwashappening.Theholycrossonmywall felltotheground.”
“Let’splaytherecordingofherphonecall,”Isay.Islipacassette intoatapeplayer.Iputamicrophonebesideitsoeveryonecanhearit.
“911,whatisyouremergency?”agentlemanwithahoarse voicesaid.
“Iheardagunshotcomingfrommyneighbor’shouseanda bloodcurdlingscream.It’stheonlyresidencenearme.I’mvery concerned.Someonemightbeterriblyhurt,”saidMissLouis. Hervoicetrembled,andshewaspanting,asifshewasonthe vergeofapanicattack.
“Whatisyourlocation,Ma’am?”theoperatorasked.
“I’mon66NorthwoodLaneinMountMistwood.My neighbor,BethanyThatcher,livesat65NorthwoodLane. Mhmm.IsawherhusbandearliertodaywhenIcheckedmy mailbox.Hesmiledandwavedatme.Ireturnedthe
sentiment,”saidMissLouis.“WhenIpeekedoutthefront windowafterthegunshot,Isawhistruckwasstillinher driveway.”
“O cersareontheway.Doyouhearanymoregunshots?” askedtheoperator.
“No,sir.Thisareahasbecomesuspiciouslyquiet.Mhmm.Not eventhewolvesarehowling.”
“Areyouhurt?”
“No,butI’mscared.”
Threeloudknocksrattledherfrontdoor.“Police!”
“They’rehere.Thankyou,sir,”saidMissLouis. Shehungupthephone.
Istanduptoaddressmywitness.“MissLouis,whenarehunters legallyallowedtohuntinthisarea?”
“Fromonehalf-hourbeforesunrisetoonehalf-houraftersunset.”
“Didyouhearthisgunshotafterpermittedhours?”
“Yes,ma’am.”
“Doyouoftenheargunshotsafterlawfulhuntinghours?”
“No,ma’am.”
“Isee,”Isay,glancingatthejurytogaugetheirreactions.Thejurors' headsbouncebackandforthbetweenmeandMissLouislikeatennis ball.
“MissLouis,Ihaveonelastquestion.Typically,awomananda man ’sscreamdon’tsoundthesamebecauseawoman'sscreamusually hasahigherpitch.Whenyouheardthescream,diditsoundlikea woman ’ soraman ’sscream?”
“Objection!Speculation,”shoutsWren.Heslamshis stonthe table.
“Sustained!”saysthejudge.
Isquintatthejudge.“That’sallIhavefornow,yourhonor.”
Wrendustso hisshouldersplayfully,chucklessoftly,andraisesan eyebrowatme.Ipursemylips,shakingmyhead.Heapproachesthe witnesswithaboyishsmirk,asifhealreadyhasthiscaseinthebag.I suppresstheurgetoslapthatsmugexpressiono hisface.Nomatter whathesaysordoes,Ihavesomethinghedoesn’t.Aspeakerofthe dead.
“MissLouis,youlooklovelytoday,”heglancesatherears.“Tellme, doyouwearhearingaids?”
AsWrenasksheraboutherhearingaids,itisastabtotheheart.I couldnotbelievethatdetailslippedthroughmyhands.Myears ush red.Thevoiceinsidemyheadhumsasongfrommychildhoodto sootheme.
Sheblushes.“Yes,sir.”
“Wereyouwearingthemwhenyouheardthegunshot?”
“Yes,sir.”
“Didyouhaveanyotherelectronicsplayinginthebackgroundwhile youwereknitting?”
“Yes,sir.Mytelevisionwason,butIsetthevolumeverylowbecause IpreferlisteningtomusicwhenI’msewing.Mhmm.”
“Ofcourse.Whatdoyouusuallywatchonyourtelevision?”
“OldWesterns.Mhmm.MostlyJohnWaynemovies.”
Myheadspins.HowdidImisscrucialdetailsafterporingfor monthsoverthe les?Hisquestionwasaseconddaggertotheheart. Thedeepvoiceinsidemesaystotrusthim.Ihavenootherchoicebut tocomply.
“CouldthegunshotsyouheardhavecomefromyourWestern shows?”
“No,sir.IknowwhatIheard.”
“Didyouactuallyseeanyonegetshot?”
“No,sir.”
Thiscouldnotbeanyworse.WhoIbelievedtobeasolidwitness wasentirelycircumstantial.Itwashardlyasimpactfulasplanned.Now myhearttakesathirdblade,gougingmycolossalego.HowwouldI recoverfromthismess?Ihadtoletgoandtrustthespirit.Isurrender.
“Nofurtherquestions,yourhonor.”Wrenreturnstohisseat. Bethanyrubshiskneeunderthetable.Igag.
BeforeIcallmynextwitness,Ireachintomypockettounfolda crumpledpieceofpaperunderthetable.MissLouisstepsdownfrom thestand.Ittakesherafewminutestosettlebackintoherseat.Ihad noideahowitgotintomyhands.Thenotewrittenincrayonreads, “Mymomisaliar.”
“Formysecondwitness,yourhonor,IcallElanYakamatothe stand,”Isay.
“Willthewitnesspleasestandtobesworninbythebaili ?”saysthe judge.
Yakamaiswearinganavybluesuitwithawhitetieandpolished dressshoes.Therearetribalsymbolsinkedonhisface.Hispresenceis intense,butheappearsascalmasastillpond.Hiseyesscantheroom inacalculatingmanner,con dentlyclaspinghishandsinfrontofhim.
Hetakestheoathbeforesettlingintothesti woodenchairnextto thejudge.Whenheisready,hegivesmealittlenod.Waitingformy inquiry,heleansforward.
“Mr.Yakama,howlonghaveyoubeenaforensicspecialist?”Iask.
“Overtwentyyears,”hesays.Hisfaceisblank.
Iwavetheevidenceinfrontofhimandthejury,anantiquegun,a diaryandavoodoodollidenticaltoThomasThatcherwithawound thatresemblesabulletholeintheglabella,thespotbetweenhiseyes. Thejury’seyeswidened.Jurornumberthree,agrocerystorestocker, gasps.
“ThreepiecesofevidencefoundinMrs.Thatcher’shomethatnight werea rearm,adiary,andamakeshiftdollthatresemblesMr. Thatcher.Whenyouexaminedtheevidence,whatdidyoudiscover?”
“Thebloodonthedoll’sforeheadandsplatteredonthewallinMrs. andMr.Thatcher’sbedroomwallmatchedMr.Thatcherinthe CombinedDNAIndexSystem.”
“Canyoupleaseshareyourexpertopinionofwhattheblood placementcouldmean?”
“It’sunlikelythathewouldhaveputhisownbloodonthevoodoo doll,butit’snotimpossible.”
“Whenyouexaminedthegun,didyou ndMrs.Thatcher’s ngerprintsonit?”
“Yes,ma’am.”
“IfMr.Thatcherwasshotbetweentheeyes,isthereanywayhe couldhavesurvivedit?”
“It’shighlyimprobable.About90percentofgunshotwoundsto theheadarefatal.”
“WhenyoutestedMrs.Thatcher’sdiary,wasitherhandwriting?”
“Yes,ma’am.Theconnectingstrokestotheletters,slant,word formationsandbaselinearrangementsallmatchedherhandwriting.In thejournal,shefantasizesaboutmurdering‘thedevil’withherantique gun.Accordingtothegraphologist,shewrotetheletter“I”much largerthantheothercapitals,whichcanmeanapersonisarrogant. However,handwritinganalysisisoftenconsideredapseudoscience.”
“Lastquestion:Whenyouexaminedtheevidence,wasthegunshot redusingarightoralefthand?”
“Lookingatthebloodplacementonthewall,thebullet’spathway appearedtotravelrighttoleft,meaningthepersonwhopulledthe triggerwaslikelyrighthanded.”
“That’sinteresting,especiallysinceMr.Thatcherwasleft-handed.If heallegedlyshothimself,itwouldbestrangeforhimtonotusehis dominanthand.”Ipacebackandforthinfrontofthejury. “Interesting.”
“That’sallthequestionsIhavefornow,yourhonor.”
WhenIreturntomyseat,Ifoldmyhandsandrestthemonmylap. Wrenshakeshisheadwhilestaringathisshinedshoesbeforerisingto
hisfeet.Areassuringwhisperreverberatesinsidemyhead,‘We’reon therighttrack.’
“Mr.Yakama,accordingtoyourreport,Mrs.Thatcher’s ngerprints wereonthetrigger,correct?”asksWren.
“Yes,sir,”saysMr.Yakama.Hewipesabeadofsweatfromhisbrow.
“Thegunbelongstoher,soofcourseitwouldhaveher ngerprints onit.Youalsosaidtheforensictestshowedthatthebloodonthe voodoodollandonthewallbelongedtoMr.Thatcher.Howoldwas theblood?”
“TheevidencesuggeststhatMrs.Thatchershotthegunwithher righthandandthebullethitMr.Thatcherinthehead.Hisheight matcheswherethebloodstainwasfound,accordingtothe measurements.WedidaBenzidinecolor-crystaltestonthebloodon boththeitemandthescene.Thistestcandetectbloodstainsuptoa yearold.Hisbloodonthewallwasonlythreehoursold.Thebloodon thedollwasaboutsixmonthsold.”
“NoneofusweretherethatnightexceptMrs.ThatcherandMr. Thatcher.Whywouldshelieaboutallofthis?Whatdoesshehaveto gain?”
“Objection!”Iyell.“Leadingthewitness!”
“Sustained,”thejudgeannounces.Hebangsthegavel.
“Nofurtherquestions,yourhonor.”
“Formynextwitness,IcallMaggieMillertothestand,”Isay.
Maggietakesadeepbreathbeforeheadingtothestand.She’sa petitewomaninhermid-thirtieswearingapinstripepencilskirtanda whiteblouse.Hercateyespectaclesthataretoobigforherfaceslide
downherbuttonnose.Shestraightensherpostureasshetakesthe oath.Astrandofredhairfallsinherolivegreeneyes.Shetucksit behindherear.
“MissMiller,whenyouconductedaseriesoftestsandinterviews withMrs.Thatcher,whatwereyour ndings?”Iask.
“Mrs.Thatcherwasdiagnosedwithschizophreniaat16-years-old. Herearliestdocumentedpsychoticepisodewasinhighschool,when shescreamedinthemiddleofher nalsexambecauseshehallucinated thathergeometryteacherwasademon.Shemanagedhermedications verywelluntilherearlyyearsofhermarriagewithMr.Thatcher.Her addictiontoalcoholconsumedher,butshewasabletoovercomeit andhasbeensoberfor veyears.Althoughshehasmentalhealth struggles,sheprovedtobecompetentinthetests.Herdiagnosisof schizophreniaandalcoholismdidnothinderherjudgmentonthat day.”
I oattothewitnessstand,growingclosertoMissMillertogeta readonherexpressions.Hershoulderslooktense.Shekeepsadjusting hermessyhairbunaswispsofredhairoccasionallyfallintoherface.
“Soit’sclearthatMrs.Thatcherhasacleanrecordsinceherpast domesticabusereports,butwhataboutthenightherhusband ‘allegedly’wentmissing?Thepolicereportsdescribeherbehavioras ‘erratic’and‘scatter-brained.’Whatwouldcausehertoreactthisway?”
“Shewasunderahighvolumeofstresswhentheo cersarrived,so it’snotuncommonforhertoactnervous.Butthere’sonethingI foundconcerninginMrs.Thatcher’sreports.Itsaidinthedocuments thatshedidnotseemveryupsetthathewasgone.Buttheyalsowerein themiddleofaseparationandheservedherdivorcepapers.Giventhe statusoftheircomplicatedrelationship,shesaidshewasangrywith him,especiallywhenhesaidhewantedfullcustodyoftheirsonandto
movewithhimoutofstate.Thatisalotofcon ictingemotionsto process. ”
“Ofcourse.Whenyousaidthatthereportdescribedherthoughtsas ‘disorganized,’canyouo erusanexample?”
“Certainly.Mrs.Thatcherwas xatedon ndingapieceofevidence duringtheinterrogation.SheclaimedthatMr.Thatcherhadbought twoplaneticketstoLasVegasandplannedontakingtheirsonona brieftriptoseehisgrandparents.Hisdesignatedweekendtospend timewiththeirson,Elliot,wascomingupandshefearedthatifthey wentonthetripthatshewouldneverseeherchildagain.Thecourt approvedthistripbeforehand,butsheneverfoundthephysicalreceipt forhistickets.Shedidn’tseemworriedabouthisdisappearanceand keptdodgingspeci cquestionsaboutit.Shebrushedito ,sayingshe justwantedtoknowforherson’ssake.Shewantedtoprovetohim thathisfatherwasgoingtostealhim.”
“Mrs.Thatcherhasarecordofdomesticabuse.Ifaspouseis chargedwithdomesticabuse,howlikelyaretheytorepeatthis behavior?”Iask.
“Unfortunately,re-o endingisnotuncommon;however,therehave beennoreportsofanydomesticabusebetweenthemfor veyears.”
“Inthepastdomesticreports,isittruethatBethanyaccused Thomasofbeingthedevilduringherhallucinations?”
“Yes,ma’am.”
“Isitpossiblethatshehasn’tbeentakinghermedicineasprescribed aftertheseparation?”
“Objection!Leadingthewitness!”shoutsWren.
ThejudgelooksatmeandthenlooksatWren.Herestshischinon his st.Wren’shandcovershisforehead.
“Overruled,”thejudgecommands.“Goon,answerherquestion.”
“It’spossible,butshepassedallhercognitiveevaluations.She’s regularlyvisitingalicensedpsychiatrist,andshegetsherprescriptions lled.Mrs.Thatcherisdoingeverythingherpsychiatristhasaskedher todo.”
ThespiritinhabitingmybodyturnsmyheadtowardMrs. Thatcher’sson,Elliot.The10-year-oldkidshakeshishead,disagreeing withthestatementthathismotheristakinghermeds.Bethanyglaresat him.ThejudgeraisesaneyebrowatBethany,whosegrimaceshiftsinto apoutymouth.
“Althoughallofthisappearstrueonpaper,shecouldalsobea talentedactress.Hersonisshakinghishead,disagreeingwithyour statement.Seemssuspicious.”
“Objection!Speculation,youhonor,”yellsWren.Hegetsonhis feet,hisfaceburningred,whilehethrowshis stintheair.
“Sustained!”declaresthejudge.
“Nofurtherquestions,yourhonor.”
Usingmyperipheralvision,IkeepaneyeonElliot.Hemouths, “Thankyou.”Inodgraciously.Achillrollsacrossmyshoulders.I shakeito .
WrenapproachesMissMillerwithatoothysmile.Hegivesthecourt aslowclaptotauntme.
“WeshouldgiveMissSteinaroundofapplauseforthat performance.Whatanacttofollow!”
Afewofthejurorslaughinhushedtonesalongwiththetownies present.Theonlywomanjurorpursesherlipsindisgust.Clearly,I’m theonlyoneintheroomrepulsedbyWren’selementaryantics.
“Proceedwiththecrossexamination,Mr.Jones,”saysthejudgewith hisheadheldhigh.
“Yes,sir,”saysWren.Hereadjustshistiebeforesteppingtowardthe witnessstand.
“MissMiller,youclaimthatMrs.Thatcherpassedallthe competencytests,meaningshewasnotinsanewhentheincident occurred.Coulditbepossiblethatthediaryandvoodoodollwere copingmechanismsforherashermarriagewascollapsing?”
“Yes,peopledoallkindsofritualstocopewithstress.Somerituals, suchasprayingandmeditating,aremorenormalizedbysociety.The diaryandvoodoodolldon’tprovethatshewasinsane.”
“Isee,”saysWren.Hecomicallyrubshischinasthoughithelpshim think.Icovermymouthtohidesecond-handembarrassment.
“Ithinkitwouldbehelpfulifthejuryunderstoodhowyoutested Mrs.Thatcherandhowitprovedshewasnotexperiencinginsanity. Canyoupleasegivethecourtanexampleofatestyouconductedon Mrs.Thatcherandhowyouinterpretedherresults?”
“Certainly,”shesays.Astrandofredhairfallsinherfaceagain.She blowsherhairawayfromhereyes.“OnetestweranwastheIrresistible ImpulseTest,whichexamineswhetherthedefendantcouldcontrolher actions,althoughthedefendantknewitwaswrong.Theevidence showedthegun red,hisbloodwaspresentatthescene,anda neighborheardagunshotcomingfromtheirhome.Thedefendant claimsthatwhensheshotthegun,itgrazedthesideofMr.Thatcher’s head,butitdidn’tkillhim.Then,hetooko ,andshehasn’theard fromorseenhimsincethatnight.Shesoundedveryrationalaboutit.”
“Accordingtoasurvey,about20percentoffatherswithminor childrenareabsent.Howoftendofathersdisappearfromtheirfamilies afterhavingaviolentdisputewiththeirspouse?”
“It’snottypicalforafathertoabandontheirfamilyimmediately aftera ghtwiththeirspouse;however;it’simportanttonotethatshe hadana air,andhewasservingherdivorcepapers.It’spossible that—”
“Objection!Speculation,”Ishout.Igetonmyfeetandsco at Wren.
“Sustained!”saysthejudge.
“Nofurtherquestions,yourhonor,”saysWren.Hehu sbacktohis seat.
“Formylastwitness,yourhonor,IcallBethanyThatchertothe stand.”
WhenIsayhername,theentireroomholdstheirbreath.Thedead airisuncomfortable,reminiscentofthesilencefollowinganheated argumentatafamilydinnertable.Myheartbeatpulsesinmythroat likeahammer.Itweighsonmyheart,knowingthatifIwinthiscase, shemaynotseehersonforalongtime,ifeveragain.Ibelievepeople canchangeandthatpeoplemakeawfulmistakes,butthatdoesn’t meantheyarebadpeople.Thankfully,theyoungboy’sgrandparents areeagertotakehiminifheneedsahome.Ifshelosesthecase,which I’msureshewill,hewillmoveinwithhispaternalgrandparents.
Mrs.Thatchershowsnoemotiononherfaceasshegracesthestand. Aftershetakestheoath,hereyeslockontominelikeapairoflasers. Maintainingeyecontactwhilesharinganaccountcanbeapowerful indicatorofdeceptionorhonesty.Clearly,sheisaskilledperformer.
“Mrs.Thatcher,inyourownwords,pleasetelluswhathappenedon Tuesday,September22nd,1998,around8:30p.m.?”
IpeekovermyshoulderatMrs.Thatcher’sson.Hegivesmea thumbsup.Thejudgeraisesaquizzicaleyebrowatme.Ishrugmy shoulders.JudgeJohnsonshiftshisfocustothedefendant’sresponse liketherestofus.
“Thatnight,mysonElliotwasinhisroomworkingonaschool project.Hewassupposedtogotohisdad’shousethatweekend,butI wasworriedwhenhementionedwantingfullcustodyandmovingto Vegas.TherewasnowayIwouldseemyboyifheleft.Ican’ta ordto travelorrelocate.Ipanicked.”
“SowhenheplannedtotakeyoursontoVegasfortheweekend, youwereafraidhewouldnotreturnandyouwouldlosehim.Ifa parent‘kidnaps’theirchild,theycanfacecriminalcharges.Whydidn’t youcalltheauthoritiesifyouwereconcernedaboutthetrip?”
“Ican’ttrustthepolice.Thedomesticreportsarenottrue.Hewas abusingme,butsinceIhaveamentalillness,Iwasthescapegoat.”
“I’msorrytohearthatyouexperiencedmistreatment.Please,correct meifIamwrong,butthedomesticreportssaythatyouhadno injuries,buthehadablackeyeandbloodynose.Hisskinandblood wereunderyour ngernails.”
Elliotstandsup.Hisbrowfurrowsasheshouts,“Daddywould neverhurtyou!Youalwayshurthim.Hetoldmethepurplespoton hisfacewasnothing,butyouslappedhimatdinnertime.Andyou don’ttakemedicineanymorebecauseyousaiditmakesitharderto hearGodtalktoyou.”
Mrs.Thatchergritsherteethandrollshereyesatherson.“Ican’t stand…toseemyson…lookatmelikethat…anymore.It’sthatsame lookhisfathergavemeandmymothergavemeandeverydamnidiot
inthistown.Yourfatherdeservedtodiebecausehewouldnotlistento God.MaybeIgavebirthtothedevil’sson!”
Shepullsabottlefromhercoatpocketandpourspillsdownher throat.
“What…are…you…doing?”Istammer.
Mrs.Thatcher’sbodyconvulses.Thebaili runstoheraid,butit’s toolate.Hepicksupthebottleandreadsthelabel.Hehollers,“Call 9-1-1!”
Irushovertothebaili .“Whatdidshetake?”
“Cyanide.”
“Shit.”
Everyoneinthecourtroompanics.Ajurymemberfaints.Myheart races,andmymouthdriesout.Iquicklycrammy lesintomy briefcase.Thesilver-hairedghostpossessingmybodygentlyguidesme towardtheexit,leadingmeawayfromthecourthouse.Shocknumbs mylimbs,yetIkeepmovingforwarduntilIreachmyvehicle.Idon’t rememberthewalkthere.
Aftersettlingintothedriver’sseat,Icoughedsoharditfeltlikemy lungswereabouttoimplode.Peachyhairsonmyarmsstandat attention.Acloudofsilverysmokespewsfrommymouth, shapeshiftingbackintothedeadmanIsawbeforethetrialstarted.The slyghostfromthecourtroomloungesinthebackseatofmycar.My mysteriousambereyesreverttotheirnaturalhazelhue.
“Thanks,dad,”Imurmurtothesilver-hairedghost.“Ican’tbelieve she’sdead.”
“It’snotyourfault,kiddo.Wedidtherightthing,”hesays.“The boyisbettero withhisgrandparents.Iknowitwashard,butI’m proudofyouforlettingmetakethereins.”
Hemeantwell,butnowordscouldconsoleme.AllIwantedwasto slipintomysilkypajamas,drinkafewglassesofmerlotandbingeI LoveLucyreruns.Inmyrearviewmirror,Iwatchnewsreportersswarm thecourtroomasIdriveaway.Mybeeperbuzzes.AsIglanceathim,I seehimreadthemessage.Helooksatme,shakeshishead disapprovingly,andchucksitoutthewindow.
“Hey!Youowemeanewone!”
“Weneedavacation!”hesays.“Youlookprettyshookupafterwhat justhappened.”
Iscratchmybrainforasnarkycomeback.Mymindgoesblank.I hatetoadmitit,buthe’sright.Aswedissolveintothehazysummit,I picturemyselffarfromthisgloomymountain,baskinginthesunwhile drinkingredwine,avoidingthebrazenghostsoccupyingmymind.
AuthorCommentary&TarotSpread-MelissaGill
Originally,Melissausedthe Wild Unknown Tarot. Thisisthe1strow.
Forseveralyears,I’vedabbledintarot,butImainlypracticeditasa self-re ectiontool.Ienjoyedthechallengeofthistarotwritingproject. WhenIpulledtheJudgmentcardformymaincharacter,Ibecame excitedattheideaofwritingasupernaturalcrimethriller.Throughmy prosecutorcharacter,FrancescaStein,I’mgivenanopportunityto explorethelegalsystemandcourtroomprocedures.WhileIwasin collegestudyingjournalism,Itookanintroductiontocriminaljustice asanelective.Investigativecareers,whetheritbethroughreportingor detectivework,havealwaysfascinatedme.Whileit’snoteveryone’s cupoftea,I’vealwayswishedtobeselectedforjuryduty,butithasn’t happenedyet.Fingerscrossed.Luckily,mytarotspreadfavoredthis concept,withmanyswordcardsandhiddenin uencesthat complementedthisgenre.Whatwasevenmoreexcitingwasthe opportunitytoblendcourtroomdramaandparanormalthriller together.
Asawriter,Ienjoychallengingmyselfbytryingdi erentwriting techniques.Creatinga ctionalmurdertrialusingatarotspreadwas botheye-openingandexciting.Squeezingabigstoryconceptinto about6,000wordswasthemostchallengingaspect.Thischaracter’s storywidenedmyeyeswithgrandnotionsyetIonlyhadenoughspace toshareasliceofherlife.I’mconsideringwritinganovelabout FrancescaStein,fashioningherintoafullydevelopedcharacterthat occupiesmymind.Iwouldn’thavemetherhadInotbeenchosento takepartinthewonderfulcreativeinitiative.I’llforeverbegratefulthat thistarotprojectintroducedmetoher,mynew ctionalbestie.
It’simportanttonotethatIdidagreatdealofresearchtowrite thisstory.Ilearnedmanyinterestingtidbitsaboutforensicscienceand lawpractices,whichmadeitevenmoreenjoyable.Thoseaspectsofthe storyarebasedonrealmethodsanddata.Iliketobelievethatona di erenttimelineIcouldhavebeenabright,beautifulandwealthy lawyerresidinginWashingtonstatejustlikemycharacterdoes.Oneof thebestpartsofwriting ctionisthatyougettolivevicariously throughyourcharacters,experiencinganotherfacetofyourselfthat youmightnotgettointhislifetime.FunFact:FrancescaSteinisa namepayinghomagetooneofmyfavoriteclassicnovels,Frankenstein byMaryShelley.Oftentimes,whenIpena ctionalstory,Igetakick outofsprinklingineastereggslikethatone.ThedeckIusedforthe storyistheWildUnknown,whichis lledwithhauntinglybeautiful artworkthathasadarkforestenergy.Settingthestoryina ctional smalltowninWashingtononafoggymountaintakesinspirationfrom thedeck’screepyfolkishillustrations.Theimageryofthecardsis wovenintothetoneofmystory,too.Someofthecharacter descriptions,althoughverysubtle,alsocomefromthattarotreading.
Inmanyways,Ithinkthisstorywasawaytoprocessmanydi cult momentsIhadinmychildhood.Mymother,whopassedawayfrom cancer,wasschizophrenicandbipolar.Ourrelationshipwas complicated.MyparentsalsodivorcedwhenIwasinthesixthgrade. Givingtheson,Elliot,avoiceinthis ctionalstoryalsogavemeavoice inasense.Soalthoughthisstoryisnotautobiographical,itdraws inspirationfromsomepersonalexperiences.
Asidefromthewritingaspect,Iappreciatethatthistarotproject includedoptionalgroupgatheringsatAvantpopBookstore,Zoom brainstormsessions,andtheopportunitytoworkwiththetalented
AprilUrsulaFox.Itwaswonderfultomeetotherlocalwriterswhile penningthisparanormalcourtroomdrama.Listeningtoother wordsmiths'tarotcardinterpretationsandstoryideaswasvery inspiring.Writingusuallyfeelslikeasolitarypursuit,butthisproject wasmorecollaborativeanditwasarefreshingexperience.Weall receivedbeautifultarotdecksandposters,too.Mytarotposterhangs besidemybedandIlookatitoften.Theartoftarotandstorytelling sharemoresimilaritiesthanmanyofmyotherhobbies.WhatIthink makestarotsointerestingishowitcanshiftone’sperspectiveand sometimesitsmessageshitclosetohome.AsIwrotemystory,thisis somethingIthoughtaboutalotamidtheprocess.Thisparticular spreadfollowsmymaincharacter,butitalsocouldhavebeenfunto makespreadsforeachcharacterinastory.I’llsavethatideaformy novel.Thepossibilitiesareendlesswhentarotisadeviceinyourcreator toolbox.
HugethankstoAprilUrsulaFox,ShwaandSugarLaytartof AvantpopBookstore,andtheBlackMountainInstituteforthisstellar writinginitiative.I’minaweofeveryonewhoparticipatedinthis project,showcasingtheircreativeskillsandthought-provoking interpretations.Iappreciateallthetime,e ortandenergyeveryone contributedtomakethisprojectcometolife.I’mgratefulformy amazinghusband,ChrisWenck,andmydearfriend,MeghanFranky, whoalsohelpedwiththestorybyproofreadingando eringfeedback duringtheeditingphase.Toeveryonewhoreadsthisbeautiful collectionoftarot-inspiredtales,Ihopeyouenjoyourstoriesand thankyouforyoursupport!
Najee Jamerson
TheFatedCurse
“DoyounotcareformeSilas?”IcouldhearthecrackinPrincess Mavery’svoice,Iwantednothingmorethantocomforther,totakethe fearofrejectionfromhereyesbutIcouldnot.
“Princess,whatgoodwoulditdotosaythosewordstoyou?Itwould bringmoreharmthangood.”
PrincessMaveryclosedthegapbetweenus,wrappingmeinherarms. Itriedtogetmyhearttobeatevenlyasherperfumeassaultedmynostrils. “ItwouldbeconfirmationformethatIamnotcrazySilas.Thatour stolenlooksandtouchesarenotofmyimagination.”
Hereyeswerepleadingforthetruth.“Princess,Iamahealer,and youarethedaughterofKingAdir.Itisforbiddenformetolove.My onlylifepurposeistohealthepeopleinthekingdom.Thatismyburden tobear.Yourpurposeistodoyourdutyasaprincessforyourkingdom. Pleasedonotaskmethisagain.”
IcouldfeelherheartbreakingandasahealerIwantedtomendit, untilhernextwordswereaslaptomyface.“Thenyouareacoward!”
Loudbangingwokemefrommydream.“Silas!Silas!Youmust comeatonce!”Itwasmymother.Hearingthepanicinhervoice causedmysleepinesstodissipate.Iclimbedoutofbedpullingthedoor open.
“Whatisitmother?”
“PrincessMaveryhasfallenill.Thekingissummoningyounow.”
Stillgroggyfrommydream,Islidintomyslippersandfollowedmy motherintothenightair.“Motherit’stoocold,stayinthehouse.I knowmyway there.”MymomshookherheadbutwatchedmeasI headedtowardthepalace.
HowwasMaverysick?We’donlylefteachotherafewhoursago.Did Ileaveheroutsidetoolateandshecaughtthenightchill?
MyfeetmovedonautopilotasImademywaytoMavery.The palacewassoilluminateditfeltlikeitwasthemiddleoftheday. Servantsweremovingabout,almostinapanic,thechaostwistedthe pitofmystomach.Thisdoesn’tlookgood.IfearMaveryisinabad state.
Icouldhearthekingbarkingordersfromdownthehallway.“Your Highness,”IbowedasIenteredtheroom.Reliefwashedoverhisface uponseeingme.
“Oh,thanktheheavens,Silas,you're nallyhere.”
“Whatishappening?”
“Theprincesshasafever,we’vebeentryingtobreakitforthelast hourbuttonoavail.”ThefearinKingAdir’seyeswaspalpable. Maverywashisonlychild,hisheirtothethronesincetheprincedied inafreakaccidentafewyearsago.HewasoverlyprotectiveofMavery, makingsureharmnevercametoher.
“Don’tworryYourHighness,Iwilltakecareoftheprincess.”I walkedfurtherintotheroomsoIcouldgetalookatMavery.Herladies surroundedher,dabbingherwithcoolwashcloths.Herbeautifulhair plasteredherskinassweatglistenedonherface.Herbodytrembled undertheblankets.Herappearancewasnothinglikeitwasafewhours ago.
Iplacedthebackofmyhandonherforeheadbutpulleditback feelinghowhotshewas.
“Silas,youmustcureherassoonaspossible.PrinceImrewillbe hereintwodaystocelebratetheirengagementwhichwillunifyour twogreatfamilies.Sheneedstobereadytowelcomeher ancé,”voiced QueenAcosha.
IavoidedeyecontactwiththeQueenforfearthatshewouldseemy loveforMaveryshininginmyeyes.Iknowshe’spromisedtoImre,but Ialsoknewthetruth.Herheartbelongedtomeandmealone.
“Acoshathisisn’tthetimetospeakaboutMavery’sengagement. Ourdaughterisunwell,”thekingspat.
“DonotusethattonewithmeAdir.Youknowhowimportant thisengagementis.Weneedtounifybothfamiliestobringpeace.It’s Mavery’sjobtodoso.Sheneedstobewelltowelcomeher ancé.”
“Iwillhealher,”IassuredQueenAcoshahopingtosilenceher.I don’twanttohearaboutMaverys'engagementtosomeoneelse.“May Ipleasehavespacetoworkonourprincess.Ithinkacalmandquiet spacewillhelpwiththehealingprocess.”
“Everyoneclearoutnow,let'sleaveSilastowork,”KingAdir ordered.Everyoneimmediatelyfollowedordersandbeganclearingout oftheroom.
Oncetheroomwasempty,Isatonthebed,myhandimmediately goingtotheprincess’cheek.“Mylove,”IwhisperedonlyforMavery’s ears.Sheslightlyopenedhereyes,Icaughtatraceofasmileonherlips.
“Silas,”shecroaked,wincinginpain.
“Whathappened?Didyoueatordrinksomethinglastnight?”
Maveryopenedhereyes,Iheldmygaspin.Hereyeswere bloodshotredasifshehadn’tsleptindays.“AfterIleftyou,Istartedto feelill.MybodybegantoachesobadIhadtocallthehandmaidanto helpmetobed.”
“Youshouldhavecalledmerightaway.”
“You’reherenow,that’sallthatmatters.”Maverylacedherhand throughmine,causingarippleofwarmthtorunthroughme.Itwasa feelingonlyexperiencedwithher.AwarmththatremindedmethatI wasbreakingalltherulesofbeingtheheadhealerfortheAdir Kingdom.Maverywasalreadyspokenfor,andIwasforbiddentotake onalover.Icouldn’thelpitthough,becauseMaverywasinterestedin healerwork,we’dspenthoursinmyshoptogether.I’dteachherabout thedi erentrootsandmedicinesthatcouldbeusedtohealpeople. Spendingsomuchtimetogetherourfeelingsslowlygrewbeyondthe friendshipwe’dsharedgrowingupandIfoundmyselffallingdeeply forher.
“I’mgoingtomakeyoufeelbetter,okay?”
“Okay.”
Iclosedmyeyes,drowningeverythingoutaroundmeexceptfor Mavery.Mybodybegantotingleasourbodiesconnected.Iwhispered anincantationofhealingoverMavery,onethatI’dusedoftentoheal peopleinthekingdom.Hersymptomsshouldhavetransferredtomy body,relievingMaveryofherillness.Iwasstunnedwhenshestarted witheringinpain.Shecriedoutasblistersstartedtoformoverher body.HerhandsgrewsohotIthoughtImightseesteamcomingfrom them.
“Silas,itburns,”shecried.“Itburns!”
Iimmediatelypickedherupandcarriedhertothebathtubthat wasalready lledwithwater.Iloweredusintothewaterhopingit wouldcoolherdownandeasethepain.
HearingthecommotionKingAdirburstintotheroom.“What happened?”
“Shebecametoohot,I’mtryingtocoolherbodydown.It’snot goodforhertohavesuchahighfever.”
HiseyeswenttoMavery’sblisteredbody.“Silas,whatisthis?What happened?”
Ididn’thaveananswerforhimbecauseIdidn’tknowmyself.
Whyhadn’tmypowershealedMavery?Whydiditmakeher worse?“Ijustneedsometimeto gurethingsout.”
“Figurethingsout!Whatdoesthatmean?Whyhaven’tyouhealed her,”hebarked.
“Becauseitdidn’twork,”Ishotback.
“Whatdoyoumeanitdidn’twork?Youcan’thealher?”
“Ididn’tsaythat,Ijustneedmoretime.”
IsawtheshiftinKingAdir’sdemeanor,andIknewitwasn’tgood. Hestoodalittletaller,thewarmthinhiseyesturnedcold.“Silas,you aretheheadhealer.Thekingdomtrustsyou;Itrustyou.Ifyoucan’t doyourjob,whatuseareyoutome?”
Mybloodrancold.IknewIwouldn’tlikethenextwordsfromthe king’smouth.“MyKing,whatareyousaying?”
“Youbetter gureouthowtohealMavery.Ifyoudon’t,yourlife willendwithhers.”
TheKinghadclearlygonemadtothreatenmewithsuchathing. TherewasnooneinthekingdomwhocoulddowhatIdo.“Butmy King,Iamyourheadhealer…”
“AndasmyheadhealerIexpectforyoutohealmydaughter!” Withoutallowingmetogetanotherwordin,KingAdirdismissed himselfleavingmedumbfounded.
Chapter2
Everyfewdecadesahealerisblessedbytheancestorstobecomethe headhealerofakingdom.Theonewhodoesn’tneedpotionstoheal butcanhealwiththeirhandsandincantationssharedonlybetween headhealers.IwasblessedtobethechosenoneoftheAdirKingdom,a giftthatIdidn’ttakelightly.
IknewbeforetakingtheoaththatIwasbindingmyselftoalifeof loneliness,fortheheadhealercouldnevertakeonalover.Takingthe oathmeantIcommittedmyselftohelpingothers,Ibelongedto everyone.IwasokaywiththatbecauseIlovedhealingpeople.Iwas okaybeingaloneuntilMavery.
Theearlymorningcoldwrappedaroundmybodylikeahugfrom death.Wasdeathintheairwaitingtoclaimmybeloved?Iwouldn’tlet ithaveMavery,notnow,notever.Whyhadn’tmyincantationworked? Icouldusuallyhealsomethinglikeacoldorafevereasily,butMavery onlygotworse,whichmeanttherewassomethingterriblywrong.The thoughtnearlyseizedmybreathing,butItookamomenttoletouta fewdeepbreaths.EvendoingsoIcouldfeelanacheinmychestthatI’d neverexperiencedbefore.Ibelievethisiswhatpeoplecallheartbreak.I despisedthefeeling.
Beforedoubtcouldsettleintomyspirit,Istraightenedmyspine andcametotheconclusionthatthiswouldbemyburdentobear. Maverywasmyresponsibility;shewasmybelovedandIwoulddo everythingpossibletohealher.Iwouldn’twatchherdie.Iwouldn’t losemylifeoverthis.
“Whatailsyoutohaveyououtsideinthecoldchild?”
“Mother,hasthereeverbeenatimethataheadhealercouldn’theal someone?”
“Goodnessno.Headhealerspossesspowersthatareunmatched. Youarepersonallyblessedbyourancestors.Silaswereyounotableto healMavery?”sheasked,alarmed.
Ididn’twanttoworryher,soIquicklycoveredmyinquiryup.“I mighthavebeentired,I’vebeenworkingallday.Iwillrechargeandtry againlatertoday.”Ididn’tdaretellmymotherthatmypowersdidn’t work.
“Well,ifthat’sthecase,let'sgetyoutobed.I’llbrewtheprincess someteatohelpwiththefeverandyoucantakeittoherinthe morning.”
“Thankyou,mother,Iappreciateyou.”Ifollowedherintoour home.AsifsheknewIneededtobecomforted,sheguidedmetomy bedandtuckedmeinlikeIwasalittlegirl.
“Getsomerest,it’llbeabetterdayforyou.” “Iloveyoumother.”
“Iloveyoutoo.”Iclosedmyeyeshopingmymother’swordswould ringtrue.
IwasevenmoretiredwhenIwokeupafewhourslater.Mysleep wasplaguedwithdreamsofwatchingMaverydie.Iwatchedasher bodywitheredawayandtherewasnothingIcoulddoaboutit.
Irubbedmytiredeyeswhiletryingtocentermyselfandpreparefor theday.Ididn’twanttogoseeMaveryjustyet,butIknewtheking wouldbecallingformesoon.
Mymotherpeakedherheadintotheroom.“You’re nallyawake.I madebreakfast.Comeoutwhenyou’reready.”
“I’llberightthere.”
AsIsattoeat,Nila,myapprentice,greetedme.I’daskedhertostay withMaverywhileIgotsomerestbut,bythesolemnlookonherface, Ididn’treallywanttoaskhowMaverywas.“Howisshe?”
“Notsowell,herconditionworsenedsinceyouleft.”
Igrippedtheedgeofthetabletryingtonumbmyemotions.Ihad tohaveaclearmindinorderto gurethisallout.Icouldn’tletmylove forMaverycloudmydecisions.“Worse,how?”
“It’slikenothingI’veeverencountered.Herhandsarestartingto turnpurpleandblue.She’sconstantlyshiveringandstillhasafever. Silas,Idon’tknowwhatthisis.Thekingishysterical,he’ssnappingat everyonesowe ’realltryingtostayoutofhisway.KingAdirisoutof control.He’sgoingmadfromfright.”
Istoodabandoningallthoughtsofeatingbreakfast.“Iwillgosee hernow.MymotherwassupposedtobrewsometeaforthePrincess, onceit’sdone,pleasebringittome.”
“I’lldoitrightaway.”
Withoutsayinganotherword,Itooko towardthepalace.There wasatwistingfeelinginmygutthatIwishwouldgoaway.Howdid anyonegetanyworkdonefeelingliketheirinsideswereexposed?
“You nallydecidedtoshowup,”KingAdir’svoicecausedmeto jump.
Ibowedinfrontofhim.“MyapologiesYourHighness,Ineededto rest.”
Hisappearancewasoneofamadman.Hisclothesweredisheveled, hishairoutofplace,hisskinashen.HelookednothingliketheKing AdirIserved. “So,youwillhealMaverynow?”
“Yes.”Ihope.Ikeptthatlastlinetomyself.
Hisgoldchainsclinkedtogetherasheshookhishead.“Remember whatIsaidSilas.”
“WithallduerespectYourHighness,Iamthemostpowerful healerinthelands.ThereisnooneIhaven’tbeenabletoheal.”
“Therewasone,”hespat.
Isteppedbackasifhe’dhitmeinthegutknockingthewindfrom me.“Hewasalreadydead.”
“Youdarespeakofthelateprinceinthattone,”heroared. Iwasn’ttheretoopenoldwoundsbut,kingornot,Icouldn’t allowhimtomakeamockeryofmygifts.Ipridedmyselfonhelping peoplewhenIcould.“Ionlyspeakthetruth.”
“Enough!”QueenAcoshacametoherhusband'sside.“Mylove, you 'reupsetandstressed.Let'sgiveSilastimeandspacetowork.She willdoherbest,isn’tthatrightSilas?”
“Yes,YourHighness.Pleaseexcuseme.”Iwantednothingmore thantogetawayfromtheKingandQueen,theirenergywas su ocating.Ialreadyhadenoughpressureonme.
“Silas,”MaverysmiledasIwalkedintotheroom.
“HeyPrincess,”IkeptmytoneasevenaspossibleasIwalkedover toherbed.Ifeltthe rstcrackinmyheartasItookinMaverys appearance.Thereweredeep,darkbagsunderhereyes,herfacewas pale,andherhandswereindeedpurpleandblue.Itwasasifshe’dspent toomuchtimesubmergedinicecoldwaterandwasnowbattling hypothermia.Iknewshewasgettingclosertodeath’sdoor.
“Don’tlooksoserious,”Maveryjokedasshereachedformyhand.
“Mav,thisisserious.Idon’tknowwhyyourhealthisdecliningso drastically.”
Shebroughtmyhandstoherlipskissingmyknuckles.Herlips weresocoldIwantedtopullaway,butIdidn’tdare.“I’llbeokay, right?”
“Yes.Let'sbegin.”Iengulfedbothofherpetitehandsinmine. “Closeyoureyeslove.”ShedidasIsaid.
MylipsmovedrapidlyasItriedtomanifestMaverysillnessintomy body.IheldmygroaninasIfeltthepainMaverywasexperiencing.It wasasifsomeonesetmybodyon re,andIwasburningfromthe insideout.BeadsofsweatformedonmybrowasIcontinuedtotakein herillness.Icouldn’tbelievethiswaswhatshe’dbeenfeeling.Theheat wasalmostunbearable.JustwhenIthoughtitcouldn’tgetanyworse, chillsrockedmybody.Ididn’tknowifIwashotorcold.Itallfeltlike symptomsofasevere u.
Mavery’scolorbegantoreturntoherface.Thepurpleandblue startedtofadefromher ngers.Icontinuedtochantevenwhenmy handsbecamediscolored,evenwhenblistersstartedtoformonmy bodyIchantedformylife.IchantedforMaverys'life.
Ithoughtitwasworkinguntilsuddenly,mysymptomswentaway. Iwatchedastheillnessleftmeandreturnedtoherbody.
Ireleasedourhands,jumpingupfromthebed.Therealizationof whatwashappeninghitmeallatonce.Maverywasn’tjustsick,shewas cursed.
Chapter3
ExplainingtotheKingandQueenthatMaverywascursedwasnot aneasytask.KingAdirthreatenedtostrikeanyenemyhe’deverhad. QueenAcoshabawledhereye’soutrealizingMaverywasdoomed becauseweallknewIcouldhealpeople,butIcouldn’tbreakacurse.
Mymindcouldn’tfathomwhowouldwanttocursethePrincess. Shewassweet,andkind.Shewaslovedthroughoutthekingdom.I’ve onlyeverheardgoodthingsaboutMaveryevenwhenItraveledoutside ofthekingdom.Whowoulddothis?
MybacksliddownthetreeasI nallysuccumbedtomytears.I’d heldittogetherinfrontofMavery,Iheldittogetherinfrontofher parentsbut nallyalonetheheartacheofthesituationsettledintothe deepestpartofmyheart.Maverywasdying.
AscreamI’dneverexpecttocomefrommerippledfrommythroat andechoedintothenightsky.I’dneverfeltthisbefore,thisheartbreak, thispainoflosingthepersonyoulove.Iwasn’tsupposedtoeverfeel this.
“Silas,”mymother'sarmswrappedaroundme.
“Ohmother,she’sdying,”Icriedandheldontoherfordearlife. Mymotherlookedatmewithsympathyinhereyes.“Isthere nothingyoucandotosavetheprincess?”
Ishookmyheaddefeated.“She’sbeencursed.”
Theshockedlookonmymother’sfacemirroredmineearlierwhen Irealizedthetruth.“Shecan’tdie.Myheartwouldn’tbeabletobear it.”Confusiontookoverthelookofconcernmymotherhad.IknewI hadtoconfesstosomeone.“Mavery…MaveryandIareinlove.”
“Youdarecallmeacoward?”
“Idobecauseonlyacowarddoesn’tfacewhat’srightinfrontof them.”
“Youdon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingaboutPrincess.”
Maverypulledmetowardher.ThemovewassosuddenIbarelyhad timetoregisterit.“Silas,youloveme,andIloveyou.Youarealwaysin mythoughts.IcanbarelybreatheanytimeIamnearyou.Iholdonto youreverywordbecauseIlovethesoundofyourvoice.Iloveyou.I’ve lovedyouforaverylongtimeandIbelieveyoulovemeaswell.”
EventhoughhersweetwordsshotanarrowthroughmyheartIknew Istillhadtofighttheseemotions.Itookanoathtonotfallinlovewith anyone.ThelogicalpartofmewastellingmyselfIneededtohonorthat oath.
“Idon’t,”Ilied.
“Ifthatisthecase,”sheplacedherhandatthecenterofmyheart. “Whyisyourheartbeatingsofast?”
“Mavery,”Itriedtobreakcontactwithher,butsheheldmecloseto her.Everythingaboutherwasintoxicating,fromthesoundofhervoiceto theperfumeshewore,ticklingmynostrils.Ifeltmyselflosingthisbattle. “YouarepromisedtoPrinceImre,hewillbeheresoontocelebrateyour engagement.WhywouldIriskthethreeswordsthatwillclearlypierce myheartifIallowedmyselftoentertainmyfeelings.”
“Three?”
“Yes,theonethatwillstrikemefromseeingyoumarrysomeoneelse andthetwotheKingandQueenwillsurelyusetoendmylifeiftheyever foundoutaboutus.”Icouldn’tgiveintomydesireforher.I’dheldback overtheyears,evenwatchingMaverygrowintothebeautifulPrincess
thatshewasbutnowMaverywasreadytoletherfeelingsbeknown,and Icouldn’thandleit.
“Silas,I’velovedyousincewewereteenagers,evenifIwaspromised toGodhimselfmyheartwouldbelongtoyou.Iamyoursuntilmylast breath.”
Herlastwordsweremyundoing.Itookherintomyarms,andwe consumedourloveunderthestars.
“Silas,”mymothergasped.“Whathaveyoudone?”
“IknowthatIamnottoloveanyone,Iknowmyduty,butIhave lovedMaveryforsolong.Iamonlyhuman,howamInottobefond ofsomeone?”
Mymotherstoodabruptly.“Didyoutellheryoulovedher? “Idid.”
Mymothersmackedherhandoverhermouth.“Ohno.” “Whatisit?”
“Silas,therearereasonsyou’renottoloveanyone.Youtookanoath thatyourlifewouldbelongtohealing.Youtooktheoathofthehead healerthatyouwouldn’tloveanother.”
“Iknow,itwasn’tlikeImeantforthistohappen.”
“Thereareconsequencestobreakinganoath,Silas.Severe consequences. ”
“Tellme.”
“Ifyoufallinlovewithsomeone,breakingyourhealeroath,the oneyoulovewillbecomethesacri cetoyourbetrayal.”
Idon’trememberpassingout,Ijustrememberwakingupinmy bedwithathrobbingheadache.
“You’re nallyawake,”NilabroughtwatertomebutIshooedthe cupaway.AsItriedtostandtheroombegantospin.Nilagrabbedmy armsholdingmesteady.“Youneedtolaybackdown.”
“IneedtoseePrincessMavery.Where’smymother?”
“Shetookteatotheprincesstoeaseherpain.Shetoldmetostay withyoujustincaseyouwokeup.What’sgoingonSilas?”The conversationwithmymotherplayedoverinmyheadcausingmeto swayagain.Ididthis.IcursedMavery.
“Nila,Ineedyouto ndeverybookIhaveaboutthehealer community.”
“Okaybutwhy?”
“Don’tquestionme,pleasejustdoit.”
Nilabowedrespectfully.“YesSilas.”
Istumbledoutofthehousetowardthepalace.Icouldn’tbelieveI wasthecauseofthis.Tomybeloved.Mylovewaskillingher.
IstoppedwalkingasIhurlednearatree.Theacidburnedmy throat,butmytearsstungmore.Whyhadn’tanyonewarnedmebefore takingtheoath?WouldIhaveagreedtoitifIknewthetruth?
IwatchedfromoutsideofMavery’sroomasmymotherwiped Mavery’stremblingbody.TheairleftmybodyasIsawMavery’s appearance.Thepurpleandblueblotcheshadspreadtoherarmsand legs.Shewassu eringbecauseofme.HowcouldIdothistoher?
“Silas,”mymotherbrokemefrommythoughts.Islowlywalked intotheroom.
“Howisshe?”
“Inpain.Igaveherteatoeasethepain.Itshouldputhertosleep.”
“Thanksmom.CanIhavesometimewithher?We’lltalklater.”
“Ofcourse,sweetheart.”Shesqueezedmyarmbeforeleavingthe room.
IclaspedMavery’shandasIsatonthesideofthebed.“Mav.” Sheweaklyopenedhereyes.“Silas.Wherehaveyoubeen?”
“SorrythatI’vebeengone.Howdoyoufeel?”
“Likeamillionbucks,”shesmiledbutwincedafter. Iheldthecrybackthatattemptedtoescape.Instead,Ikissedher handallowingmylipstolinger.“Youcan’thealme.”Itwasn’ta question,itwasastatement.
“Ican.”
Maverysmiled.“Youwouldhavealreadyhealedme,mylove.This isdi erent.Ifeelitinmybody.It’slikesomethingistakingover makingmeweakerbythesecond.Thisisn’tsomethingyoucanheal.”
“Iwill,”Isaidwithdeterminationinmyvoice.Therewasstilltime, Ijustneededtosearchthebooksto ndananswer.Itcouldn’tendlike this.Maverystillhadsomuchlifeaheadofher.Therehadtobeaway formetohealher.
“Silas,ifthisisit,IamokaybecauseIgettoleaveknowingIwas lovedbyyou.That’sthegreatestgiftthisworldcouldhavegivenme.”
IwantedtoholdMaveryandneverletgo.HowwasIsoluckyto haveher?“Mav,Iwillhealyou.Iwill ndaway,doyouhearme?”I kissedherheadoverandover.“Youwillnotdieonmywatch.I promise.”
“IpulledallthebooksIcould nd.Ifyoutellmewhatyou’re lookingforIcanhelpyousearch.”
Ididn’twantanyoneelsetoknowaboutthecurse,butNilawasmy apprentice.IknewIcouldtrusther.“IfellinlovewithMavery,andshe isdyingbecauseofitsoIneedto ndoutifthere’sawaytoreversethis curse.Ididn’ttakemyhealeroathseriously.Shecan’tdiebecauseof me.”Iquicklywipedthetearsfrommyeyesbecausetherewasnoroom forcrying.Ineededtoremainfocusedto ndmyanswer.
ItwaslikeNilacouldfeelmydeterminationbecausesheresponded withjustasmuchdeterminationasme.“We’ll ndtheanswer.We’ll savetheprincess.”
Ishookmyheadaswecrackedopenourseparatebooks.NilaandI workatitforhours.Myeyesburned,thewordsbegantojumpo the pages,butIkeptgoingbecausewewerenowherenearananswer.My motherjoinedusandbeganherownsearch.Icouldfeeltheknots growinginmyneckastheburdenofthissituationbegantoweigh heavieronmyshoulders.
“Sweetheart,maybeyouandNilashouldtakeabreak,you’vebeen atthisforhours.Giveyourmindarest.”
“Ican’tMother.Maverydoesn’thavemuchlonger.Ineedto nd theanswer.”
“Whatifyou’rerunningyourselfthinandthereisn’tone?What’s goingtohappenifyouhaveaburnout?Yourememberhowbaditwas lasttime.Ittookawhileforyoutogetbacktonormal.”
“Idon’tcare,IwillrunmyselfraggedifitmeansIgettheanswer I'mlookingfor.Therulewasmadesotheconsequencehastobethere aswell.”Ithrewthecurrentbookdownandgrabbedanother.
“Nila,takeabreak.I’mgoingtochangemyscenery.”Iignoredthe worriedlookonbothoftheirfacesandleftthehouse.WhenIwasfar awayfrommyhome,Iclosedmyeyesandallowedthesuntowelcome meintoitswarmembrace.Itookafewdeepbreathshopingthe tensionwouldleavemybody.Mavery’sbrightsmilingfaceappeared, sendingacalmnessnearme.Iwouldseethatsmilingfaceagainno matterwhat.
Ifoundaspotunderatreeandcrackedthebookopen.WhenIwas abouttocallitaday,thepassageIwaslookingforjumpedoutatme. “No,thatcan’tberight.”Ireaditoverasifthewordswouldchange. “No!”Ithrewthebook.“Thiscan’tbehappening.”
“Silaswhatisit?”Nilaranovertomehearingthecommotion.
“SitwithmeNila.”Iplacedmyheadbetweenmylegstostopthe worldfromspinning.Thiswasanabsolutenightmare.
“Silastalktome.”
“Ifoundtheanswertothecure.”
“Okaythat’sgood,right?”
Ishookmyhead.“Itwasmylovethatcausedthecurse,andit’smy lovethatwillbreakit.”
“What?I’mnotfollowing.”
“Ihavetosacri cemylifeforMavery’s.Mydeathbringsbalanceto theoath,anditsavesmylover’slife.”
Nilastoodabruptly.“What?No!”Sheranovertothebook, snatchingitupfromtheground.“Showmethepassage.”
“Nila,it'stheonlyway.”
TearswelledinNila’seyes.“ThenthePrincessdies.Youcan’t.”
“Nila!”Iscoldedher.“Thisismyfault.Ibroketheoath.Ihaveto xthis.Ihavetosaveher.”IknewIlovedMaverybecausetherewasno hesitationinmydecision.Iwouldgivemylifeforher.“Youwon’t speakofthistoanyoneNila,notevenmymother.Idon’twantto burdenherwiththis.”
“Silas!Youcan’taskthisofme.”
“ButIam.YouaretheonlyoneItrust.”
Nila nallylethertearsfall.“Whenwillyoudoit?Howwillyou doit?”
“Tonight.I’lldrinkenoughofaspecialbrew.I’lljustfallasleep.”I couldn’tbelieveIwasplanningmyowndeath.
“OhSilas,”Nilacriedasshelaunchedherselfintomyarms.“This isn’tfair.”
“Lifeisn’talwaysfair,kid,butithasbeenanhonortoteachyou.” Thatonlymadehercryharder.
“Thehonorisallmine,Silas.”
Mylastwalktothepalacewassolemn.Afterspendingsometime withNilaIsentherhome.Icouldn’tstandtoseetheheartbrokenlook inhereyesmuchlonger.
KingAdirsummonedmebeforeIcouldmakeittoMavery’sroom. “Areyouclosertoacure?Maveryisgettingworsebythehour.Idon’t knowhowmuchtimeshehas.”
“Ihavethecure,YourHighness.Maveryshouldrecoverinthenext fewdays.”
“Youhavethecure!”
“Yes.She’sgoingtobeokay.”Withoutwarning,KingAdir engulfedmeinahug.
“Iknewyoucoulddoit.Iknewyouwouldn’tletmedown,Silas.” Ismiled.
“Ifyouwouldexcuseme,YourHighness,Iwanttocheckonthe Princess.”
“Ofcourse.”IbowedbeforeheadingtoMavery’sroom. Shelookedsopeacefullayingthere.Itmeantmymother’steawas working.AsIsatandwatchedhersleeping,Icouldtellherbreathing waslabored.“Withoutknowingaboutthiscurse,Iwasstillsoafraidto admitmyfeelingsforyou.IfI’dknownthiswastheoutcome,Iwould havekeptmydamnmouthshut.Mavyouhaveyourwholelifeahead ofyou,thisisnotyourend.Ihopeyoutakethissecondchancetogrow intothewomanyou’vealwayswantedtobe.Evenifourloveisbrief, knowthatIwilltakethewarmthofyourlovewithmeuntilmylast breath.IloveyousomuchMavery.Pleasedon’tforgetme.”Iallowed mylipstolingeronherforeheadonelasttime.“Seeyounexttime.”I mademywayoutofthepalace.Ilookedupatthesky,seeingthatthis wouldbemylaststarrynight.Lifewassofunny.Confessingourloveto eachotherfeltliketherewasnothingintheworldthatcouldstopus, butourlovewaswhatwoulddestroyus.
IwroteletterstomymotherandMaveryasIpreparedmytea.I didn’tknowhowtofeel.Iwasn’tsad,Iwasn’tscared,Iwouldjustmiss thetwowomenthatIloved.
“Silas,”IjumpedhearingNila’svoice.
“Nilawhatareyoudoinghere?”
Shewalkedintotheroomtimidly.“Idon’twantyoutobealone.” Ismiled.“Nila,youdon’thavetobehereforthis.”
Nilasatonmybedandheldmyhand.“Idon’twantyoutobe alone,”sherepeated.“Isthereanythingyouwantmetodo?” Ipointedtowardthetwoletters.“Givethosetomymotherand Maveryplease.”
“Iwill.”
“Youwillbeanamazinghealer.”
“Ihadagreatteacher.”IhuggedNilatightbeforegrabbingthecup oftea.
“AreyousureaboutthisSilas?”
“AssureasI’lleverbe.”IswallowedtheteabeforeIcouldtalk myselfoutofit.Ilaiddownonmybed,Nilaheldmyhandtightand allowedhertearstofall.“PleasetellMaverythatIloveher.”
“Iwill,Ipromise.”Iclosedmyeyesasdeathwelcomedmewith openarms.
Mavery
ImadeafullrecoverybutwishedfordeathwhenIfoundoutSilas sacri cedherselfforme.MyheartachewasworsethanthepainIfelt fromthecurse.Iconfessedmyfeelingstomyfatherafternoonewas abletoconsoleme.HeadmittedthathepushedSilastoofarbytelling herhewouldendherandhermother’slife.Idon’tthinkI’llever forgivehimforputtingthattypeofpressureonSilas.Whatgoodwasit tobealiveifmyheartwasgone?
KingAdir
AsIstaredatSilas’lifelessbody,regretsankdeepintomyspirit.I didn’texpectthistobetheoutcome.IwasgratefulthatMaverywas alive,butsorrow lledme.AsthekingIusedmypowertomy advantagesoasthekingIwouldusemypowertotrytobringSilas back. IknewIhadtodoitforMavery’ssake.She’dbeenashellofa personsinceconfessingherloveforSilas.Ihadtodothistosavemy daughter.
“AreyoureadyYourHighness?”Myadvisorstoodbymyside. “Iam.HaveSilas’bodybroughttothepillar.”
“Yes,YourHighness.” Oncethepeoplefromcourt lledthe courtyardImademyentrance.Peoplebuzzedwithconversation wonderingwhythey’dbeensummoned.
“Asyouallknowwelostourbelovedhealertwodaysago.”The chattergrewlouder,butIputmyhanduptosilencethem.“Ithinkwe shouldtakethetimetorecognizehowgreatofahealerSilaswas.I thinksometimeswetakeourhealersforgrantedandIwishIwould havecherishedSilasmore.MostofyouknowthatPrincessMaveryfell ill,and,inmygrief,IputSilasandhermother’slifeonthelinetosave Mavery.”Mavery nallylookedupatme.Thepaininhereyeswas enoughformetoattemptwhatIwasabouttodo.
Withonenodfromme,Silas’bodywasbroughttothecenter pillar.Mywheeloffortunewasbroughttome.“I’vecollectedmany treasuresovertheyears.Thewheeloffortunebeingoneofthem.Iwas tolditheldmagicalcomponentsthatcouldhelpmewhenthetimewas needed.IhavetheopportunitytobringSilasback.Itwillcostmeone blessedcointospinthiswheel.Infusedwiththeenergyofyouthand re,fatewilldecidetheoutcome.”
Mavery’seyesbulged.“Isthisreal,father?”
“Itis,dear,butpleaseknowthiswillnotbemydecision.Asthe keeperofthewheel,Ionlyhaveonechanceatthis,doyouunderstand? Itisnotguaranteed.”
SheshookherheadassheheldSilas’lifelesshand.“PleaseFather, dowhateveryoucan.”
IplacedthewheeloffortuneoverSilas’body.“Letyourwillbe done.”Withone nalprayerIspunthewheel.
Author
Commentary&TarotSpread-Najee
Jamerson
Commentary
Thiswasmy rsttimeusingtarotcardsnotonlyforastorybut everso,Iwasreallyexcitedtotrysomethingnew.Afterdrawingmy spreadIfocusedonmyeightmaincards.My rststepwastoresearch myeightcardstolearnthesigni canceofeachcarduprightand reversed.IstartedtobrainstormwhattypeofshortstoryIwantedto writeusingmycards. AfterwritingmyoutlineandhavingasolidplotI startedtoincludemysupportingcards.ThesearethecardsIusedand howIusedthem:
TheEmperor(Reversed)
KingAdirallowshisfearofMaverysillnesstotakeoverhis emotions,soheuseshispowerofauthoritytothreatenSilasinto ndingawaytohealMavery.Hisfearhasblindedhisjudgment.
TenofWands
Silashastakenontheburdenandresponsibilityof ndingawayto healMaveryafterherpowersdidn’tworktohealMaverythe rsttime.
ThreeofSwords
Thethreeofswordsisusedinthe ashbackofSilasandMavery confessingtheirlovetoeachother.
FiveofPentacles
Silasisontheoutsidelookinginashermothertakescareof Mavery.ShefeelshopelessandresponsibleforMaverybecauseshejust foundoutshe’sthereasonthatMaveryissick.
TheChariot
FortheChariotcardIusedNila,Silas’apprentice.OnceSilasand Nila ndoutthatMaveryiscursedbecauseSilasfellinlovewithher, Nilajumpsintoactionandisreadytohelpinanywaypossibleto nd thecure.She’sjustasdeterminedasSilasisbecauseshecanseehowthe newsofthecurseisa ectingSilas.
KnightofPentacles
Silasisworkinghardgoingthrougheverybooktoseeifthere’sa cureforthecurseonMavery.Hermotherremindshershestillhasa responsibilitytotakecareofherself.
TheSun
Silashasbeenworkingtirelesslyto ndtheanswerforthecure,she nallytakesabreakandgoesoutsidesoakinginthesun'swarm embrace.
TheWorld
Theworldcardisusedtosymbolizethefullcircleand consequencesofSilasandMaveryfallinginlove.
DeathCard
ThedeathcardwasusedforSilassacri cingherselftosaveMaverys life.
AceofWands
AsaKing,KingAdiruseshispowertohisadvantagetotrytobring Silasback.Heseesanopportunitytouseresourcesonlyhehasaccess to,toattempttobringSilasbackfromthedead.
SixofWands
Afterherdeath,KingAdirpubliclyacknowledgeshowgreatofa healerSilaswas.
WheelofFortune
KingAdirliterallyusesawheeloffortunetoseeiffatewillgrant Silasherlifeback.
AceofPentaclesandPageofWands
InordertospinthewheeloffortuneKingAdirusesoneblessed coinfromtheaceofpentaclesandthe reenergyfromthepageof wands.
Andrew Romanelli
Blazing Shade Negation
“Youmusthavewantedtobecaught.”
I thought this, the sound of my mother’s voice enveloping the words coming out, condescending as blood from a papercut. I used her voice as a way of scolding myself. I wasn’t caught, not exactly. Still, I was a bit embarrassed to be detained and under suspicion.
As a child, my mother was often called by every authority the state could come up with. The inconvenience this caused her, the time away from work, and her realization that nothing she could do would get me to stop, led her to surrender this:
“Ifyou’regoingtodoit,justdon’tgetcaught.”
I heard it as a challenge. One that I accepted instantly. A conversion came about in my mind: yes, why be caught? While the notion seemed obvious, it didn’t explain why so many people got caught, were continuing to be caught.
A theory emerged, one that has evolved over time, continues to evolve. To be caught was a sign of amateurism or a desire to be punished. Let me explain. There are those who are plagued by a tremendous guilt for the crimes that they commit and can only feel release from this guilt when they are punished. It’s a hell of a route to play out a kink. Then there are the ones who consider themselves lifers (they are not). The state calls them career criminals. They lose their nerve and long to be retired by the hands that enforce the laws. A real lifer runs the game to the very end. Of course, in a long enough run everyone is inevitably caught.
This was not that moment for me. Proof was the only thing that could keep me. Proof was the burden of the state. I was confident that they would fail to provide any of what they suspected me of, but I did wonder how far down the line I was,
how close to being actual, final, handed down a sentence caught.
The jail I was brought to was this tall sexy brutalist structure with clouds that fell low and hung, gathered around it. My first thought was wonderment, did the worst offenders stay at the top or were they at the bottom? Maybe even underground?
My anticipation for where they would place me waned as processing me dragged on. There seemed to be some debate on which floor I should be on. They asked me this question:
“Gender you identify with?”
Inside I giggled then answered:
“Negation.”
“Huh?”
Another cop moved closer as if the first words of the revolution had been spoken.
“Gender you…”
I cut the question off repeating:
“Negation.”
My ID was of no help. The letter that would answer their question had been altered so subtly that one couldn’t read it with certainty and my appearance did not lend itself to any direction. I had put myself together that day so I would be easily assumed whatever the beholder thought I was, as my figure passed in their peripherals or for the few who made eyes with me.
After some consideration between the two cops, one left, only to return with some neatly folded clothing. I was led by them together to a room with full visibility from the outside. This is where they asked me to strip. When I didn’t budge, they offered an option:
“Either you can do it yourself or we can do it for you.”
Because I had no confidence that they could do it right, I decided to do it myself. I was gentle with my articles, as they fell from my body, my trimmed fingernails skating the skinny, blading my bones under the tight construction of muscle. Then,
when there was nothing left for me to remove, I bent over and coughed before they could ask me to do so. I rose up, stepped forward and opened my mouth so that they could see inside what was absent. I took their clothes then paused for a bit, letting their eyes blink in the negation that was my flesh, a demonstration of will, a testament to tribulations, an answer to their question.
I started with the underwear, a sickly salmon color I could feel was too small as I stepped into it and began pulling it up. That’s when I noticed a rust-colored stain deeply embedded into the fabric. Blood or shit, I couldn’t know for sure. The pants were thin from many washes. I expected to be the last wearer before they disintegrated into scraps the next time they were laundered. They were short, only coming down to my calves. I guessed their original color to be black, now they had taken the hue of dishwater. The shirt was long sleeved, boxy, excessively large and the newest of the garments. Its color a yellow of childhood toy blocks, bright. My attire, I suppose, was selected to subdue me mentally within as much as it was to wrangle me physically.
They must have thought me one to only consider a seizure of power when well dressed and feeling supple. No matter, they led me, the couple cops, to a stairwell and up the steps to the third floor over to a cell with a roman numeral at the top of the door which represented the number 10.
I could not discern what this floor represented, if it was for those being momentarily detained, which gender the floor was assigned to, and if severity of accused crime had any barring. It didn’t really matter, they walked me in side-by-side with my curiosity all the same.
As the thick door began to close me in, I descried an anemic shadow decamping from the cell. I took this as a good omen. I uttered not a sound to alert my jailers of what the light leaves behind. Once the door shut, I could picture them waiting, listening to see if I would let out a wail. Listening really close in
case I was sniffling into my palms covering my face the way one prays to a god that they do not believe in when they have nothing left inside them.
I stayed perfectly still until I felt confident they had left. I reached my arms up into the darkness. Good. The tips of my fingers did not reach the ceiling. I stood in what I perceived to be the center of the cell and stretched my arms, my legs, fashioning them into an X. Good. My body marked the spot. This would be the place. Restriction would only sharpen my focus; I had work to do.
Light was coming through a small, frosted window. The walls revealed themselves a dull gray. They would remain unadorned. This was no home. This was a staging area. The walls would be a slate where I could lay my plans in a visualization of fruition. A projection that held no permanence, would leave no trace for prying eyes, there would be nothing to hide for nothing could be seen by anyone but me.
“It’s not your fault. Just hang up the phone.”
There was a pause though, a silence that could have stretched the whole sentence. The breath possibly being held throughout the entirety of it. That pause, held air standing by to breathe.
“Just hang up the phone.”
If I repeated it enough it would come to be. It would have to. It felt like passing a loaded gun, here, you do it. Pull the trigger, hang up, end our connection.
A mother can’t though, can they? For what would they have to strangle silently within themselves to do so? And what they strangle does not die, it keeps returning with a gasping breath, a reminder which would require her to, time and again, lace her
fingers around the throat of that truth (I am a mother of a child who is out there) and squeeze. To do this enough so that the gasping breath memory lessens its Lazarusness.
Yes, I was asking this, not giving her a choice. I would not get angry, speak awful words allowing her to bawl into the phone. My cruelty was too precise to reenact scenes culled together from years of dramatic films.
“Hang up.”
I had to make a move. Truth is I was drowning in good fortune, a kind of luck that had kept me from prison, from death while others who would be my peers had succumbed to it, reaching the end of their line. My line couldn’t be that far off.
I listened to my mother’s whimpers. They were dampening the filter of the cigarette she was drawing from. The sound I knew well from a childhood of no-lasting complaints. I tell you, my beginnings were overly abundant in the playground of very little. Whatever wasn’t given to me I went and got on my own. The silver spoon in my teeth missing from someone else’s mouth.
“You can do…”
The click came, and I knew she arrived at the realization of what I was asking of her. It was what a child could ask. It was what no parent wanted to hear. It was what a parent could do if they had to.
This was the last of my connections. My cohorts, my fellow appendages grown from the dirt of capital, had all been cleaved from me. Their reactions less understanding.
Traditionally, crews fell apart upon jail sentences, death, or betrayals. Since this separation contained none of these inevitable misfortunes, they were left with the suspicion that I was on to something big and working with others. It was imperative that our ties be unwounded in a way that worked for all. Experience had made Madonna rich, and since then they had been after her. I wanted to add no additional people to my list of pursuers than necessary. I told them:
“What is next for me willbe big, what it is I don’t know. Who I’m working with is myself, or more like new facets of myself, my complete self, fully committed.”
By this they thought I was crazy. Fine, better that than anything else. Maybe I was crazy, could be crazy—the line vaguely defined for those who were innovators of trade as opposed to a finely tuned imitator of skill.
Innovation had the highest probability of brilliant success or abysmal failure, where imitation was a matter of application backed by all the time you had put in performing the crime. Staying static stifled my creativity and I had no interest in returning to what I had already accomplished.
Thirteen days later I was picked up while casing a potential score. I was holding a brochure in my hand, daydreaming as if I had already liberated the items I desired. My thoughts were preoccupied with how I would spend the money that I would make, when I was approached from behind.
Thinking of this now, added to my overall embarrassment. I was discretely led to a sedan and sat in the middle of the backseat as one cop, then two cop sat at my sides. With hands flushing red, my wrists kissing, bound by metal cuffs, I evacuated the young plan that was growing inside me at the same time I let go some gas. All of us in the car basking in a fragrant odor with origins only known to me.
A list was forming on my imaginary board of a jail cell wall, with bullet points that would aid me in affirming direction. I found that visualizing the words and reading them in my own head improved my retention and gave me a greater chance at success.
➢ A modus operandi is a fixed position, anything fixed is limited and hastens an ending.
➢ Any/All co-conspirators would be unknowing participants, minor actors guided, coerced, manipulated.
➢ The habits, insecurities, vanity, and joy of others were all tools given to me to wield by others who are unwilling to act.
➢ Sounds, shortcomings, movements, leftover words, everything unsaid, abandoned behind the eyes, a failed stifle of a sneeze resulting in the biting down on the tongue mine.
➢ Keep the body moving and ready, just as the mind.
➢ Let others produce identities that you in turn perform. You are not possessed by identity.
➢ All will be provided to you.
These notes cemented the ideas, forming pathways for my developing plans to traverse, to stay a direction. The important part was not to get lost. In the past I had made plans with groups, a free flowing of ideas handled by each of us, then discarded or molded into something that would become part of the whole.
Now that it was just myself, I felt such an ease with the situation. I wondered what facets of my life had lent to my acceptance of the now, my zeal towards a future that others might find dimming. It could be that my future was dimming and what I aimed to do would surmount to a great flash of light before total darkness.
I skimmed memories of my childhood for answers but stayed nowhere for long. I was a tourist in my own past. In my current existence of time, I knew only the passing of days by the counting of meals that were slipped through the door. I had yet to be questioned.
I took this to mean that they were still gathering what they could against me. Whenever they accepted what they had was thin, they would bring me in with the aim of getting me to reveal something they could use. They would appear confident, like their talking to me was an act of mercy, a chance to speak my piece, that all could be made right with words! I thought of this as I reached down my pants to herald a release that would ease me into sleep. It was a rhythm of love and hate, this game we play. I would find my star in the blazing shade.
My dreams carried a commonality. Whatever was happening, wherever I was, the ground on which I stood, which I walked, was gold, as in flawless fields of it. Short and flat, not fields of wheat, not a grass or weed. Soft, short and superfluous. And the sky, sunless without a flaw. It too was gold. Its brightness was measured and not overpowering, it shone as a warm glow, illuminating all that I needed to see, or at least what I believed I needed to see at that present time in my journey.
The areas that held darkness felt irrelevant until revealed, if necessary. Such as the faces of people, they were merely oval pools of black light, their bodies draped in flowing garments of warm gaiety. They were figures upon my travels who handed me pieces of a tapestry. I would need to collage these sections which were only enough to keep me guided in my journey. They did not reveal a big picture.
The figures without a definition for a face had prepared beds for me to rest upon the gold fields under the gold sky. Water and food were left for me wherever I stopped. I would wake feeling satiated. Sometimes a tray of food would be waiting for me, and I would let it sit, too inspired and eager to mull over the next part
of my plan. I pondered at the source of all this support that was coming to me in my dreams. I could only speculate.
I was grateful though, for whoever whatever and the why. I kept my own schedule; I no longer could be sure of the amount of time I was in this cell. The more days that passed knowingly would only bring about an anxiousness that would interfere with my progress. As accounting of time slipped away, my waking and sleeping states started to overlap.
In my dreams there were gray walls where I rested and when I woke up, the floor and walls, for a moment, had a gold glow emanating from them. If this was progress towards madness, it would be pointless to panic now.
In my dreams, as I would be handed new pieces that would lead me in the direction I needed to go, I started to notice along my path cairns handsomely arranged and stacked. Just as I would notice them, they would fall. The rocks sliding one way or the other, sometimes all in the same direction. The rocks scattered into or along the path.
As a child and all through my teenage years, whenever I would see these stacks of rocks, I would knock them over. I looked at them as delightful, unexpected amusements and went from simply kicking them over to tossing rocks from afar to topple them. It would be later that I learned of them as cairns, trail markers, or for their spiritual purpose and aesthetic simplicity. It was not about destruction for me, I was freeing the rocks from the balance that they were placed into by human hands enacting control.
As I traveled in my dreams, collected the tapestries, the stacks got larger. Their crashing down would rattle the ground. I could feel the vibration of collapse reverberate in my body, seizing my bones. I would wake up aching. How long would this go on? Where was the end?
I initiated the idea in my waking hours that there was no end, that the journey in dreams was endless. The answer was not at an
end but within the path, what I was experiencing was to lead me to some revelation. I attempted veering off the path in my dreams, not consuming what I was offered, sitting upwards at my resting spot avoiding the sleep in the dream world that would make me rise in the waking. There was no change.
The state’s resources are incalculable. One can never contend with them, only subvert them. Time, money, patience, all things the individual had little of. If one ever believed themselves to be in abundance of any of these things the state would correct them with the humblest of blows. I could be kept waiting forever until my time had expired, they could outlast me. I had to make a move.
When I entered sleep that night or afternoon (I couldn’t be sure, the let in light was dulled as if filtered by clouds) I looked at the tapestry, how it had led me from one place to the next. When viewing it as a whole it did not make sense. I expected somewhat of a map to emerge around the route I had taken but it all looked terribly fragmented.
I tore a piece from the patchwork, then another. The scraps fell to my feet, they were quickly carried away by a breeze. The ground was then washed over by a wave of shade, the sky mirrored the ground’s change with an eclipse. My sight became a blonde gaze cast out over into the darkened fields. Movement was a quiver, a tremble, a vibrate only I was not in motion, all around me genesis. This is when I awoke.
Immediately I felt the concrete beneath me warming, a pulse in its voids. Then the whole foundation of the jail started to sway its great weight. The hinges of doors squealed as if they were being pinched until a release was reached. Inmates I had known
to be my neighbors, though I had never heard not once before, began to bay in chorus.
My cell door flung open, the others did too. The globs on my food tray jiggled. I kicked it and watched the tray slide out the open doorway. It was my sacrifice to the bedlam that was beginning.
“Code 3! Code 3!” a voice screeched over the PA system in the hallway. An alarm blared briefly then abruptly quit. I did not yet look out of my cell, but I could hear and feel the inmates and the guards scrambling for the stairwells.
Shouts bounced off the concrete down the hallway like balls abandoned by children mid-play. These shouts arrived to me. I did not move. There were muffled booms followed by louder ones. I pictured pipes bursting, explosions happening. I heard agonies of pain, fire engulfing bodies. I thought of the windows designed to let nothing out, only the light in, I pictured the limbs of scared people trying to get out, desperate. When this whole thing came down, was it a victory if your arm made it out uncrushed? if 4 out of 5 toes could be identified as such? I waited.
All at once the earthquake quit and the jail, like a baby no longer being rocked, wailed. I rose up and walked out of my cell into the hallway, vacant as when I first traveled it to enter my cell. There was a flickering of light which then cut off, allowing emergency lighting to pierce the brief darkness illuminating vital areas with blinding brightness.
I made my way towards the stairs without urgency, It had seemed everyone else had used it up. I made my way to the second floor. Instead of continuing my descent I entered the hallway.
Now I wouldn’t say I felt a responsibility or that I was motivated by a fear of guilt. I felt an attachment. I believe it was first to the jail itself which I had accepted was lost, now I felt an attachment to its inhabitants, after all, I was one of them.
However, I was finding nothing and no one but blast marks and blood. Water leaking, exposed walls, busted pipes jutting like teeth through cheek. Perhaps on the first floor was a maelstrom where everybody had already gone down. I stopped to listen. It was difficult to pick the cries from the crumbling of the jail.
I arrived at the cell directly beneath mine. I looked in on its emptiness. The toilet had split in half. The metal sink was on the floor. Water spurted like semen the way it would rush out then pause then dribble. The bed was covered in rubble from the wall. There was a great structural groan, then my cell from up above came down before me. Which pieces once held my ideas? I sifted through them as if I would know as soon as I saw them, my thoughts leaving some sort of imprint like shadows in Hiroshima. Now I was nearly trapped. I crawled over and through detritus, not pausing to take stock of my body, concerned that if I found an injury I thought potentially grave, I might just stop all together and wait on the jail to complete me.
I headed back towards the stairwell where steps were missing. When I looked up, I thought I saw stars, though I did not know if it was day or night, if these small blossoms of light were from the emergency lighting or a flame burning up above through thick billows of smoke.
I made it to the ground floor, which meant escape was possible yet how could I leave alone, beautiful as that would be beautiful as betrayal is. Still, I set out searching through the areas in which I was processed, stripped, questioned. Paperwork was thrown about; most of it sopping wet or burned. Coffee cups filled with debris. Office chairs on their sides, no one hiding under their desks for shelter. More blood, no bodies.
Then I heard the screams again, which seemed to be coming from below, the underground floor I had speculated existing. I found no stairwell, no logical way to go down. The screams came louder, people must be trapped there! A huge chunk of the floor above me came down and crashed through the ground exposing
a view below which wasn’t much but a network of old pipes. A basement may have been what was beneath. After continued searching, I still could not find a way in.
Back and forth I went, a metronome sweeping. I kept seeing the front entrance, a honeyed light coming through its still standing doors, thick (probably bulletproof) glass unbroken. I could no longer hear any sounds of agonizing life. Those who hadn’t perished must have made it out, or I was in a scene I once read in the Qur’an during a previous rest stop in jail about the djinn, they see you from where you cannot see them.
Jail was a place filled with people who had faced a situation they were unprepared for. My preparedness signified to me that it was time to leave. I felt tremendous sorrow doing so, to abandon an endurance. I had to make a move.
I went towards the door. Often in a revelation lies a smaller thought that in the shadow of the revelation can grow mostly unnoticed until it itself is the next revelation. This is what precedes a revolution. Not external. Not buildings or constructs but the individual within. We are but a moment of an instrument in motion, counted among many in a concerto. I was leaving an order of motion that I had created just as laws were created within a society created. A world in a cell, a view through a frosted glass window. I can make anything of that dull light like an unexplainable pain in the body, I can make anything of its destruction. I am a delicate gear of a deadly mechanism.
As I went for the door, I decided I was taking something. I removed the state’s favorite word from their mouth in such a dexterous way that when they would go to speak it, silence would fall from their lips. That word was rehabilitation.
Outside was incredible. Buckled streets, fallen over streetlamps, smoldering wrecked cars devoid of passengers, black smoke dimming the sunlight, no people. WAIT! I couldn’t hear them, but I saw them, far off down the street. One looked to be helping the other who was limping. My heart sank. I spotted others too. They seemed to be gathering and heading together in the same direction. I looked back at the jail, which had ceased crumbling, resting on what remained of its foundation.
I walked towards the people, passing buildings all of which were affected differently. Some weren’t going to make it. A gas station was ahead, a pole still standing, the sign with its logo held, spinning. The station still held the energy of people who had just been there but moved on.
I wondered what people would say when they looked at me, would they recognize my clothing? Know where I came from? Would my tattered appearance of dirt and blood blend me in?
A small television was playing, I stepped into the station to listen and get an idea of what was going on. The reporter on screen was standing in front of fallen studio lights saying that the earthquake was unprecedented. They then went to famed seismologist Lucy Jones who was in a café when the quake hit and had to stay, setting up a makeshift place to work out of, analyzing and reporting the data, translating it to the viewers. There was a lot of activity behind her, it was at times hard to hear what she was saying. I wasn’t even sure I was fully listening, then I saw her, a figure in the background handing out water bottles to others, my mother. A bit older, confident, content in her role, a caretaker in a crisis. She was the only person I still had lingering concerns for but in seeing her this way, those feelings were set to rest.
It would take time before anyone sorted through what was left of the jail, inmates being of low priority when you cannot profit from their saving. They may mark me dead, that would be easiest. What would they look for anyway? The woman in me, the
man, the person not put together by their standards. A description is really a projection after all.
Once, I had been taught a game where the goal was to see everyone before they saw you. The state may have continued to advance surveillance, their active exercise of power, but I had learned from hombresinvisibleshow to move about.
I left the gas station and went on to fulfill what was left of the plan I had been laboring over for however long. What I do is not out of hunger but as an expression of desire. A desire to subvert the enchantment of property held by authority.
Arriving where I wanted later that day, I set in motion the steps, then leaving innocuous, a coin unconscious from pocket. Tomorrow they would miss what was now already gone and this would put me back in a light that always fell opposite my good side but honestly, I didn’t worry.
Who you have to be to find me is not who you are ready to be, ready to become, yet.
AuthorCommentary&TarotSpread-
AndrewRomanelli
Commentary
I set out with the intention of employing my spread to influence and guide my story. The initial idea of a character imprisoned was already present in my mind but I was unsure if I would stick with it. As I pulled the cards and laid them out, I felt their revelation confirmed this initial idea. Where the story would go, how it would unfold, along with its ending was not known to me at that time. With my spread of two rows laid, I let my cards sit. I visited them. Mulled over their meaning. My cards were in the upright position which tends to have an overall positive interpretation but I believe positivity, or an abundance of it can have its own drawbacks, especially when we think of a balance to our lives (and our characters). With the cards in my thoughts I let their interpretations comingle with the story that I started to develop on the page.
The4ofCupswas drawn for The Infinite ( main character / overall theme), with the PageofWandssupporting. The speaker of my story is imprisoned which sets the stage for them to meditate about their situation, to engage in a contemplation about their future and arguably a disconnection as they do not necessarily see their confinement wholly as a negative. This is where the PageofWandssweeps in, bolstering our speaker’s optimism with inspiration, personal discovery, a plan for freedom within confinement, to take the imprisonment as a way to reset and reassess, to make most of these turn of events.
For The Past I have Justicewith the AceofCupssupporting. The speaker of the story reveals a childhood of clarity and where there were inadequacies, a balance was provided by their own doing. There are also early signs of creativity. What’s missing is a tragic string of events that commonly are troped when a character who commits acts considered crimes by the state and against societal norms.
For The Present, 3ofCupssupported by 10ofCups. I connected this with the speaker’s ambitious creativity, support from their mother and crew plus collaboration. Although the speaker ends these connections in an effort to focus on their personal growth, they are still
collaborating with all of their personal accumulated knowledge and experience. The community, friendship, blissful relationship elements of the cards come into play for the dream states of the speaker. In the dream state the speaker finds an abundance of support allowing the speaker to discover their own way. For a numerology connection, the reader might note that the speaker’s cell is marked by the roman numeral X and that X appears in 3 ways (The roman numeral of 10, their body making a shape of an X and X marking the spot).
Hidden Influences: PageofPentacleswith the TwoofCups supporting. The speaker is working on a plan, a caper that they will commit. They are diligent, ambitious, and are developing skills in their mind. They are unsure where the will, the enthusiasm, the support in their dreams, is coming from. Unbeknownst to them, they are forming a strong partnership with themselves (think anima/animus) along with manifesting their escape though they think they will be released and perhaps in a way, they eventually are.
For The Problem I drew the TenofPentacleswith the Knightof Pentaclessupporting. Long term success is very much in question. The speaker’s routines in planning and dream engagement are bearing no fruit. While what the speaker is doing with their time within their predicament is productive, what good is it at this present time?
Influence of Others: NineofPentacleswith FourofWands supporting. The speaker leans into their journey even if they are losing touch with reality, even if they cannot tell the difference between the waking world and the dream world. They are influenced to look at their path in a different way and through this altering of view they are motivated to act and bring about the next phase, whatever it may be.
Course
of Action: TheTowerwith TheChariotsupporting. The depiction of the jail is based on The Tower card – from its brutalist structure, the clouds gathered around it, and inmates attempting to jump from its windows – fire and chaos. The sudden change, the disaster, the awakening release comes about through the earthquake which allows for the speaker to leave the jail. The Chariot’s movement
of progress, courage to depart, comes through with the speaker leaving even though they wished to find other people on their way out.
Final Outcome: QueenofPentacleswith KingofPentacles supporting. I thought first and foremost of the duality, a Queen and a King, Anima/Animus, a balance, a self resolution through revelation, a security. The speaker is free, finds their mother to be getting along fine, and they are successful with their plan. They may or may not be pursued; they don’t care. They believe they can only be found by those who have first found themselves.
Additional notes: I also used color from the cards within the story, the gold/yellow color and the dark spaces of the cards – the faceless figures in dreams dressed similarly to the people in the cards. I cannot say that I have covered everything, the reader may find more connections that I made within the story unconsciously and have missed here consciously. The main focus for me was to create something enhanced by the cards which I view (in this case) as a creative tool to wield. What each person does with it is their own design. The reader is invited to see what they see, connect what they connect.
Emily Ajir
THE FELTASTRIAN TIMES WEEKLY
March 12th, 1895 Edition
UNKNOWN MIGRATORY RAIDERS ASSAULT FABRICA
Strange and frightening times indeed, a caravan of witnesses and survivors say “Human” sailors from the East have completely sacked our sister village Fabrica a month ago. Taylor, a survivor, says the villagers met quickly and placed him in the position of warchief after the sailors' began their attack, but their defense ultimately failed: “They’ve munitions never seen before, they kill so many, with so little thought, I can’t believe I escaped.” Taylor went on to say that the gang completely captured the region, and hasn’t left. One gangster, dressed lavishly and constantly barking at the rest, seems to be in constant control of the group, and rather than leaving after taking their fill of Fabrica’s materials and food, he seems to seek control of the villagers themselves as well. He started this process by setting up a home in the village’s communal supply store, claiming that the village must pay a new frequent tribute, and demanding that only a single member of the village speak for the rest. One witness reports the gang-master saying to the remaining council: “Pay your taxes and you will be free, but I need ONE of you Fluppets to be my bitch and collect my taxes, so where is my new bitch?” Joanna, an elderly survivor, told us that the gang elected a leader and began extracting their first payments immediately.
In this editor’s mind, it harkens back to the hierarchical oppression of Kings, Noble-Governors, and Sheriff-Bosses that we thought long-dead, and similarly, these ‘taxes’ must be paid by goods the gang needs, or through labor ordered by them, with the gang-master calling them “asset liquidation purchases” and “wages.” Some of those who support the gang are rewarded with tax-tokens they call “money.” However those resisting these taxes or other orders given by the gang are either killed, or chained and forced to work.
Not much is clear about the future. The best information we have so far suggests that the gang has established a border guard surrounding the region’s travel routes, tightly controlling ‘their’ land, and some conjecture that the gang is preparing to expand, calling our and other regions: “a new frontier for Civilizia.” Whether we resist or surrender, our survival is paramount, nothing else is certain.
A.
The Golden Fucking Rule reads something like: behave towards others how you want others to behave towards you. Creatures like us are divine and social to our cores, we don’t exist without other people. We learn from our surroundings, sure, but our souls take shape by the people who surround them. Often, we copy what we see is effective. Usually that seems to be fear and violence.
But that’s how we know we ’ re right, that’s how we know God put their finger on the scale and gave a chance at peace with THIS.
Everyday, there are people who reject every fear-filled impulse and choose THIS, and share IT, that unearned favor, to another survivor in this land.
Not because we profit immediately, but simply because IT is the most effective method of mass-survival we ’ ve ever seen.
And I genuinely do believe that it can eventually heal this world and save all of us, you just need long enough patience to see it through to the bloody beautiful end. So,
I hope you’ll see what it looks like when Grace wins, I hope you can carry it every mile.
1. March 13, 2005
The sky is a balm, cool & light on the eyes, held up by the surrounding pines, almost like chairs holding up a blanket in your childhood makeshift fort. The trees have that e ect on the sky, pressing into it, its weight drooping down between them. And then Fuzzy realizes (Oh god wait, I got shot.)
It snaps to look down at its body laying in the dirt. No sign of blood, it starts patting its chest searching for a sign of the lead burn stab that knocked it over, but their flu y torso is completely unharmed. (Didn’t I fall into a river?) Fuzzy sits up and takes stock. (Dumpster. Gravel path. Cabin. Trees…?) The river it was just freezing in is gone. The adrenaline pumping through its heart is gone. The pack of CMPD dogs chasing it are gone. The entire world is gone. But between then and now, it remembered nothing. And now the land around is lush with rich soft peat. It shines a warm dark brown like fresh rain had just hit. (Everything’s foggy, but my head is clear.) Surrounded by pines with no clear break in their formation, Fuzzy stands up and turns from the dumpster to face the cabin. Head starting to dizzy, it walks and crunches gravel over to the door, tries the handle and finds it locked.
THERE’S SOMETHING HOLDING YOU BACK.
Fuzzy hu s and kicks the door. Its boot finds it locked. It turns to the dumpster, and slowly-surely, Fuzzy takes their gun out of its holster, the walnut grip bleeds a black ichor onto their fingers it already
feels lighter. Boots crunch back to the lidless empty dumpster. It drops in the gun and the cabin door clicks simultaneously. Crunching back to the cabin, Fuzzy suddenly loses balance, nearly falling onto the ground, but someone holds it up by the left arm and helps it get to the entryway. The stranger walks it through the door into Fuzzy’s apartment’s living room. Fuzzy sees its roommate Jeremy look up from a banjo, gives him a defeated little smile, and hits the ground.
THE
FIRST STEP IS GET HOME ALIVE. DID YOU DIE, ASSHOLE?
Yesterday
Wasn’t the plan, but it was plan B. Fuzzy adjusted its grip on the gun and stared into the man’s eyes between the muzzle. He opened his mouth, “Please-” but Fuzz pulled the trigger, and got ready with the backpack. Fuzzy’s two comrades leaned out of cover to cover an escape.
A rifle round spilled Alice’s skull onto the ground immediately. Thanks to that, Roland kept shooting,
keeping the ghoul-bastards suppressed until one of CMPD’s suicide-drones crashed into his cover.
Fuzzy ran into the woods, further and further until it reached a riverbank, and a bullet sent them into an iced sleep. Or no, the bullet sent them to the dumpster-cabin and somehow the sleep was on the rug in their 3rd floor apartment.
the bastard died, my friends died, but no, i’m not dead.
THEN WE CAN REBUILD.
A THUNDERING ROAR TEARS THROUGH FUZZY’S
COTTONBALL HEART and eardrums as a jet breaks the sound barrier above their apartment building. Thrown awake, the sunrays beaming through the window burn Fuzzy’s freshly opened eyes. Neither pain can distract it from their failure.
(Ohmygod– they’re dead.)
It’s certain.
“Oh shit, you’re up!” Jeremy stands in the doorway with a mug. Fuzz looks, and can’t help but smirk at his roommate's fashionable combo of flower-print shorts with a Goku shirt. Fuzz sits up, groans with a spike of chest pain and says, “Thread almighty, I feel like shit right now.”
Jeremy sits on the bed at Fuzzy’s feet, opens his mouth, says nothing for a moment, and stutters out, “So I think you’re not gonna die, but boy, are you a lucky flu y fucker, I’m glad I took costume design in highschool.”
Fuzzy blinks and thinks about its gaps of memory. “I have no idea how I got back here.”
Jeremy looks down, “Huh, someone with a Rowburto’s uniform brought you here, said she had to go clock in, and left.”
“Who and what the fuck? I don’t know anyone who works at one.”
Jeremy shrugs. “Compassion of a stranger, seems like we all survive that way.” He looks at Fuzzy. “But sometimes it’s someone you know, too.”
“Yeah.” Fuzzy widens its button-sized eyes. “Thank you, so much.”
“Just living my values,” Jeremy says with a sip before extending the cup towards Fuzz. “Here, try this.”
Fuzzy swigs from the mug and only rethinks it after swallowing the tea-like blend. “What’s in this?”
“Well, just some clover-grains, carderdad, nightseams, aaaaaand some flu y mushies.”
“Wait, wait, isn't one of those deadly?”
“Oh, I balanced it out with charcoal, it’s fine.” He takes the mug back and sips with a half-smile, “Besides, a quick death or two might help you at this point.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Fuzzy looks to the window and winces with pain, breathing through it, slowly working up the energy to start crying and say, “I fucked everything up.”
“I mean, what did happen?”
CIVASTRIA WEEKLY
March 14th, 2005 Edition
KNOWN-RIOTERS ATTACK AND PILLAGE FAMILY
HOME, KILLING FATHER
In a joint response to a home invasion, troops from the Civilizian State Guard as well as officers from Civastria Metro Police Department have neutralized the threat of so-called “fluppet-rights activists” after a politically-motivated break-in and shooting at the vacation home of Theodore Gelt, a business-owner in nearby Civibrica. The three perpetrators were shot and killed on the scene, but not before murdering Gelt and presumably destroying family valuables stolen from a safe in the riverfront property. While some purport that Gelt was a “Slumlord,” the Weekly’s reporters have found that Gelt was merely acting as a responsible CEO of Subpar Suites, and contributed to the economy by making hard choices in order to maximize profit. “He will be missed, my life-campaign won’t be the same without him and his generosity” said Governor Cooper, as one of Gelt’s close friends. Cooper is accepting donations in memory of Gelt at www.Gelt4Gov—
“So this is you in the paper?” Jeremy asks.
“ ... kind of.” it looked away, begging for fewer questions.
“Well, ah, rent’s almost due,” Jeremy frowns while folding the newspaper in half, “I… saw what you had
in the bag, those ‘family valuables,’” he gestures to the backpack by the window, “and so I’m guessing-”
Fuzz cuts in, “fuck, no, yeah, I can sell some of it,” it takes another swig, “I’ve got a shift coming up.”
“Some of it, dude?”Jeremy’s eyes widen, “and by shift do you mean you’re working or have you got another suicide-ass plan to work towards?”
“No, Jeremy, I’m fuckin’ fine, I can still fight.”
Jeremy raises his voice, “dude, I fucking care about you, this isn’t-”
“Oh fuck o with the lectures,” Fuzzy erupts, “It’s always fucking rent and fucking money in this fucking gang-state, I need to LIVE and DIE for the shit I believe in, I don’t HAVE TIME to clock in at the warehouse and help some fuck keep profiting o my pain, I DESERVE better, WE ALL DESERVE BETTER! And so fucking what if some bloodshed and some nasty-ass drug is what it takes to get me closer to there, it gets the job done!”
“Dude, what are you talking about? The only job it got done was killing your friends.”
“I! FUCKING! KNOW! YOU THINK I DON’T FEEL BAD ENOUGH?!”
“Fuzz! Shit is hard, I know, I do–”
Fuzz interrupts, “Oh, here we g-”
“NO, shut the fuck up. Listen. Sell all that shit this time, call Alex and get pennies for it, I don’t care. The money isn’t worth it. The comfort isn’t worth it. The past isn’t worth it. You need to take a step-back, not a step-deeper. Forgive yourself.”
B.
The Golden Rule is sometimes written, rarely spoken, and barely lived. This is a top-down government and the top is rotten to its core. My people, fluppets, have been reduced by the system of borderline-slavery that the gangs of “civilized society” brought here.
They rarely chain us anymore (since they have cameras, it looks bad to the softies in the metropole), but they rarely need to. Our natural ways of life and survival are illegal, and food and shelter are locked behind their money-tax nonsense. We’re bound to their ways, and their self-perpetuating system of power.
We deserve better.
They fucked us.
So surrender to this bullshit.
Surrender to their authority because it will either starve, freeze, or beat us to death if we don’t.
You get nothing but a treadmill struggle here.
You get nothing. And maybe, you get to feel nothing. Just smile with the stale bread and pestilence.
But I don’t feel nothing
I remember what my mother remembers, she remembered her grandfather’s way of life. Our villages. Our communities. Our families. Our relationship to the land. Our peace. Our balance.
All I feel is that loss. The loss of what life should be. The loss of life.
And when I resist this world, I feel closer to that loss. Every time I steal food instead of working in a factory for it, I feel closer to what we deserve.
Every time I break a thin-blue gangster’s bones, I feel closer to the world they killed.
Every time I pay rent with cash from a politician’s pocket I feel closer to justice. Every time I resist, I feel alive.
Every time *we* resisted, I felt closer to that village. Every time, I felt closer to the people I worked with. They have to pay for what I lost.
2. March 15, 2005
The neighborhood is an empty cup waiting to be filled. Despite the swollen clouds overhead, the concrete path under Fuzzy’s moccasins is still dry. The intersection is quiet, a tax o ce, discount shop, and corner store all occupy some of the half-empty space, but draw no other feet to the area.
*BWAMP*
A cyclist hits a stray half-empty water bottle dead-on, splashing the asphalt and smiling at his accomplishment. Fuzzy turns from the sight and knocks on the metal door again, and the house answers.
*CLUNK*
The door opens a crack, holding for a moment, before a steady sharp voice asks from the darkness, “Is it just me, or are you dressed like a cunt today?” Fuzzy pushes the door open, walks in with “yeah, I guess so, hi Alex.”
She is adorned with royal blues and a meaningful trinket around her neck that Fuzz hasn’t heard the story for yet, but it looks to her eyes, fine gems framed
by blonde-silver hairs hanging to the side of her head. Her thin smile accentuates the texture of her skin, wrinkles shaped by time and e ort, pure, distinct, and beautiful. The soft river of her mouth opens, and asks, “So what are you bringing in?”
Fuzzy averts its eyes, walks to the modest living room, and empties the backpack, a well-taped cube thumps onto the spotless glass co ee table, “About a key of koke, could we get like 25 thousand for it?”
Alex’s smile turns to flat calculus, the register of her brain accounting for everything possible as she walks with her cane to the purple-velvet couch. “This can’t be what Alice and Roland died for.”
Fuzzy looks at her souring face, just to avert its eyes again and say, “It can help, still.”
Alex stares into the white cube, as her steady voice quickens, “they could have helped, still. Their hearts aren’t worth this, they aren’t worth anything that fits in our hands, this is a fucking travesty.” Silence pours into the room, until Alex’s shoulders finally relax, mumbling “I told you shortcuts aren’t worth it,” as she reaches to inspect the koke.
Fuzzy tries to lecture back, “It’s not a shortcut, we needed that– still NEED this money to start a real fight. And this will buy us a fight, we can still do it.”
Alex shakes her head and flicks open a knife, “You’re right, maybe with another fight like that, we can all be dead.”
She begins cutting the tape and Fuzzy refocuses on the cube.
“I already checked it, it’s pure.”
Alex sco s. “Yeah, guess you would’ve done some just to walk over here.”
“N-no,” Fuzzy blurts, “no, I’m gonna cut back, I don’t need it.” Alex stares, quickly popping the truth out of Fuzzy, “Okay, yeah I did, but only a little, I’m working on it, okay? And it’s not just taste, it’s pure-pure, ran it through our tests, see?” Fuzz produces a sheet and Alex quickly eyes it before turning back to the koke.
“Glad you’re working on it, don’t expect any applause, remember to do it for the right reasons.” She puts the unclothed cube onto a scale, 687 grams. She turns her head to look up at Fuzzy. “I think your estimation’s o .” Fuzzy reaches into a pocket, and
throws a small baggie onto the scale, and the readout changes to 690.1g. “Nice,” both say.
Alex thinks for a moment and continues, “Look, Fuzz, I know your plans want more, but I want you to think about this.” Fuzzy braces for disappointment as she continues. “If I try, I can get at least ten thousand for it, and I can a ord to front you half. And 5 thousand could help you get stable, if you’re smart, it could get you out of the rent-rat-race.” Alex stands, meets Fuzzy’s eyes, “Guns will only kill, and we need good hearts like you to survive, please. 5 thousand is not nothing.” (5 thousand is nothing for Alice and Roland, but it can shed new blood.)
Fuzzy says, “Give me the five thousand then, I need to re-arm for the next one.”
Alex sighs, “Hun, the next one? Are you hearing me? Is a next one going to help you escape all this?” She walks toward a well-stocked bookshelf, “you’re lost in this shit, you have a chance here and you’re looking backwards instead of forward, or god forbid, inward, for once.” She reaches the shelf and grabs a chef-shaped cookie jar, “seriously, have you ever given any thought as to why you’re doing a next one?”
Fuzzy visibly ru es, walks towards her. “I’m doing this for everything, Alex,” putting a hand on the jar, it says, “I’m doing this because fucking everything is at stake. The world is chained by this bullshit, and almost no one notices, let alone cares, it’s fucking immient and nothing is moving in the right direction.”
Alex pulls the jar closer to herself, “Hun, that is all true, I know it aligns with your soul, and it comes from a good place. But none of it would let me forgive you for throwing yourself into a furnace. That part just isn’t right for your soul. Survival is the first step, sacrifice like that is the last resort.”
Fuzzy hears her, and vitally, BREATHES. Closes its eyes. And for a moment, sees all the fear, simultaneously crawling into and bleeding out of its heart. It sees the anxiety and oppression obscuring its soul. It sees the raw primal reaction that has sent it fleeing and flailing in the dark, and it says, “Okay. I’ll take it slow, I promise. But I’m keeping the 8 ball.”
Alex smiles, “If it gets you to tomorrow, just remember your values,” she reaches into the jar, and hands Fuzzy an obscene wad of cash, “Come over for lunch sometime, okay? Don’t stew in this grief alone, and don’t read all the bad news.”
CIVASTRIA WEEKLY
March 16th, 2005 Edition
CIVILIZIAN DEFENSE FORCE BEGINS OPERATIONS
ACROSS WESTERN BORDER
The CDF has issued new evacuation warnings in the vicinity of four villages in Yarnia’s south-eastern lowlands, ahead of airstrikes on Fluppet-Terrorist assets. While some dissent and claim the operations’ high death-counts merely allow for us to expand our borders, the military’s press office disagrees. One representative states that previous operations in the region have resulted in the complete removal of “terror infrastructure” and paved the way for civilization to develop naturally according to the market’s needs, doing its part to support Human-Civilizia’s GDP and boost the Fluppet job-market. C.
The fucking ghouls don’t quit with the meaningless bloodshed, why should I?
Fear remains.
It clouds the soul, it hides the truth. I can’t see the other way, I can’t see out of this prison.
My options are binary, I have to stand on one side of a sword. I don’t have another option. This is my only choice. Stab or be stabbed, kill or be killed, bomb or be bombed. Others are too complacent and comfortable, they wouldn’t
move until they have to, I HAVE TO accelerate this side of the fight, it’s the only way to stop the Human-elite from destroying us all.
We have to get free or die trying. 3.
March 16, 2005
*bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-BANG-BANG-B ANG-BANG* Fuzzy pounds on the storage locker, adding, “R-r-r-r-r-rrrroland, open the FUCKING
DOOR!” Until it shifts, and rolls upward, revealing a shaggy-haired Fluppet standing at attention, with a sti spine holding up their thin body and a weary frown dressing their young face. “He’s fucking dead, Fuzzy.”
Fuzzy blinks, “Sorry, Jones, I know, I just felt– I don’t know. I’m just gonna miss waking his stoned-ass up like that.”
Jones’ eyes drift to the floor, as they materialize a joint from behind their ear and light it, “Well, we move on.” They turn their back to Fuzzy and the sunlight spilling in, making for a couch on the opposite side of the unit.
Workbenches and crates line the walls, all cluttered with gear and parts and violent hope. Fuzzy follows, saying “Right, fuckers can’t get away with what they’re doing to Yarnia.” It sits next to Jones on the couch. “We have to take this shit down, today.”
The storage facility was a labyrinth, a maze of lockers and doors and garages and hallways and roads. Jones felt safe and private doing everything there–except staying overnight.
With a cloud of smoke, Jones says, “So while you were catching your breath, I got the next ones lined up for our execution.” Fuzzy’s eyes widened, “Next ones? You’ve got more than one plan ready to go?” Jones smiled through a long drag, nodding, “Our best bet is if we hit them all-at-once. There’s plenty of slumlords in the sea, but once we start, the rest will get spooked, upgrade their security and keep less liquid funds around. And speaking of funds, how much did you get from our test run?”
Fuzzy is slow to respond, and only after a toke or two, says, “Nothing, bastard spent it all on drugs. Might get something for the crap, but who knows.”
Jones frowns. “Welp, guess we’ll have to kill 'em all, anyway. I think we have enough ammo and all, the
three I have planned are with their families tonight, more potential targets, but more at-ease, too. They won’t see us coming.”
Fuzzy narrows its brow, “Wait, families? Potential targets? This isn’t-”
“Don’t lecture me, Fuzz,” Jones turns away, “I’m a motherfucker and a killer, and I believe in this shit and I’ve thought it through. They kill any and all of us daily and with every tool possible, why should we limit our reaction? All that matters is this fight, either capitalism dies, gangs die, power dies, and all the chains break, OR WE ALL DIE. They’re coming for the entire world, Fuzz, they want every tree and every plot of dirt. Why shouldn’t we come for their everything, too?”
Fuzzy’s face sours, it recognizes itself in its friend’s growing fear, “Jones, I know, I agree, but this plan, I think– I feel, I guess, it’s just not the world I want to live in.”
Jones takes a long drag, “So why the fuck did you come here then? Think I wanna play nice? Make friends with the fascists and cops and oppressors? Work for a living and pay my taxes so they can a ord to keep killing us all? This is the real world, and we
have a goddamned war to start, pussy. What the FUCK do you want?!”
“I don’t know, I don’t know! I want a, a-” (better way to reach people, some way to connect and get them up and working on the future)
“I don’t know! I just-” (need there to be a better way than more of this hell.)
Fuzzy stumbles over words and thoughts, struggling to piece together the unborn idea and share some shred of hope with Jones, it thinks of pain and loss, of the everyday oppression that has locked away peace. It thinks of Alex, and the breaths where the fear made sense.
“This isn’t right.”
4. March 22, 2005
The sky is a balm to the eyes, cold & backlit with a faint glowing, carrying an otherworldly warmth. The trees hold up the sky like a choir with their palms outstretched. Fuzzy sits up and takes stock. The woods are not the same as they were. The dumpster, the cabin, and the gravel path are entirely torn to bits and
scattered amongst the roots and branches of the forest.
(Yet the trees.)
The trees seemed untouched, completely oblivious to the scene of destruction. Fuzzy stands and approaches the wreckage of the cabin. The walls lay in pieces, torn apart by scorched-black tree-roots sticking out of the ground; as if they had pushed the entire foundation apart and upwards, shattering every major weight bearing wall and collapsing the entire structure.
The promised comfort and solace of that place had been utterly erased from reality. Fuzzy looked upon the wreckage for an eon of grieving. Felt sadness at this loss, felt fear for further loss, and soon, felt anger at the trees.
(Yet, the trees.)
The trees were the destroyers of this place, but they held no culpability. Trees grow roots, they didn’t pick to be on the property line of this temple, they simply needed to survive, and did what they were taught. Fuzzy breathes, and looks upon its world. It looks upon destroyers. (The trees do not deserve extinction)
It looks upon destruction. (The temple can be rebuilt)
It looks upon itself. (I can grow with this world)
It looks upon the rubble and roots, the thousands dead, the thousands fighting for a better life in every possible route, the thousands loving, the thousand rivers, the thousands who have yet to learn, the thousands willing and waiting to walk them home, the thousands who will never understand, and the thousands constantly begging to understand and Fuzzy can only think:
(It’s perfect as it is.)
Fuzzy opens its eyes. The bed is lumpy and the discomfort has inflicted an ache. Fuzzy looks to the open window, for once, the skies and streets lack the noise of drones and cars. Birdsong fills that vacuum.
Fuzzy walks to the kitchen, and brews a pot of co ee. After drinking a cup, it goes for a run. Fuzzy passes corner store parking lots where old friends shoot the shit. Passes parks where a young couple picnics.
Passes homes with lush gardens of vegetables and herbs. And eventually reaches the Pearl District, where o ce buildings and polished condos dominate the
land, hardly a square foot given for greenery or fresh air.
(Yet, the view.)
Fuzzy gazes upward at the structures, all the homes and venues it would never see inside of, let alone a ord. The steel, granite, and glass of the monolith glowed in the late morning’s rays. It was sweat and blood, made physical, made towering.
“Got a buck?” Fuzzy is pulled out of the view, blinking a few times before finally spotting the fedora-wearing man sitting on a guitar case in front of it. “Guitar Scuzz? What are you doing on this side of town?”
Scuzz looks at Fuzzy for a long moment before recognizing it, “Oh shit, Fuzz, how’s it been? I have to keep moving to stay o the cops radar, I can handle a sweep or two but not much, a man’s got to live.” Fuzzy listens with a smile while reaching for its wallet. Scuzz is unshaven and rough around the edges, but cares to dress in a clean button-up and jeans, he thanks Fuzzy while taking the bill and adds, “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, it really is.” Fuzzy looks back up at the sight “Hated this side of town and the rich bastards who
inhabit it, but right now all these skyscrapers just seem… wonderful.”
Scuzz nods rapidly, “Yeup, gotta find some beauty in just about everything you can, from down here.”
Fuzzy shakes its head, “Beauty or no, how do you handle it, Guitar Scuzz? I feel crushed by this world nearly every day, it seems like I have no choice beyond living on my knees for a machine I hate and dying on my feet for a fool’s errand.”
Scuzz puts on a pair of shades, smiles like a demon and says, “It is all for the beauty, man. The beauty of every day is in competition with each one before it, and all the ones after it, too. You gotta see each and every one you can.”
Fuzzy sco s at the sickly sweet sentiment, but nods along, replying, “But come on, the world is being murdered, these gangs are gonna own everything and squeeze it until the ecosystem dies, what are we supposed to do? Worse, it’s like everyone knows and they just don’t give a fuck because there’s still enough burgers to go around. Beauty isn’t enough, we don’t have a choice beyond either surrendering to our eventual climate
doom, or choosing to die right now. It’s hogshit, frankly, nothing makes a di erence.”
“Well, that’s the thing, little friend, for the most part, we’re all choosing something else than doom and death, you know? I mean, we *all* make decisions, even when the pressure’s so high that it makes us scared and weak, we all choose something. Usually, we’re choosing the shit that’ll keep us fed and warm. Everyone just wants to be safe enough to enjoy beauty another day. You can’t forget that, because if you do, you’ll find yourself blaming everyone, including yourself.” Guitar Scuzz taps two fingers to his lips, “Got a smoke, kid?”
“No, I quit.” Fuzz shakes its head, “But, so, then, what do I do?”
Scuzz shakes his head twice as hard, “I don’t know man! Forgive yourself, forgive me! Forgive the world for being how it’s gotta be. Do your best to make it more beautiful. I don’t fuckin’ know, do whatever it takes to get to tomorrow, be a man about it, or a woman? I guess whatever an ‘it’ is, in your case. Just have some fuckin’ sense, and use it to keep your sanity and your soul. I don’t have an answer and no one does, fuck! Just be good.”
A half-mile of silence later, Fuzzy finally says, “Well shit.” and turns around to walk towards home, “Thanks, Guitar Scuzz!” Scuzz scowls, [Kids, man.]
Fuzzy opens its phone and dials Alex, “Hey, free for lunch? I just gotta do something at home first.”
Fuzzy has a second cup of co ee before sitting down at its desk. The keys’ cold metal chills the skin on the tip of its fingers, but with their tip-clack-taps they soon warm. Fuzzy takes that page to the living room where Jeremy is restringing his Banjo,
“It’s called Grace of a Fluppet, and I think it’s gonna save the world, or at least help,” it exclaims without a hello. After he gives a patient smile and an “Ok, hit me with it,” Fuzzy reads the poem,
There are moments where I cannot help but think of death and rape and suicide and flesh torn from bone and all I can do is cry over how real and undeniable it all is in the darkness of my room I want to call someone, anyone, and beg for comfort
but I don't and there are only 2 comforts
1. this shit comes in waves, and waves end
2. I see something beautiful in everything I meet, really
It's not always strong enough to over power whatever else ugly is there
Not that I think you should always be what *I* think is beautiful
But I believe that when something ugly hides something beautiful
It's just a mask waiting to come off
I just want this world to be as beautiful as possible
I already know it's perfect I just want to help take off the masks
Jeremy comments, “That’s not bad, glad you’re writing again, keep at it.”
And that’s all it takes, for the first mile.
AuthorCommentary&TarotSpread-EmilyAjir
Originally,Emilyusedthe Da Vinci Enigma Tarot. Thisisthe1strow.
Commentary
Fuzzy’s story revolves around a deep conflict between one ’ s moral ideals and the reality of your power in everyday life. Fuzzy makes a wrong turn for the right reasons and the people it trusted most die because of it. In the wake of this destruction of life, Fuzzy’s greatest asset is enormously radical: it simply has the moral strength to re-evaluate afterwards. But this means it must plunge deeper into that conflict, rather than ignoring or soothing it into submission. Fuzzy’s self-reflections remain its strongest tool. Dreams guide Fuzzy towards understanding its mistakes as friends and acquaintances try to convince it to choose a more peaceful and nuanced way. And over the course of a few days, Fuzzy learns to choose grace over death, finally starting to walk the long road to get there.
This was a story I’ve been wanting to write for a while, (frankly I want to make a film with puppets in it, and I very well might do that with this. But more importantly,) I need this world to become a better place and I think grace and patience for others is truly how we do it. It’s how I became a better person, and hell, one person is a world, so if it helps someone else, I’ve saved a world. I have to credit a lot of the soul-code and heart in this story to my poetry-vagabond-big-brother James Norman and our conversations on grace. It’s a hard subject to encapsulate, and that’s part of how it got stuck in our teeth. Eventually it led us to write a chapbook worth of poems and *viola!* We published The Politics ofGrace through the mysterious and exclusive Bottom-Dollar Press around when I finished writing Fuzzy’s story. (Copies available through ritual yeti-magic, iykyk, ask-a-punk.) I’m not sure I’m any closer to understanding what grace is made out of, but I understand that it works. It spreads from heart to heart, and it makes us care more, engage more, and avoid less. I know this from firsthand experience. Grace came into my heart, and I’ve
seen it grow in the hearts around me from that. This is how we win.
The title of Fuzzy’s story: The FirstMile to Grace, is a direct reference to the late David Lerner and his work The LastFive Miles to Grace. I see parallels between Fuzzy’s story, my own, and Lerner’s. We all went through worse than we deserve and it hurt us. Caused us to hurt others and ourselves. The only way out is the path to Grace. I know it’s a hard path. I don’t know where it goes. But I know walking on it is the only way out.
These aspects of the narrative ties into my spread, and I encourage you to leaf through a guide and discern your own meanings from the cards and see what dots you can connect. Personally, I’m a very kinetic learner, I learn best by doing and experiencing the topic directly. So I’ll let that guide my teaching, as well. If you’d like to learn what these cards meant to the story, and how I made it work, just know that I had the essence of the story bouncing around my skull, and the cards gave me a framework of archetypes to weave it through. I chose aspects from these archetypes that I felt connected deeply to the narrative’s purpose. And then my head, heart, and hands did the rest, with occasional support from checking the spread and my notes.
Chris Mendoza
Of all the People in this Town!
Monday Night:
“Travis, are you awake? Hand me the driver.” I shook my head and the scissor lift shook beneath us. “What the fuck man, are you on something?”
“Sorry, Dom. I think I need a cigarette.” I took us down to the ground, ducked under the handrail, and climbed out. Dom was looking at me like I’d spilled wine on his favorite shirt. His mouth moved, but I didn’t hear what he was telling me. The two of us garnered looks from several of the other hands, but I moved quickly toward the loading dock door.
I ducked outside by the trucks and lit a Lucky Strike. I sucked in more air than I’d had all night, mingled with tobacco smoke and the distinct odor of casino garbage. The air was sticky; maybe I was sticky. A moment passed, and the next one was interrupted by the faint glow of something flashing in the corner of my eye. I turned my head to follow it and found myself facing the dumpsters. I took another drag, flicked the butt onto the pavement, and walked over; hairs on the back of my neck bristling.
Behind the dumpsters, underneath a banana peel lay a cracked iphone ringing. Against my own better judgment, I sidled between the cinder block enclosure and the dumpster can toward the phone. I knelt down, brushed the banana peel off and picked it up. The caller ID read “DO NOT FUCKING ANSWER!” So I pushed the speaker phone icon and held the phone, medium close to my ear:
“Oh thank God he has his location on! Travis, I see you’re out behind the Aria “ I dropped the phone. Who the hell was calling me on this garbage can iphone? I dusted my hands off and turned back toward the loading dock door when my own phone went off in my pocket. I checked it to find a notification from Tinder.
“It’S a MaTcH!11!!!” I felt my face light up, but maybe it was just the gaudy confetti colors on the screen. Caitlynn Crabtree (who was that again?). I heard Dom’s voice thru his stupid megaphone.
“That cigarette better be making sweet sweet love to you, you loopy fuck.”
“I’m still tired from the romp your wife took me on earlier today, Dom.”
“Fuck you, Travis.”
“Fuck you, Dom.”
Tuesday Morning:
I woke up at 7:30am to my alarm. I snoozed it and woke again and again in fifteen minute intervals until 11:00, when my sister called.
“You still coming over? Coffee’s getting cold.”
“Oh fuck, Tammy. I slept in.”
“I’ll see you in 20 then.” She hung up and I rolled to the edge of my bed. I preemptively shoved my dog out of the way before he could sabotage my boot-up process. Success. I let both feet swing off to touch the floor and pulled myself up to check my face in the mirror.
“Day old shave,” I muttered to myself. “We’ve got at least the afternoon until we look homeless.” I washed the convention soot off my face, brushed my teeth, and pulled some sweats on to head to Tammy’s.
I parked my car on the curb outside and shuffled to the door. It was unlocked. “Tammy, did you already “
“Yes, fool. Your food’s sitting on the counter.” I felt a familiar bump on my shin in the doorway: Picasso, my sister’s 18-year old long haired dachshund had wandered over. I picked the blind bastard up, turned him around, and set him back on the floor in the other direction. I walked over to sit at the breakfast nook.
“So what’s new?” Tammy opened, uninterested. I picked my fork up, stabbed a sausage, and bit a hunk off. Still chewing, I replied.
“I’ve been having weird dreams lately.”
“Seriously, Travis? Is it the demon hunting one again? Or the slasher behind the shower curtain?”
“No, no. Now that you mention it, I guess the dream isn’t what’s weird. It’s like I’ll be doing something totally normal when “ I noticed an iphone on the counter behind her, ringing. To my knowledge, Tammy had an android, same as me. “ when this phone shows up “ RIIIIING. “Thisphone.” I moved to the counter, lifted the phone to show her and answered it on speaker.
“It looks like he’s out to breakfast. Fuckin’. Breakfast.”
“Umm, whose phone is that?” Tammy asked. Her face spoke bewilderment. Picasso sat on the floor, staring at nothing.
“Well if he’s eating breakfast with his sister, it’s prob’ly no harm to leave ‘em be for a meal.” Another voice came out of the speaker, a little farther back in space.
“Make a note to call him later!”
“When?” went the closer voice. “Oh! Travis, when is a good time?” I looked at Tammy. She was staring into space just like Picasso, her brow furrowed.
“…I’ll be free this afternoon at 2:30.” There was no answer, and the phone I’d been holding was gone.
“What. The. FUCK WAS THAT?” Tammy sputtered. I wished I knew.
“I…think I’m going to do a lap with Picasso around the basin.” Tammy lifted a finger to protest, then thought better of it.
“Careful, now,” she said. I poured my coffee into a thermos and attached a leash to Picasso.
The basin is a half a square mile, box-shaped emergency reservoir (known as the wash by local dirty kids) enclosed by Gowan and Alexander Road one way and Tenaya Way and Buffalo Road on the other axis. Inside, it is condensed desert, random trash twisters and decades of adolescent skater graffiti along the concrete wall on the northwest side. A quaint sidewalk now runs completely around, and little green parklets punctuate its length. I like to take walks around with Picasso. I’ve been doing that since I was a teenager, and I still run into old friends from time to time on the path.
I parked my car on Gowan to avoid the main road and checked my phone as I climbed out of the driver’s side 11:50am. The sun beamed at a pleasant intensity. I gently tugged at Picasso’s leash and he briefly returned from the space of eternity to perform the well-practiced
function of exiting the vehicle. He touched with tiny toenail clicks on the asphalt and pulled us onto the sidewalk at a leisurely pace. A breeze whispered through luscious locks of hair atop both our heads. Picasso lifted his milky gaze from the ground and shut his eyes to enjoy its passing.
“It’s been too long since we hit the town like this, huh?” Picasso led me to a shady patch of grass under some trees and plopped his happy ass down. He panted with heavy breathing joy. I looked down at the grass, full of dead blades that fed the sprouts of the living. I let my gaze wander in and out of the shadows and down into the dusty reddish hues of the basin. About a story below, I spotted a trio of children, marching in loose formation. Their leader stopped and turned around, halting the expedition abruptly. She lifted a finger up to say something. It made her whole body dance, and her two mates started dancing like kelp waving in the surf. I cracked a smile and reached into my pocket to check my feed.
A car had crashed into the kitchen of my favorite local pizza place. Shay’s frenchies had multiplied again. Hundreds more died in yet another air raid in Gaza. My cousin scored a supporting role in a popular drama series. My morning scroll was interrupted by greetings from Tinder:
“You’re gonna make a theydy slide into your DMs?” My match! I’d completely forgotten.
“Well them’s a vision of grace and athleticism,” I replied.
“Nice save, handsome. What’s a perty thing like you doing on a dreamy day like this?”
“I’m just walking my sister’s dog at my favorite park.” I watched the ‘dot dot dot’ appear several times and disappear again. I thought to myself that maybe this wasn’t another catfish bot.
“Sounds like we have a nature boy on our hands. I like being outside too, but today I’m making cold calls in a cubicle.”
“I doenjoy being outside. Sorry to hear of your plight! Do you have an upcoming block of potential outside time?”
“Hmmm! There’s somewhere I’d been meaning to stand outside of for awhile.”
“Do they take reservations?” I asked.
“No, but I do. I’d like to reserve YOU. How does tonight after work sound?”
“I’m off today,” I replied with a cheeky emoji.
“I wish you could see my eyes rolling right now.”
“Oh that won’t be the last time I make them do that. I’m free the rest of the day, by the way. Slide back into these DMs at your earliest convenience.”
“6:30 tonight. 1115 South Casino Center. Cool?”
I looked up from my phone and over at Picasso. He remained comfy in the grass, staring off into space. I looked out at the basin. The trio of children had gone, and clouds drifted over the glare of afternoon sunshine to serve a tasty shade. I looked down in front of me to find a red spider, approximately the size of a French bulldog.
“Hoooooly FUCK!” I ejected, gathering Picasso at the expense of my phone.
“Sorry about that, Mr. Travis. You kept ignoring the iphone so the organization sent me out on assignment.”
“What the damn hell are you?!” I held Picasso above my head, out of the spider’s reach.
“Calm down! I was born this way, OK? I can talk just fine. Put Picasso down and talk to me, civil-like. I’m gonna need you to respond to that tinder date.”
“W-what do you guys care that I’m talking to someone?” I put Picasso down and he smiled and began panting.
“Normally nobody wouldgive a care, but your match is a person of interest and we must insist that you accompany her to insure she survives the night.”
“ SURVIVES?! I’m having second thoughts about even showing up!”
“Don’t be a coward, kid. She’s cute. And we’ll pay you.”
“Well, now that you put it that way I think I’m down to “ The spider was gone. I looked all the way ‘round and found nothing but my phone in the grass. Underneath it was a very tasteful business card. It read: IKE HUERTA. Chaos Committee Human Resources. On the back, a phone number.
I pocketed the card and walked back toward my car. Picasso walked alongside me on the path and bumped his head gently on the
car door as I opened it. I picked him up and placed him in the passenger’s seat, then climbed in myself and shut the door.
“TINDER!” I pulled my phone out and pulled up Caitlynn’s DM’s. “I’ll be there!” I typed. She hearted my response.
I started my car and retraced my route back to Tammy’s house. To my surprise, nobody was home. I checked the bedroom and the yard, but there was no one to be found. I looked down at Picasso. He was staring off like he always was. I followed his eyes anyway to the clock on the oven. It was 2:30 in the afternoon.
Caitlynn
Monday Night:
“Babe, I got a match!” I called out to no one. My husband was out at work and I blushed when I remembered. Dom didn’t get off until at least 1am and it was only 11. The faint glow of “The Haunting of Hill House” snowed over the living room. Our fat black housecat, Mocha, was passed out in one of his usual interdimensional pockets between my vinyl shelf and the wall.
I know what you’re thinking ‘omigod this bitch is married and she’s trawling through Tinder while her poor husband is at work!’ First, can it. Second, relax.
I shouldn’t have to explain myself to some fucking stranger but Dom and I are in an open marriage. Vegas is full of punk ass dudes and harlots fucking whoever and ghosting whoever and calling that polyamory and dragging our beloved lifestyle through the godforsaken mud.
I lovemy Dom daddy and I will continue loving him come Hell or high water. I just like to have my cake and eat it too. We get each other, and we have a three-year old together; never believed in owning people or smothering their fullest expressions. Anyway, out of the sea of 200 or so dude matches, I matched with this guy Travis. He works freelance production, so he’s probably broke (I wonder if he knows Dom?) but he reads so I bet he’s fun to talk to. I also can’t get over the
dark and broody features. I bet he’d be SMOKIN’ with a little bit of eyeliner.
Tuesday morning:
7 A.M. Fresh sunlight filtered in through the cracks in the blinds and illuminated a small pile of black work clothes on the floor. Dom’s sweet little head was snoring softly, poking up out of the covers next to me. I checked my phone quickly to see if Travis had replied (he hadn’t) and slipped quietly out of bed to pad over to my three year old, Ophelia’s room. She was starting to stir, so I ambushed her with silent snuggles. She delighted in a quick tickle and glomp and followed me toward the kitchen, but climbed onto the couch in the living room to watch my flavor ritual from afar.
Piercing through my own grogginess, I enunciated, “Alexa, play SongsfromtheSunroomby Field Medic.” The classic drum machine sounded, tittittattittittittat. I ground and brewed a dark pot of coffee and lit two pans on the stove on medium. The overdriven acoustic guitar and bass combo chimed in. I browned some garlic and onions in a pan and tossed some sliced mushroom and zucchini in. Kevin Patrick’s crackly tenor filled the kitchen.
“IthinkIknowyou, Ilovethescaracrossyourface.” Ophie’s head started bobbing side to side in my periphery. I threw a pinch of salt, a pinch of cayenne, and a dash of oregano into the pan to make a tasty crust on the vegetables. I shoveled half the medley into Dom’s takeaway bowl and split the other half onto two thrifted plates from the recently defunct Tropicana hotel. A mild twerk rocked my hips as I cracked five flawless eggs into the same pan to soak up the leftover spices. Next, I pulled two teriyaki chicken thighs I’d been marinating overnight out of the fridge and placed them into the other pan to cook for a few minutes on each side. I heard Ophie start to sing along– “You arejahfayshof,youarejahfayshofapowafooluv.”I glanced smiling at my absolute unit of a toddler and flipped the eggs. Both pans sizzled as another track began.
“Learntokeepyourhandstoyourselfthehardway. Nowyou’reold enoughtofollowyourownwinds.”I grabbed a knife out of the block
and cut into a chicken thigh to check the meat in the middle. Still a little pink. Mocha had joined Ophelia on the couch and plopped down solid on her lap. “Loveissomethingyouliketotakecomfortin, but sometimesyouwannabeonyourownagain.” I heard Dom stir upstairs and poured my first cup of coffee. The round scent of the brew filled my nose and I reached into the fridge to grab my carton of almond milk. It was almost out, but Dom takes his coffee black and the sprinkle was enough for that morning.
“Noneeds, nowants–justthinkingpegasusthoughts,”Dom’s agile voice echoed down the stairs and bounced off the walls to signify his arrival in the living room. He sang the chorus through as he boogied through the living room, poking Ophie square in the stomach before shimmying threateningly in my direction. I flung the empty almond milk carton at him and watched his reflexes fail, leaving his darling belly open to the single satisfying clonk.
“Wow babe, real mature,” he said in mock offense. Ophelia giggled from the living room, Mocha gathered up wholly in her arms.
“That’s fo poking me fost thing in the moning!” she hollered. Dom looked back at her and shook his head smiling. He buttoned the last couple of buttons on his work shirt when his phone alarm went off.
“Oh crap, honey. I gotta jet.” He kissed me on the cheek and dumped his full plate of eggs straight down the hatch. Chewing, he kicked on his steel toes, swiped his tool bag, and sped off in his truck. I watched Ophie kneeling on the couch. She followed Dom with her eyes through the blinds until he was out of sight.
After breakfast, Ophie and I took a stroll with Mocha around the neighborhood. We walked a couple of sleepy blocks and returned. I looked at the clock and noticed I had fifteen minutes to spare before I had to get ready myself. I sent Ophie to upstairs to get changed and pulled my acoustic out of the closet. I strummed an open E chord.
“Still got it!” I thought glibly to myself. I sang three gravelly morning songs and left my guitar out on the couch. I got up, knocked firmly on my mom’s door to let her know I was heading out, got ready, and left for work. 9:58.
I had two minutes to spare as I blew into the office and sat in my cubicle. I clicked open a pen and marked the time on my timesheet,
then started down the day’s call list. Two hours plodded by, a little slower than I’d have preferred. But I arrived at my coffee break. I walked to the break room, pulled one of the Dunkin’ Donuts K-cups out of the K-cup drawer, and dropped it into the machine. I yawned as I pulled a mug out of the cupboard and reached into my pocket to check Tinder. 20 unread messages, and not one from Travis. “That fucker! I guess I’llhave to start this one up.” He wasa fucker. Out at the park with his sister’s dog. On a Tuesday morning, no less! Must be fuckin’ nice. I asked him to meet me at Habibi’s. I’d been meaning to publicly cancel one of their concert promoters, but I didn’t mention it to Travis. Heavens, why, you ask? Well gee friend, let me tell you:
1. His name is LEAF. Not Viking-bred, Valhalla bound Leif. Just–lived in his car in California for two months, met some ravers while rolling at a party and ran out of money before ever rooting down–Leaf.
2. The events he throws arepaytoplay. Like, he hands fledgling bands he books a stack of say, 30 tickets. *IF* they manage to sell them all, they get a measly 30% of the take. If they don’tsell out, the band is responsible for the sticker price of the remaining tickets. INSANE.
3. He charges vendors a $30 fee just to hawk their wares at his events. Many of my best gals are vendors, sometimes paying upwards of $100 at other events to set up shop at an event they might not even break even for! Which is doubly awful at a Leaf event because of the worst thing:
4. Leaf doesn’t even promote his own fucking shows! Sometimes they’ll do OK depending on who he scrounges up for the bill. But I’m a regular at Habibi’s and the bartenders say he misses way more than he hits. So how does he keep throwing events? Who keeps giving him the reins?
I guess it’s Hola, the owner of the bar. That guy’s got too much going on to notice what’s happening. Unfortunately for our scene, wildly colored hair and billowy outfits lend an air of mystique or credibility with the arts, and so Leaf continues. Bonkers! All that sucks. It’s sleazy and leaves a bad taste in my mouth just to repeat it out loud. But everyone I’ve talked to says that as bad as the
events he puts on go, he must mean well. He’s putting on a platform for artists, right? Why would I take it on myself, personally, to picket his unwashed ass? Well Dom, my fuckinghusband and the father of my perfect child, lent Leaf a P.A. speaker over a month ago. According to the barback who worked Leaf’s weekly “OnlyJams” show, those idiots gained everything up way too high and blew the tweeter right out of that poor thing. We followed up with DMs and calls, but that hippie fuckleft us on read.
Does all this answer your question? I’m taking it on me, personally, because it is goddamned personal. Holy fuck, I fumed for so long that my shift is pretty much over. I’ll take it!
Travis
Tuesday evening, 6pm:
I wondered out loud, “Why am I here 30 minutes early for this date?” I looked thru the rear view mirror at the building Caitlynn had directed me to. A bar called “Hola Habibi.” I saw a handful of people shuffling in and out with amplifiers and instruments. Some people set up tables with paintings for sale. Loud jam band music was pumping, overloud, from speakers on an outdoor stage. “I can hear the music clipping,” I muttered. “Are they trying to blow their sound system?”
I got out of the car and crossed the street. I may not be a sound expert per se, but I know what it sounds like when someone doesn’t know what the fuck they’re doing. I walked into the courtyard and stopped to survey the situation: a mid-grade drumset set upstage on a rug. A Marshall half-stack set up with a stickered up hollow-body Ibanez leaned-to. A nondescript bass on a stand next to a large Roland keyboard amp. And approximately five bohemian-looking people ranging in appearance from twenty to two-hundred stood around looking bored or smoking cigarettes. An especially bohemian figure of distinctly ambiguous gender darted to and fro with an Ipad. I approached them warily–
“Hey, you look like you’re running the show.”
“Omigod, thanks! I’m Leaf. Are you playing tonight?” I looked down at my modest button-down and jeans, then at the steel toes I’d put on in case shit went south.
“I wasn’t planning on it!” I told them, trying to maintain contact with the overly shifty, rolly eyes. “I was across the street and couldn’t help but notice the sound clipping.” Leaf frowned.
“Oh, you’re one of those. Why don’t you walk into the bar, get yourself a drink, and mind your own fucking business?” I put my hands up and sighed.
“Your equipment,” I said, and walked away. I thought I heard Leaf hiss at the back of my head. I started walking toward the bar when the stage lights suddenly came on. I turned and saw a middle-aged man in sunglasses begin riffing on the Ibanez. He wasn’t bad. He started calling out changes to a younger looking kid fumbling on the bass. Leaf jumped onstage to screech into a mic–
“NO CALLING OUT CHORDS. THIS IS ONLYJAMS AND YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO STRUCTURE ANYTHING EVER.” Of course the mic fed back. I feltevery eye in the bar (maybe eleven eyes in the crowd and six eyes between the vendors) roll violently into the back of every head. A drummer sat down and began shelling the courtyard with raucous drum fills. They were well-played but harmonically tone-deaf. The guitar player and the bassist continued harmonically searching for common ground. I heard someone chanting from off-stage and turned around. My match, Caitlynn Crabtree! They looked just like their Tinder photos.
“This guy stinks! This guy stinks! This guy stinks! This guy stinks!” Caitlynn chanted loudly from the sidewalk in front of the bar. They were waving a picket sign that read “OnlyScams” on one side and “Fuck Drainbows” on the other.
Caitlynn
Tuesday evening, 6:32pm:
So there I was, sweating the pits out of my pullover, waving this neon colored picket sign I’d sharpied and gaff taped together after
work. OnlyJams had only just started, I think, and Leaf was already barking rules about how OnlyJams has no rules and I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “This guy stinks!” was the deepest truth I could express with a punchy cadence for shouting, so that’s what I went with. Part of me felt like a fool out on the sidewalk by myself, yelling in the direction of maybe twelve people in the courtyard of a neighborhood bar. I knew I was right, but I doubted myself. Then, like a melanated Gandalf at dawn on the third day of my losing battle, Travis (god he was dreamy) strode out beside me, cupped his hands around his mouth, and joined my cause. Leaf squinted angrily in our direction and, recognizing me, shrank a little onstage.
“G-get a fucking life, losers!” they croaked. We continued. The musicians continued foundering on-stage, but like, intensified.
“This guy stinks! This guy stinks! This guy stinks!” I looked at the vendors watching us, eyes sparkling with tears. One by one, they reached under their tables for picket signs and joined us on the sidewalk. One read, “Make like a tree and get the fuck out, Leaf!” Another one had a big “MONEY FOR NOTHING” crossed out with an “x”. We were five strong, and then the last three people who weren’t onstage crossed the threshold back, onto the sidewalk. Hola himself, the owner of Habibi’s, came out of the bar, assessed the situation, and took a seat behind one of the vendor tables. The music stopped. The musicians joined us, and finally Leaf was alone on the stage steeping in a stink directed only at him.
“What the fuck did I do to you guys?” Leaf hissed thru the noise. I answered.
“Well, for one, you owe my husband a P.A. speaker.” Travis looked over at me, alarmed, but quickly regained his composure. I saw Leaf’s mouth twitch. One of the vendors chimed in.
“You charged me $30 to vend your show a month ago that like four people showed up to.” Leaf’s eyebrows began waggling in unlikely arcs on his face. Another one of the vendors added in a high pitched New York accent, “Yeah!” The two-hundred year old hippie bellowed their offering.
“You hugged me before I could say anything when we first met, and you put your hands on my ass like I wouldn’t notice! You should
shower if you’re going to hug people, you know! A-and maybe ask first.” Hola looked at Leaf, stood, and said with crinkled nose–
“Leaf, you really do stink.” That comment might have set him off the edge. Leaf shook his head, face consumed with rage. His eyes vibrated in their sockets. He leapt offstage and hurled the mic onto the ground. A loud screech exploded on the sound system, and we watched in horror from the sidewalk as Leaf ripped the midriff shirt from his body and hunched over, the skin on his spine crawling. Fatty deposits of questionable origin erupted from his back. Wiggly appendages burst from his sides like so many squirmy legs. Something was emerging! Then out of nowhere, this big red spider just appeared, accompanied by a wee old long-haired Dachshund. One of the spider’s legs threw a shiny ball at Leaf’s shifting form, and it opened–shooting a beam of light at Leaf, shrinking him, and drawing him in.
“Pic-Picasso?” Travis asked, and he fainted.
Travis
Tuesday night, 9pm:
I woke up on a couch inside the bar. I heard a crowd chattering outside. The lights were low, and Picasso and Ike were perched on an ottoman in front of me. Ike began–
“Travis, are you ok?” My eyes widened, but I choked down the unreasonable panic.
“Yeah, Ike! I think, thanks to you guys.” Picasso opened his mouth.
“Holy shit, Travis! We did it!” I smiled dopily as I watched the words come out of Tammy’s dog’s mouth, then snapped back into the reality that dogs don’t just up and talk.
“PICASSO?!” I sat bolt upright on my hands. “Y-y-y-you can talk?! What…no, whoare you?!”
“Travis, I’m sorry I was quiet about it all this time. You met Ike here. He works HR for the Chaos Committee. The truth is, I’m an agent for the same company. I’ve been undercover, staying with your sister. She doesn’t know.”
“But Picasso, aren’t you 18 years old? You have dementia! You’re just a wittle old man.” Picasso sighed.
“Well, nobody ever questions an old weiner, do they?” He was absolutely right. I turned to Ike and started asking him–
“Ok, Chaos Committee. Sure. But aren’t you an HR guy? What are you doing out in the field?” Ike’s expression darkened. His eyes looked past me first, then found me again.
“I used to be an agent like Picasso. I transferred departments after a particularly hairy incident regarding Leaf. He gave us the shapeshift slip, slid into Chaos Committee records, and destroyed a lot of evidence we had gathered to use against him in court. On the day of his trial, I was empty-handed and Leaf was nowhere to be found. It was then that I–” The door burst open and Caitlynn strode in.
“What in the damn hell just happened?!” I looked frantic at the ottoman where Ike and Picasso had been sitting, but they had already disappeared. A crisp $20 bill lay where the two had been.
“Caitlynn! I’m not really sure. I’m just sort of coming to…” I trailed off involuntarily. They were actually even more breathtaking than advertised. I was starstruck! But I rallied. “Interesting rendezvous, this spot.”
“Yeah! Habibi’s is a real gem here in town. Sorry I sprang a protest on you. Like, thank you so much for supporting me immediately, but that was a lot. I felt like I had to meet you ASAP, and I also had to do this, and I...” Caitlynn scratched the back of their head and smiled at me, embarrassed.
“I feel like I get you. And I can appreciate a strong introduction. Also that Leaf guy really did stink. It was a no brainer once I pieced together what was happening.” Caitlynn lit up.
“Right? It’s about time we gave him a piece of our mind. Also in a stunning pivot, I must ask! Can I…can I hug you?” They sat down on the couch and sidled over.
“I wish they would.” Caitlynn wrapped me in what I distinctly recall as woven sunlight. They held me for ten seconds or an hour, and all the weirdness of the last day melted off me. I felt a sharp intake of breath from them, and they pushed me down onto the couch. They crawled on top of me. I lay there, still a complete puddle, and Caitlynn’s face pushed eagerly into my personal space. I was enthusiastically OK with
it, and let them know by pushing my face into theirs. Our mouths found each other and I felt the blood course through the entirety of my being. Caitlynn had me straddled, our fingers and legs intertwined.
“Am I interrupting something?” Hola had walked in through the open door. We both sat straight up, eyes open in a badly feigned alarm. “Well now that we’ve established that Leaf is unfit for running OnlyJams, I’m going to need a new weekly event. I think since you incited a whole-ass protest to run him out of the bar,youought to help us figure something out. Let’s talk soon!” Hola winked at us, turned to exit, and loosed a hand up in a wave; too cool for school. I looked at Caitlynn. They looked through the door after Hola, watching until he was out of view. Finally, they heaved a sigh and hunched over in relief. I looked over and Caitlynn’s gaze wandered to meet mine. A smile crept over their face. Before I knew it I was smiling too. We quivered like two magnets for a moment and suddenly came together again.
I pushed my lips into their neck, right below the ear. Caitlynn sucked in a ragged breath and raked my back with their fingertips underneath my shirt. I could hear my heart beating in my throat. I had my hands on their hips, enjoying a steady grind when a familiar voice hit us both.
“Caitlynn honey, are you in here?”
“DOM,”we uttered, eyes locked. Caitlynn’s head turned slowly and I looked up to see my coworker’s face. He was smiling at them and when he looked at me and saw my face, I saw the cogs in his brain click to a halt and he recognized me. His jaw dropped. My jaw dropped. Caitlynn looked at me, and then at him.
“Travis, what the FUCK.” Dom was real red in the face.
Caitlynn shook her head in disbelief and asked, “Dom, you know this guy?” Dom sucked in a deep breath.
“Of all the people in this town!” I tried and failed to suppress a smile. Dom shook as he spoke. “Fuck you, Travis.”
“Fuck you, Dom.”
AuthorTarotSpread-ChrisMendoza
Originally,Chrisusedthe Under the Oak Tarot. Thisisthe1strow.
Mordecai Alba
Westfall
August2005
Thenewlyinstalledcheckoutmachine,gleamingallspark-likein thesun,wasuncontrollablyspurtingoutthermalpaperonthe rstday Ieverspokeawordtothepersonwhowouldcometode nemysenior year.Hewasbentoverinfrontofthemachine,themusclesofhisback shakingasheshovedhisweightagainstthemachine’sopenfront, e ectivelyblockingthelibraryentrance.Istoppedinfrontofhim.
ThislibrarywastheclosesttoElla’sprivateschool.Here,shecould bangouteight-pageessaysonthenewerversionofWord2003asher blue ngernails ewe ortlesslyacrossthekeyboard.There,Iwas expectedtopickherupfortheworld’smostsilentpublicbusride home,longafterthesaferschoolbuseshaddeparted.Weneverhad muchtosaytoeachother therewasalwaysthefeelingthatshewas thechildIshouldhavebeen,thatmyyoungersisterhadbestedmein everything.
I’dseenhimacoupletimesbeforethatday.He’dreplacedanolder librarian,andtherewassomethingabouthimthatgavemeadesperate needtobeclosetohim.Hewasalwayswearingthesamethreepolos overandoverandtryingtokeephisheadhigh,buthiswristswere coiledinweirdlittlestick-and-pokesandhisheadwasfreshlybuzzed. Practicallycatniptomeatthatage.
Thatday,he’dbeentheoneassignedtodealwiththenewmachine. Footafterfootofblankpapercascadearoundhislegsashetriedtoshut thethingdownandslamitslidshutatonce,agiantloadingwheel whirlingaroundthescreen.
Ileanedovertopulltheplug,tryingtokeepfromlaughing.Bythe timehe’dsweptthethermalpaperaway,whileIrantheoldscannerat thedeskandbeepedeveryoneout,Ellawastappingherpairofballet atsimpatientlyagainstthelinoleum.
“Thanksforhelpingout,man,”hesaid,takingthescannerfrom me.“DidIgetyourname?”
“Marlowe,”Isaid.
“Ian.”He stbumpedme,andmyknucklestingledalltheway home.
June2006
Cassieisabletoconvincemetocometohergraduationparty prettyeasily,despitehowtoughIthinkIam.Shewavesabottleof grapeFantaatmewhileI’mcleaningoutmylocker,aimingher signaturepuppydogeyesatmeasshedoes.
Thescenejoltsmebacksohardtobeingsixandherbeggingmeto tagherbackintoFreezeTagthatI’mnoddingbeforeIknowwhatI’m doing.
“Ohmygosh,I’msoglad.We’veallbeensoworriedaboutyou, youknow.”Sheleansinandhugsmetight,thebottleinherhandcold againstmyback.“Evenifwedon’ttalkthatmuchanymore,I’mreally gonnamissyou.”
Thecold,guiltysweatthatrunsdownmyspineatthatmomentis powerful.Thatnight,I ndthatit’seasiertoclimboutofmy basementbedroomwindowandwalknearlyamiletoherhousethanit istocallandtellherI’msick.Luckily,Cassieismorefocusedon hostingthankeepingtabsonmewhenIgetthere,andit’seasyenough to ndmywayintoanunoccupiedcloset.It’stherethatIsinkmyself intothemustofthecarpeted oor.
Thefearofbeingfoundoutcomeslikewaves,andIletitwashover menow.IstareblanklyatCassie’sdresses,mixedwithhermom’s,their pinksandbluesmuddledoutinthedarkofthecloset.
I’vebeenonlinealotthesedays,scrollingthroughpagesofforums onbeingarrested,onthelegalityofrunninganonlinegambling scheme.Ireadthemobsessively,ratingeachpostonthatdinky ve-star scalewiththeruthlesshandofGod.I ndmyselfwantingtoknow
whatitreallyfeelsliketogetintrouble.Istillthinkaboutitinthose terms,likeI’makidwho’smadeatinymistakeandnotsomeonewho canbechargedasanadult.
Ican’tbringmyselftosearchforIanorShannonthesedays.Iused to,backwhenwestillspoke.UsedtocrawlalongtheirFacebookwalls, examiningeverylettertypedthere,everypictureposted.Buttypingthe namesinatthispointwouldbetooreal.
Istretchoutmylegsalongthe oorofthecloset.They’retoolong, andmysneakerspushupagainst thewalllikeI’makidplaying hide-and-seekbehindacouchagain.OneofCassie’syoungersiblings hasstuckapacketofglow-in-the-darkstarsallaroundtheupperwalls, asfarhighastheirlittlearmscouldreach.Theyswiminmydizzyeyes, andIhavetoresisttheurgetohurlintothecarpeting.Itrytofocuson oneatatime,lettingmysleepyeyescatchononestaraftertheother, followingthemdownaroadmap,lettingmylonelymindbeguidedby eachstarasitpasses.
I’mlikethatwhenIrememberMomaskedmetopickupsome TylenolforHaydenbeforeIleft.Shesayshispainseemstohave plateaued,butthesedaysallhisfocusseemstobeonstayingawake,on ridingthewavesout.
“Don’tgetthenamebrand,hon,”shesaid,likeshealwaysdoes. Idon’tthinkanyonenoticeswhenIleave.
September2005
Ideletedtheblogpostafewweekslater,embarrassedatthe thoughtofhim ndingit,butafewdaysafterIsawIanatthelibrary forthe rsttime,IpostedthatI’dmet“maybetheonlycoolpersonin thisfreakingsuburb,”accompaniedbytheusualhoardofGIFsI’d foundthatweek.
Itobviouslywasn’tthatI’dmeanttobecomesomekindofstalker. Itwasjustthatintheweeks followingthat rstencounter,thecloser lookI’dgottenatthetourbraceletshekeptslungthroughacarabiner
onhisbagwastooenticingtopassup.SoIsuggestedtoEllathatshe mightliketotakeatriptothelibraryfarmorethanIusuallydid, whichwasnever.
OnthedayI nallyconvincedherwiththepromiseofmyEggos foraweek,IanwavedbrightlyatmetheminuteIwalkedin.“Iseeyou aroundherealot,don’tI?”hesaid,stu ngareceiptintomy fth borrowofthemonthwithasmile.
Inodded,andwassuddenlyself-consciousabouttheacnedotting myforehead.“MysistergoestoBaronPrep.”
Ianmadeafaceatthemention.
Igrinned.“Iknow.Butshe’s ne,really.She’sagoodkid.”
Henodded,snappingarubberbandaroundmystackofbooks. “Listen,ifyou’reeverstuckwaiting,there’snooneinthesta room mostofthetime.ThereisaCDplayer,though.”
Forthose rstcoupleweeks,wemostlyspoketoeachother throughaseriesofhastilyscribblednotesleftunderthebrokenco ee makeronthecounter,o eringstar-scaledreviewsoftheo eringsof eachofourCDcollectionsandmovierecommendations.Ianalways drewweirdfacesinhisreviews,andIcouldn’thelpbutsmileevery timeIsawthem.
Istarted,irresponsibly,sendingEllahomealoneonthebuswhen thelibraryclosed.ThenIgotworriedaboutMom ndingout,soI startedbegginghertohangaroundtheparkacoupleblocksfromour houseuntilIwashome.ThiswassoIancoulddrivemearoundtown afterhisshiftwasover.
Itwasmostlyjustlisteningtomusicat rst,ordrinkingMountain Dewsathalf-abandonedsuburbanparks.Ifeltcoolforthe rsttime.I feltlikeI nallyknewsomeone,likeallthedreamsyou’dhadofbeinga badteenhadcometrueatlast.Itriednotto,butIgushedaboutita littleonmyblogwhenIhadthechanceuntiltheregularsstarted commentingaboutmy“crush.”
ItwasonthedayI rstbrokethelaw likereally,physically,broke thelaw,notjaywalkingordownloadingmusico LimeWireortakinga
sipofbadbeer thatwewerelisteningtoIan’snewestCD,andhad bothdecided,withsomedisappointment,thatitwasdecisivelyterrible.
Iwastwistedaroundataredlightwiththevolumedown, rummagingaroundinthebackseat.
“Seriously,dude,there’snothingbackherewehaven’talready listenedto,”Isaid,myhandsscrabblingacrosshiscommunitycollege textbooksandsplinteredCDcases.Thelightchanged,andIjolted forward,grabbingthebackofthedriver’sseat.“It’sjustwhateverstu youkeeparoundforyourclassesandthesamesevenalbumsI’veseen backhereeverytimeI’vebeeninyourcar.”
“Yeah,that’s ne,whatever,”Iansaid,soundingvaguelyworried. “Situp,won’tyou?I’mnotinthe moodtogetarrestedtoday.”
“Hangon,there’ssomethingbackhere.”Igrabbedahandfulof acrylicpaintpensfromaplastic bininthebackandliftedmyselfback intothefrontseat,laughing.“Whyareyouvandalizingshit?”
Heglancedoveratme.“Vandalizing…that’slibrarystu .Artsand crafts.Comeon,putitback.”
Isquintedatthebarrelofthepen.“Whatarethekidsevenusing thisfor?I’mkeepingit.”
“Holdon,”hesaid,andmadeaU-turn. “Whatareyoudoing?”
“Youreallywannastarttaggingshit?”
Yes.“Iguessso.”
“Listen,Idon’tknowaboutthatstu .”Hepusheduphisglasses. “ButmygirlfriendShannoniscool.Worksatthemall.She’llknowa thingortwo.”
Theedgesofmywristsjitteredwithexcitement,thesamewaythey didwhenI guredoutaparticularlygoodstrategyforwhateverDoom WADIwasplaying.Itwassad,ifIthoughtaboutittoohard,justhow eagerIwasthatday.
Buthetookmetothemall,whichwasoneofthoseglimmering thingsthatI’dcarefullyavoided foryears.Iwasn’tquiteedgyenough togetinwiththekidswhodressedinblackandlistenedtowhiny music.I’dneverhadenoughpocketchangeanyway.
Iandidn’tdragmealongbythearm,butitwasanearthing;he walkedfast,bouncingonhistoesthroughthemall,armsswinging, barrelingpastmallsecuritytowardstheClaire’s.
Heliiiikesher,Ithought,childishly.AndthenIsawher,and immediately,sodidI.
Myleftleg,neverquitehealedfromthatbreakasakid,was twingingwhenImetShannon,whenshetaughtmejusthowtohold thatbrand-newchisel-tip.SheandIanslurpedidenticalsmoothies whileIscrawledmyfavoritelyricsontothesideofadumpsterout back.
Thein nitysymboltattooedontothesideofherhipwasvisibleas theywatchedmewithsomethingakintoparentalpride.
Isawherafewtimesmorebeforeshebroughtuptheidea.She spentherpaychecksonfoodcourtsnacksforuswheneverwemether atthemall.We’dblastmusiconthewayoverandlaughateachothers’ stupidjokesuntilmystomachhurt.
Thetwoofthemhadmetinamarketingclass asitturnedout, Ianwasatentativelycommittedeconmajor,andShannonwas focusingonpsychology.Heseemedlukewarmabouthis eldofchoice, butshecouldgoonaboutalltheweirdbooksshewasreadinginher coursesfordays,tappinghermanicurednailsagainstherpalearms.
Icouldhavelistenedtohertalkaboutthemforages.Ithinkthat’s howwegotintothewholeordeal.Itwasn’tthather“psychologyof gamblingappliedtoawebsite”shitdidn’twork.Itworkedfartoowell.
June2006
Itdoesn’ttakelongerthanafewdaysofmepracticallyrottingin mybedroom— oodedwithcheerfulsummerArizonalight—tomake thedecisionto ndIanandShannonand ghtforthatextrasourceof income.
ItwassomethingIfantasizedaboutalotwhileIwasstillinschool. Iwouldreviewtra csigns,doodlingtheminthemarginsofmy
notebook.I’ddreamofdraggingmyselftotheDMV,goingstraight fromtheretotheopenhighway.
Itwasjustafantasythen.Butbeinghomeallday,actuallyhearing Hayden’squietlittlecriesfromhisroom,seeinghissmalljointsswollen andredeverytimeIcheckinonhim,Ican’tstandputtingito any longer.
TheminutemylicensecomesinthemailinthatlittleDMV envelope,I’mready.Ihaveabagpackedwithafewdaysofclothes,plus peppersprayandaSwissArmyknifeIhopetoGod eventhoughI don’tbelieveinGod thatIwon’tneed.Idon’tbringmyphone.I can’triskbeingfound.
GettingtheirlocationiseasyonceIlook I ndIantaggedina friend’spictureonFacebook,allthewayoutnearSantaFe,andI assumeShannon’swithhim.
Idon’twantanyevidenceonourhomecomputer,butgoingtoa librarytomakethesearchishard.It’snotthesamelibrary thisoneis visiblymorebroken-downthantheonewhereIanworked butIhave tosteelmynervesbeforeIgoin,admittingtomyselfthatthey’veleft mebehindisthe nalnailintheco n.It’shardformybodytolet itselfcrythesedays.Allthesame,I ndmyselfpressedagainsttheside ofabathroomstallwiththeMapQuestprintoutheldagainstmyface, tryingnottocrytooloudly.
Itakethelongwayhometoletmyfacedryinthesun.Iwritea noteforMomandDadandEllaandanotherfor Hayden,andIput thepackedbagbythedoorofmyroom—it’smyoldbagfrommiddle school,sohey,Ifeellikeakidagain andIwaitforsundown.
October2005
Allthreeofushuddledinacornerofthebasementofthe abandonedchurchonCactusRun.Thetileswerepaintedwithlittle sheepandrainbows,andtherewereafewmatsinthecornerfrom whentheyusedtoholdSundaySchoollessonsinhere.
“Wearegatheredheretoday,”intonedIan,closinghiseyesand holdingoutbothhandsinfrontof him.Shannonmadeher ngers intoaclawandstabbedthemintothesoft eshofhisupperarm.He yelpedandgrabbedourhands,pullingShannon’sclosetohisside. Igiggled.Ilovedwatchingthem.I’dgottenalittlebitobsessive aboutit,tobehonest,butitwasnicetofeellikeapartofagroup.
Shannongrabbedmyhand,too.Iwasn’tusedtobeingtouched, butIthoughtIhidtheshiverthatranitswayupmyspinefromboth pointsofcontactwellenough.
“Wearegatheredheretoday,”Iancontinued,closinghiseyesonce more,“tocommemoratethebeginningofatriumviratefortheages, onewhichwillgrantusfountsofwealth,fountsthatwillallowus to feedourchildren,andourchildren’schildren,andtheirchildren’s childrenafterus.”
Shannonslidhereyesover,visiblytryingtosuppresslaughter.I squeezedherhand,acueforhertokeepgoing.
“Itistimeforthegiftof…thepromise,”shesaid,halfasmile quirkedonherglossylips.Shebroughtoutthenecklacesshe’dstolen fromwork,shimmerystarsfromthenewestcatalogofgirls’jewelry, andpassedthemtoeachofusinturn,lettingherovergrownnails scrapealongmywrist.
Icouldn’thidetheshiverthattime,butshelookedawaycarefully.
Iheldthependantoutbetweenthethreeofus,rightoveratile emblazonedwithachild’smessyhandprint,andwatchedastheother twoheldtheirstarsoutaswell.Theirpointstouchedforjustamoment beforeIanlethisshouldersslumpandremovedhishandsfromthe circlewithasigh.
Itwasstupid,butapartofmefeltlikeaspellreallyhadbeen brokenwhenweallscootedaway,sprawlingbackontothe oorto stareupatthecrumblingceiling.
“So.”Iancrossedonelegovertheother,andclickedhistongue againsttheroofofhismouth.“I’llhandlethe nances,Shannonwill helpwiththepsychologystu ,andMarcansetupthesite?”
Inodded.“It’llbeupassoonasIhavea naldraft.”
Shannonrolledover,thebottomofoneofherlayeredtanksriding upoverherhip,andpoutedatusboth,puttingonababyvoice.“And thisisalltotallylegal,right?”
Ilaughed,andtriedtofeelyoung,andstavedo thebileroilingin mystomachwithanotherquip.
June2006
It’salmost4whenIpullintoSantaFe.Idon’twanttostoptoo often I’vetakentheoldcarthat’ssounreliablethatDadrefusesto evensellit.SobesidesashortstopforaMountainDewinatoo-bright gasstationoutwheretheythinkaliensland,it’sbeennothingbut desertroadstretchingoutinfrontofmeallnight.
CerrillosisbiggerstillwhenIdriveintothecity,thebuildingson eithersideoftheroadfeelingimpossiblylargeandimpossiblydistant.I ndthe rstmotelwithalitVACANCYsignandpullin,scrapingthe sideofthecaragainstalargecementcolumnasIdo.
Iwakeuptheguyatthefrontdeskandbookafewnights,crashing assoonasIgetintotheroom.
Iusedtohatemotelrooms.Thebeddingalwaysfeltgrimyand slightlygreasytome,andIcouldn’tgetoverthesmellofmildewthat lledeverycorneroftheroom.Today,Ican’tbringmyselftocare.I turntheairconditioningashighasitgoesandcovermyselfinthe blanketsIwasalwaysafraidtotouch.I’masleepalmostinstantly.
Ihadstrangedreamsthatnight.Ialwayshavestrangedreamsthis timeofyear.I’mnakedinthisone,orI’mcoveredinshiningarmor.I can’tmakesenseofmyownbody.ItchangeswitheverystepI take.
Shannonisleeringatmeoveramountainrangeofscragglyrock, hertoo-straighthairspillingoverhershoulders,box-blondeandfried.I amwalkingtowardsherlikeit’sapilgrimage,likeIcan’thelpmyself wantingto ndher.I’mholdingastick,broadandgnarled,andIknow Ihaveto ghther,butIdon’twantto ghther,andIfeelboth too-bareandlikeIneedtoriptheselayerso .
Shelooksdownatmewithapairofoverlinedandunseeingeyes.I runtowardsher,towardsthatfamiliarcurlofherlipsandthosesnarky comments,andI’mgaspingwhenIwakeupinafreezingandsunny room.
October2005
Isketchedoutthewebsiteonthebackofamedicalbillfrom Hayden’slatesttriptotheER.
He’dhadasthmasincehewasalittlekid,butsincehismostrecent roundwiththe u,itseemedlikehewashavingattackseveryother week.Healwayshadthatsolemn,old-soullookinhiseyes,evenjuiced uponsteroids,evenwiththatclearmaskblowingmedsintohisface everyfewhours.ItriedtomakehimhotchocolateasmuchasIcould, handinghimanewcupeverymorningjusttoseeifthatdaywasthe onehe’dcrackasmile.Ipouredasmuchloveandhopeintoeverycup asIcould,prayingitwouldmakehimfeelbetter.
ImappedoutthewebsiteexactlyhowShannontoldmeto,but whenIemailedthose rst HTML lestothegroup,sherepliedthat somethingwasmissing.“It’sgood,”she’dsent,“butitneedsmore character.”
Initsoriginalform,theprojectappeared,at rst,tobeasimple cardgame I’dgrabbedapackofplayingcardjpegso ofafreesite, addinginmymostsparklyGIFs.Themonetizationaspectwouldn’t appearat rst,butwouldgraduallybecomemoreinsistentthroughout roundsofacardgame,thepullsseeminglyrandomizedbutcarefully laidouttohookplayersonthefeelofwinningeveryfewrounds.With Ian’shelp,Shannonhadworkedoutthemathonapagerippedfrom oneofhercompositionnotebooks,andIkeptitnexttomeasI worked.
AhalfhourafterShannon’sreply,she’dsentbackpicturesof sketchesforanewdesign.Loomingoverthesiteatalltimeswouldbe the gureofaqueen,graspingagobletinbothhands,fountainsof
wealthspillingoveritssides,aserenesmiledancingonherlips.The playerwouldbegreetedasthebravelittleknightwhosoughtthe queen ’sgoblet,whowoulddoanythingtomakeherhappy.
IdigitizedhersketchesandtracedovertheminPaint.Drawingthe queenwastheeasypart inthat nalGIFImade,theonewhich wouldappearatthetopofthesite,shealmostlookedlikeShannon whenherheadtiltedtotheside,thatsamesmile ickeringacrossher lips.Itwastheknightthatcausedtrouble.
Imusthavedrawn fteeninoneevening,squintingatthe computerscreenwithtiredeyesastheclocktickedpast1.Eventually,I cameupwithsomebullshitargumentaboutwhyitwasactually better tonothaveavisualfortheknightcharacter,thatthesitevisitorwould feelmoreconnectedtotheideaofbeingaknightiftheydidn’thaveto doanymentalgymnasticstoenvisionthemselvesashim,andsentit out.
ApparentlythismeshedwithwhateverpsychologytricksShannon hadlearned,andsheapprovedit.
Itwasn’tagreatdayforHaydenwhenthesitewentlive,truthbe told.He’dstartedhavingmusclespasmsbythatpoint,andMomhad movedhimintothecomputerroomsoIcouldkeepaneyeonhim whiledoinghomework.Ithelped,beingabletoseethathewas breathing.Hewassofuckingsleepy,nothinglikethecheerful seven-year-oldofjustafewmonthsago,beggingforpiggybackrides andpunchingmeifIdidn’tlethimhaveextraOreos.
IfocusedonwhatIcouldandtestedthesiteabilliontimes, ensuringeverythingwassetuptogothroughtotherightbank account,theoneIanhadsetup.Shannonwanteda“mysterious” marketingcampaign,soImadeweird,jerkyGIFsadvertisingthesite andspreadthemacrosseveryforumIcould nd.“Doyouwanttogo toQueensland?”readtheonethatwouldendupattractingthemost attentioninwhirlingComicSans.
ItwasagainstthesoundofHayden’slungsdraggingagainsthis nebulizerthatIuploadedthe nal les.Isworetomyselfinthat momentthatIcouldbeasavior,thatIwouldbehis.
Thenightlighthe’dhadsincehewasakidwaspoppingand zzing likeitwasabouttorupture.
June2006
Icampoutatthemotelforseveralweeks,takingfulladvantageof theirsoggycontinentalbreakfasts,theirbrokenshower.At rst,Idrag myselftoallthetouristspotslikeI’madoomedmanfacingmylastfew daysoffreedom.MaybeIam,Ithinkataroadsideshop,crystal necklacesspillingthroughmyhands.
Igiggleuntilthehorrorsetsin,andthenIgripthesteeringwheel sotightmyknucklesturnwhiteonthedrivebacktothehotel.Thefast foodI’dnestledinthepassengerseatearliertasteslikestomachacid whenItrytochokeitdown.Istandoverthemini-fridgeandlook myselfintheeyesthroughthemirror.Myfacehasstartedtolosesome ofitsbabyfat,butIlooksomuchlikemyselfinthatmomentthatit’s di culttokeepfromcrying.
Istopgoingoutafterthat.Iorderpizzastotheroom,handingover thelastofmymoneytoacne-ladenkidsasmystomachchurnswith guilt.ItrynottothinkaboutHayden.IthinkaboutHayden.Ithink abouthowstressalwaystriggershissymptoms,howjustthethoughtof amathtestthenextdaywouldhavehimvomitingintothepopcorn bowl,beadsofsweatrunningdownhispaleforehead.Ithinkabout howhe’sdoingnow.IthinkabouthowonEarthwe’repayingforit.
Itdoesn’ttaketoolongbeforetheroomstartstofeeltoohotno matterwhatIdo,nomatterhowhigh Icranktheairconditioning.I stripdownnakedandclosetheblinds.Ispreadmyselfoutinthe bathtub,tryingtofeelcoldagain,tryingtoignorethehot ashesroiling throughmyabdomen.MyhandsareslipperyasIgripthesideofthe tub,propopenthetoiletseat,andvomitintoitsbowl.
Themoneytooksometimetoarrive,buteventually,itstarted tricklingin.Theonlinebankingsitewaslaggyasitwas,andeven laggieronmycomputer,butIrefresheditconstantly.Irubbedatthe sideofmythumbsoharditturnedraw.
Ianhadbeenbusywith nals,butattheendofNovember,he pickedmeupfromthelibraryanddrovemetothemall.Thethreeof ussplitsoftpretzelsinthefoodcourtanddivviedupthefunds, Shannongigglingassheappliedhermakeuppre-shift.
Itwasjustlikethatforthe rstcouplemonths,really,goodyet unextraordinary.Isnucktwentiesintomyparents’walletswhenthey weren’tlooking.Hayden’shospitalvisitswereweeklybythatpoint, butIguiltilyuppedmyownallowancefromtwosoftdrinksaweekat lunchtofour.
AndthenitwasDecember,andIwaslyingawakeatnightlistening tomybabybrothercryfromthenextroomover,stumblingthrough hisblanketsaftertopplingoutofbedagain,hislittlelighthousenight lightunpluggedandsparkingandlyingonthe oorbesidehim.
Hisbodystartedrejectingfood.Mommadeherbeste ortswith glutenfree ourandalmondmilkandsun owerbutterandservedhim onpaperplateswithfunanimalsonthem,buthethreweverythingup anyway.Histhinskinmottledabrightred.Hewasasphyxiatingmore thanheeverhadbefore.
Igaveupsoftdrinksandvisitedhimintheemergencyroomevery timehewasin,bringinghimerasersshapedlikedinosaursandcupsof powderedcocoafromthenurses’room.Elladealtwithitinherown way,throwingherselfsodeeplyintoherschoolworkthatIbarelysaw her.
Youhavetounderstand.ItwasunderallofthisstressthatItook themoney.
Itwasn’tsomethingIspentalotoftimethinkingabout.These thingsneverare.Itwassoquick.Itwassoeasy.Ittooknothingatallfor ittofeelokay.Distantly,thatworriedme.
Itwasn’tmeanttobeasmuchmoneyasitendedup being hundredsofdollars,nearlyathousand,ontopofthe previouslyagreed-upontotalIanhadsetforeachmemberofthe group butitwasthenumberIhadtolistanywaywhenItoldthem, snottingallovermyWetzel’sinthemiddleofthefoodcourttheweek afterChristmas.
Ididn’texpectforgiveness.IrefusedtoexplainwhyItookthe money,butImademyselflookIanintheeyesasthetrusthe’dhadin meslumpedaway.Hewasthe rsttobreakeyecontact,toputhishead inhishands.HewaslikethatwhenIstoodupandleft,mypretzelstill half-eatenonthetable,myshareofthemonth’spaymentspreadacross thetableintwoneatpiles.
Icouldhandlethat,barely.WhatIcouldn’thandlewasShannon’s lookofpity,hereyespiercinglysoftoverthebridgeofhernoseasshe leanedagainstherforearms.
July2006
It’sJulybythetimeI’mabletodragmyselftothelibrary.Afew nightsbefore,Ihaveadreamofthemissingposter.Ihaven’tseensigns ofone,notevenontheTV,theoneIhaveto ddlewiththebunny earsofabilliontimesbeforeanythingcomesthrough.
Inthedream,Iimaginethatthereisone,atthispoint,that someone ’scaredenoughtotipo thepolice.Iseeit,andit’smyschool picturefromeighthgrade,theoneItriedtohidewhenIgothome. Momhungitupanyway,strokingmyhair.andtellingmehowprettyI was.
Shelovesme,IthinkwhenIwakeup.Ihatethinkingaboutit.I hatethinkingI’vedonesomethingtothem,something worsethan havingleftthemwithoutthatextrasourceofincome.
IgivemyselfacoupledaysinbedlikeI’maVictorianheroine, drinkingwaterfromthebathroomsinkandsleepingthedaysaway dreamlessly.Imakemyselfgetupthatmorning,andIhidemyhair
underahoodieIstolefromDad,dyedredandblackinpartsasitis, worryingIanwillbeatthelibrary itself.
Heisn’t,butwhenI ndtheaddress,it’sallIcandotokeepfrom growlingatmyself.They’vebeenlessthanamileaway,alltheseweeks. WhenIgetbacktothecar,itfeelslikeI’mdreaming.Icanbarely feelmyhandsastheypackthepeppersprayintomypockets,asthey preparetheSwissArmyknife.They’renumbbythetimeI’mdriving.
There’snocarinthedriveway.Ishakethescreendooratthefront oftheirstupidfriend’shouse, lettingitbangupagainsttheoutermost door.Themetalisblazingagainstthesummersun.Iananswers, and hetriestoshutthedooronme,butI’mtoofast oldersister instincts andIsqueezeinafterhim.
Iholdthepeppersprayoutlikeashieldinfrontofme.The carpetingofthehallwayisthickwithsmoke andpethair,andIfeel myselfsinkingintoitlikeit’smud.“Listen.”
“Marlowe,whattheactualfuck?”Hishandsareup,andhe’s backedallthewayintothekitchen.
“Givemethemoney.”
Hiseyebrowsriseonhisface.“Themoneyyoustolefromme?”
Idon’tfeellikeI’mpowerfulanymore.Ifeellikeakidwho’sstolen herdad’s matches,who’swieldingthemonthelawnwhileeveryone screamsathertostop.It’shardtostopmyselffromcryingbythis point,butIkeepgoing.“Whereisit?”
Shannonisherenow,somehow,bracingmyfacewithbothhands, touchingmyarm,loweringthepepperspray.Shedoesn’tknowabout theknife,Ithink,wildly,asifthatknifewoulddoathing.Ishoveher o ,butsheclosesinagain.
“Baby,wedon’thaveanymoney,”shesays,likeshe’stalkingtoa child,strokingthesideofmyhead.Noneofthatbravadoshehadin thespring,whenshewasleaningincloseandkissingmycheeksand puttingontoomuchperfume.IwassofuckingeasywhenIcouldn’t standbeingalone.
Ianrano acoupleweeksafterNewYear’s.Hechangedthe passwordstoalltheaccounts theoneforsitehosting,thebank account,eventheemailaccountthatthethreeofushadattachedtothe entirescheme.
Shannonwasstillworkingatthemallinthosedays,anditwasn’t hardto ndheratClaire’s,tocornerherinamomentwhenshe couldn’tstepaway.Istoodbyherwhileshewasrestockingearrings, bundledupinmydinkylittlecoat,leaningonmygoodleg.
IaskedherwhereIanwas,andshesaidshedidn’tknow.Youasked herifshehadthepasswords. Shelookedyouintheeyesthattime,and saidnointhesmallestvoice,andinvitedyououtbackforherbreak whileshesmoked.
Inherdefense,sheplayedtheabandonedgirlfriendthingincredibly well smudgedhermascaraintheprocess,letitrundownone-halfof herfacewithoutanounceofshame.Sheletmeputonherlipglossthat day,aftershe’d nishedcrying.
ItmusthavebeencleartoherhowmuchIwouldhavedonefor her,bythatpoint.I’mnotsureIrealizeditmyself.I’mnotsureI wouldhavedoneanythingdi erentifIhad.
Whensheswungbymyhousetheweekafterthatandaskedfor helpresolvingacodingissue forsomeblogsheclaimedtorun,Ithink Iknewshewaslying.Ihelpedanyway,though,didn’tI justfora chancetositinherbeat-upminivansmellingherperfume,justtobe crowdedtogetherwithheratthatdeskinherroom,theone over owingwithhalf- nishedpsychologypapersandstatistics assignments.
Sheknewshecoulduseme,then.
July2006
IpushShannonawayfromme,grabafoldingchairfromtheliving room,andliftitabovemyhead.Myearsareringing,andmystomachis burningwithshame.
“Youliedtome.Youliedtous.Iwastryingtopaymyfucking tuition,Mar,”Ianissaying.“Iwouldneverhavedonethistoyou.I wouldneverdowhatyou’redoingnow.Putthatdown.”
Ihithimwiththechair.Ihithimwiththechairagain.Shannon shrieks.
Hescreamsthathehasagun,andmyveins llwithamixoffear andperverseexcitement.Ishovetheseatofthechairintohisstomach sohardhespitsup.It’sthenthathegrabsa stfuloftensoutofhis pocket,backingawaytograbmorefromtheupstairsofthehouse.
IelbowmywaypastShannonandintotheroomwherethey’re keepingtheirshittyPC.IgrabeverypaperIcan nd,shovingitinto myhoodiepockets.
Ianisstandingstock-stillwhenIgetbackintothemainroom,his armsout,fullofcash,Shannon perchedabovehimonthatstupid breakfastcounter.Ikickheronmywayout,andIsweartoGodthatI willbehomebeforesunset.
Author
Commentary&TarotSpread-Mordecai
Alba
PriortobecominginvolvedwiththeSTTARprojectandattending theamazingworkshopsAprilo eredtohelpusgetonequalfooting witheachotherandthetarot,Ihadbeendeeplycuriousabouttarotfor mostofmylife.My rstrealintroductiontothepracticewasthrough watchingTillieWaldenpostaboutthetarotdeckshehadbeen commissionedtodesignwhenIwasinmiddleschool.Aroundayear ago,thatendedupbeingthe rsttarotdeckIeverreceivedwhenmy bestfriendXalliboughtitforme.AlthoughIlovedtheillustrations,I hadahardtimeconnectingtothemeaningsofthecardsandhowthey connectedtoeachother.GoingbacktobasicswithAprilanddiving intoeachtarotcardasitsownindividualcharacterthroughthisproject hasnotonlybeengreatformeintermsofdevelopingmyskillsasa writer,butalsoindevelopingmyunderstandingoftarotasapractice overall.Thecardsarenolongerajumbleofsymbolstome,butagroup ofpeopleIcan ndpatternsthroughoutmoreeasilyandinstantlyreact towhenIdoreadings.
Besidesthemorepersonalbene tsoftheSTTARworkshop,Ialso lovedhavingtheopportunitytoconnectwithotherartistsandembark onajourneyofopen-mindedexplorationwitheachother.Asasenior atanonlinehighschool,itcansometimesbedi cultformeto nd opportunitiestosharecreativeprocesseswiththosearoundme, especiallyinmyarea.SomethingthatwassouniqueabouttheSTTAR projectwastheideaofhandingoverthedecision-makingtothecards andjustlettingourselvesbecurious.Insteadofnitpickingatexactly whatIwaswritingabout,whyIfeltcompelledtowriteaboutit,and whereexactlythestorywouldgo,Iwasabletoletgoandsimplylet myselfenjoytheprocessofwriting.Havingthebonesofastoryalready inplaceandhavingtheopportunitytobuilditstonearoundasolid
structurewassupercomforting.Aprilalsodidanamazingjobat makingmefeelliketheworkshopwasasafeandjudgment-free environment,encouragingeveryone’sideasanddottingallheremails withhappysparkles.Iamendlesslygratefulforherpatienceand kindness.I’msupergladthatIwasableto ndtheSTTARprojectand feelsogenuinelywelcomedbyitandallitsmembers,andthatour literaryexplorationstogetherreallyfeltlikeafunadventure,nota choretogetthrough.
Withthatsaid,Iwouldlovetodivedeeperintotheparticularcards Ipulled!Onthedaywedrewcards,Itookafewshotsatit.Italways feltlikethestorythecardsweretryingtotellmewasadarkerone,and certaincardskeptappearing.Onmythirdpullofcards,everythingwas alignedinanorderthatIfeltwasmosthonesttoastoryIwouldbeable totell,sothat’sthesetofcardsIendedupwith.
Inthepastcategory,Marlowehasthe10ofSwordsashermain card.Thiscardindicatespainfulendingsandbetrayal she’sbeen deeplywoundedbytheeventsthathappeninthestory’s ashback. Therearealsohappiermemoriesinthepast,though,particularlyinthe cupssuit.Her6ofCupsand10ofCupswerescreaming“family”to me.Marloweissomeonewho’spreviouslyhadafairlygood relationshipwitheveryoneinherfamily,especiallyherlittlebrother Hayden,andisoperatingbasedonwhatshefeelsisbestforthem.She wantstoreturntotheideasofnostalgiaandfamilialharmonythebest wayshecan.Lastly,theQueenofCupsinherpastindicatesher relationshipwithShannon,whoviewsherselfasanurturingmentorto Marlowe,butwhoultimatelyleadsherastray.ThereversedQueenof Cupscanalsoindicateemotionalover-dependency,whichabsolutely tswithMarlowe’spreviousperceptionsofShannon.Throughoutthe reading,thecupssuitcameupalotforher.She’sde nitelyaperson withalotofinneremotions,evenifshe’snotfullyawareofthem.
Inthepresentcategory,Marlowe’smaincardistheHermit.In short,it’sveryclearthatshe’sretreatedfromtheworld.TheHermit alsoindicatesthatshe’slostherwayinsomesenses,andistryingtoget backtoherself.Theothercardsthatin uenceherpresentarethe7of Wands,whichcentersaroundfeelingbothoverwhelmedandoverly protective,andtheWheelofFortune,indicatingthatanythingcould happen.Together,thesethreecardsindicatedtheattitudeofsomeone whohasbeenforcedtopavetheirownway,butissolostthatthey begintothinkanythingtrulyispossible.Holdingheremotionsand intentionsclose,Marloweisspinningthewheeloffortuneand attemptingtowinbig.
Inthecategoryofhiddenin uences,themaincardistheTwoof Cups.WithShannon’spresenceastheQueenofCupsearlierandthe KnightofCupsinthissectionaswell,IstartedtoviewIanand ShannonastheTwoofCups.Usually,thiscardrepresentsahappy pairing,butcanalsoindicatealackofhealthycommunication, jealousy,andimbalance.Basedonthis,IoptedtomakeMarlowe’s feelingsforShannon(andtoacertainextentherplatonicfeelingsfor Ianaswell)amajorpartofthestory.She’snotmerelywoundedbythe lossofalucrativebusinessventure,butbythelossofpeopleshelooked uptoinawarped,insecureway.TheKnightofCups,likepreviously mentioned,alsoappearsinthissection,whichIstartedtoviewasIan. Thiscardtendstorepresentacreativeandcharismaticcharacter,but onewhocanalsobemoody someoneanangstyteenwithoutmuch opportunitiesforsocialinteractionmighthavestronglylookedupto. Additionally,theknight/queenimagerywasoneIincorporatedinto thegamethethreeofthemcameupwith.Marlowewouldlovetobea knightwithhopeinhisheart,anddoesherbesttoseeherselfasone, butultimately,she’ssomethingdi erententirely.TheMagicianalso appearsinthissection,whichIchosetoassociatewithShannonand
herin nity-symboltattoo.Thiscardistwofold shegenuinelydoes havethemostin uenceoverbothIanandMarlowe,butalsoviews herselfasamagicianinsomeways.She’stricksyandobsessedwith psychologicalmanipulation,andalthoughshemightviewitas“justfor fun,”justlikewemighteasilybrushawaytheideaofmagic,herhold overpeoplehasdireconsequences.Additionally,theTenofPentacles inthissectionindicatedtheexpectationofprovidingwealthtoafamily unittome(essentially,anexpectationthatMarloweforcesonherself), aswellasthepossibilityof nancialruin.Essentially,although Marlowedoesn’tcommunicatethistotherestofthegroup,her family’s nancialissuesareamajordrivebehindheractionsaswell.
Intheproblemsection,IdrewthemainissueastheThreeof Pentacles.Thiswasparticularlyinterestingtome—thiscardtendsto representhealthycollaboration,butcouldalsoindicatesomething more awed.Iwasalsodrawninbythesecretiveillustrationonthe card,andchosetoincorporatetheideaofthreepeoplemeetinginthe eavesofachurchintomystory,withIan,Shannon,andMarlowe settinguptheirschemeinthebasementofanoldchurch.Theother “problem”istheDevilcard.Althoughweusuallythinkofthedevil gureasasingularindividual,thepresenceofthewarpedloversonthe cardwasalsoimportanttome.Tome,theyrepresenteddestructive behaviorandco-dependency,whichfurtherenhancedtheideaof unhealthyrelationships.
Intermsofthein uenceofothers,IdrewtheNineofWands, whichtendstorepresentsomeoneputtingupwalls,beingonedge,and essentiallytakingalaststand.Marloweisonlydriventoherlimits becauseIanchoosestoriskitallandruno ;althoughhislaststand comes rst,itin uenceshertotakehersaswell.Inthissection,theAce ofCupsrepresentsnewrelationshipsandtheexcitementandlovethey canbring.IviewMarloweassomeonewhohasn’thadalotofpositive
relationshipsthroughoutherlife,andisthusamazedanddelightedto ndherselfinleaguewithIanandShannon…andthereforeheavily in uencedbythem.TheFourofWands(whichinitsreversedformcan indicatealackofhomesupportandcon ictsonadomesticfront), Tower(indicatingsuddenchangeanddestruction),andSun(which canindicatehappiness,especiallyassociatedwithachild)all representedtheturmoilsurroundingHayden’ssuddenchronicillness. Assomeonewhobecamesuddenlydisabledduringmytimeinhigh schoolmyselfinawaythatdrasticallyalteredmylife,mychoiceofthis particularavenueforMarlowe’sat-homeissueswasbothawayof ensuringIwaswritingrealisticallyandawayofcopingwithmyown illnesses.Associatingthedestructionthatcanbewreakedupona chronicallyillbodywithabodythatbringsbrightnesstootherswasa waytoremindmyselfthatIhavevaluebeyondmycreativeand academicoutput awayoftreatingmyselfgentlyinawayIusually don’tbysupplantingmyselfintothe gureofthesun.
Inthecourseofactionsection,themaincardIdrewwastheThree ofCups.Iwasalittleunsureabouthowtointerpretthiscard,butit canhavetheassociationsofgoingabsolutelyhogwild,spreadinggossip, andtryingto ndhappinessinthemostrecklesswaypossible. Essentially,IknewthatIneededMarlowetodosomething inadvisable anddoitinthemessiestwayshecould.TheothercardI drewinthissectionwasStrength,whichIthinkshecertainlyembodies inherconfrontationofIanandShannon.
Intermsofoutcome,IdrewtheEightofWandsasthemaincard, whichtendstorepresentquickdecisionsandhastymovement.Ichose tointerpretthisbothliterally,intheformofanill-plannedroadtrip, andmetaphorically sheactsprettyquicklyonceshedetermineswhat she’sgoingtodo,anddoesn’tthinktoohard.Intheend,herdecisions onlygrowmorehasty.Theothercard,theSixofPentacles,whichcan
indicatereclaimingunpaiddebtsandcaringforyourselfbeyondits more“facevalue”meaningofcharity,certainlytakesplace.Although it’sunclearwhatshe’sgoingtodowiththepowerandmoneyshenow has,sheatleasthasit.
Lastly,theprimarycardIdrewforMarloweasthemaincharacter wasJudgment.Thiswasaprettyinterestingcardtogetasthemain character,andtome,itveryquicklyformedtheimpressionofsomeone whoisquicktocutotherso ifnecessary,takedesperatemeasures,and toreckonwiththeworldasitisthroughwhatevermeanspossible.The FiveofWandsalsoindicatedsomeonewhodoesn’tgenerally“playwell withothers,”meaningthatwhenshedid ndtherelationshipsshedid, theymeantfarmoretoherthantheymighthavetoanotherindividual. TheEightofPentacles,especiallyinitsreversedinterpretation,further paintedapictureofsomeonewho’slookingforaneasywayout(which shedoes),andwholacksworkethic.Finally,theKingofCups representedacharacterwhoiscold,manipulating,andemotionally closedo ;Marloweviewsherselfassomeonewhotheworldhas alreadypassedby,orinotherwords,whosequeenhasalreadybeen stolenbyaknight.Inhermind,thereisnolongeranyhopeforher,and sheiswhosheis.
Ihopeyouenjoyedthecommentaryonthevarioustarotcardsthat showupthroughoutmystory!Thankyouforreading.
Lila Brissette
Quiet Internal Rebellions
The psychosis that preceded the disappearance of Pulitzer prize-winning journalist Jay Wheeler
Across the highway from the famous skyline of the Las Vegas Strip, there are two glass towers, nearly invisible to the manufactured party-née-mining town the next street over. They’re full from top to bottom with pretend-penthouse condos purchased (but rarely lived in) by the city’s short-term rental micromoguls. At each of the towers’ bases, there is a short sprawl of identical two-story lo s circling a pristine pool with equally pristine stainless steel outdoor kitchens, all mapped together with brilliant blue-white sidewalks.
This cluster, known as Panorama Towers, was where Jay Wheeler, the Pulitzer prize-winning journalist, would spend his last days before disappearing without a trace. It would be in one of these eerily homogenous condos where investigators would discover his den of obsession and self-neglect, with the centerpiece being a fragmented collection of interview footage, notes, and personal diaries documenting the pursuit of his next, ultimately final, feature.
Las Vegas was in its transition to mid-summer when I decided to write about the events of Wheeler’s disappearance. For some cities, a midsummer night means a relief from the day, but in Las Vegas, especially at the center of the valley, summer nights are just as hot as the summer days. The only relief is the fact that you don’t have to suffer the oppressive rays of the sun, only their punishing a ereffects as heat radiates up from the city’s uninterrupted beds of concrete. As I approached the small ground-level townhouse, I
supposed that to be the reason that those sidewalks, the grills and picnic tables, even the pool, were eerily uninhabited at all hours of the day, giving me the odd impression that I’d somehow stumbled on a high-rise ghost town.
I knew there was physically no trace of Jay Wheeler, but I resolved to stay at least one night in the rental condo in spite of the unsettling emptiness for a reason. There was an unskeptical part of me that wondered if there wasn’t some part of his soul le , a part that would guide me to the truth of his circumstances. Then again, maybe I was coping with the extreme disadvantage I had even with a mountain of evidence, investigators found nothing that would lead them to find the journalist.
On January 2nd, 2022, the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department received a request for a welfare check on Jonah Harold “Jay” Wheeler, a reporter for the Las Vegas Globe. The request was submitted by Globe editor Audrey Lowe when her repeated calls and messages went unanswered. Doorbell camera footage showed that Wheeler had not le the apartment since coming back the previous day. A er receiving no response, officers determined that a forced entry was required. They entered to find a shocking display though the outside was untouched, the inside was completely transformed. Disturbing writing, clusters of receipts, and odd stains covered the walls. The floor was littered with rotting food and strange objects, not least of which was a ring of shattered mirrors surrounded by ripped journal pages. There was, however, nobody inside of the apartment. When the police confirmed that none of Wheeler’s other friends and family had heard from him, they opened a missing persons case.
A er recovering Wheeler’s devices, investigators found that Wheeler had been staying in the short-term rental since August of
2021. Though the official reason for him being there was that he was on assignment researching a major exclusive, his personal journals revealed that he was also suffering from a split with his fiancée of six years, Helena Pond. His early journals consisted of nothing but long laments of confusion and grief about their separation. However, a er a chance encounter with a mysterious figure in his second week staying at the Towers, he seems to forget all about Helena. In one of the diaries recovered from the condo, Wheeler recounts this fateful meeting:
I walked down to the Stirp [sic] today and met someone I can only describe as the next pursuit in my life that will give me purpose. Of course it’s only a er Helena that I finally meet him, the solution to every problem, a er years of searching, the new source of my chemical work-life balance. I found it in the exact place I thought I would: the tower that eludes me like a mysterious dame on my long walks across the thin ribbon cable that hugs the five lane wide blackness, transmuting the suburbs into the steel facade of the transplant quarter. Modern and blue and tall, nearly invisible against the absent midnight, there is a club inside that’s unlike any other, though I couldn’t explain to you what exactly it had that no other club did, or what other clubs had that it didn’t. It was like any old club, and yet it wasn’t; anyway, it was in that oddly-same club where a mysterious man made his throne. If it weren’t for fate, I wonder if I would have spotted him. He met my eyes across the dance floor, and I got that feeling again a er years of wondering when it would return as if it had never le me, that feeling that taps me on my shoulder and says hey, there’s a story here.
Wheeler doesn’t name his quarry anywhere in this entry, but it becomes clear from future writings that it was written on the night that he met the well-known, yet impressively private club promoter named Cyrus Caster.
Despite his passive social media presence, Caster was Las Vegas’ premier nightlife guru. He became one of very few promoters with contracts at competing properties, as he was capable of driving up headcounts even when he wasn’t there. He had, as Omnia general manager Matthew Hill calls it, “ a marketing Midas touch [...] He’d mention a club and people would show up. ” Caster became known as a tastemaker a er featuring in a social media series created in February 2021 by Las Vegas-based influencer Taylor Tucket, known as @tay4aday on TikTok and @taytucket on Instagram. The series featured the couple, who were an item at the time, ordering “secret menu ” cocktails and reviewing them while seated in luxurious VIP lounges at various clubs. Caster’s charming and conspiratorial affect when addressing his girlfriend’s followers quickly made him a fan favorite, leading every episode of the series to go viral.
The series would end in March of that year, shortly a er Caster broke up with Tucket, but loyal fans of Caster’s managed to follow him through his appearances in stories and Reels posted by his other friends. A er some months of social media popularity, he was hired as a promoter for STTARLING, a newly-opened occult-themed nightclub in the Circus Circus Hotel and Casino. According to Las Vegas Weekly’s interview with the owner, the club’s opening night numbers were “abysmal,” and the club was at risk of closing a er only a week but a er a moody and mysterious promotional reel featuring Caster, attendance skyrocketed. The club would briefly become Las Vegas’ hottest destination and the name “Cyrus Caster” would become synonymous with record turnout.
Though his meteoric rise as the Strip’s top dog is well documented online, who he was before starring in Taylor Tucket’s videos is a mystery. As Wheeler notes a number of times in his diaries, it is frustratingly difficult to pin down exactly where
Caster made his start. There are as many stories of his debut on the scene as there are members of his entourage, both current and former that is, there are countless stories, none of them verifiable. This doesn’t seem to bother anyone who spends time with him regularly, though. A former booth regular states that the topic wasn’t even taboo.
“It just wasn’t something anyone was interested in,” tells Lia Flynn, speaking of her time in Caster’s circle. “People think we didn’t ever talk as a group because we were always out clubbing, like we weren’t friends [...] that’s not true. It’s just that there was always something way more interesting to talk about with Cyrus.”
Wheeler attempted to probe Caster’s friend group, but didn’t have much luck. In fact, one such attempt results in Wheeler narrowly avoiding being ejected from one of Cyrus’ regular haunts on September 17th. “He was doing way too much,” remarks Justin Wake, another of Caster’s former friends. “Like, dude, we get it, you ’ re curious. But he just wouldn’t get over it [...] there’s being curious and then there’s being a dick, you know, and it just ruins the vibe for everyone. ”
Wake recalls that night being relatively mundane despite the brief confrontation with the journalist. Wheeler had been spending most of the night sitting in the booth, interrogating anyone who would indulge him. He became agitated when Caster approached him and asked him to stop. They began arguing, but when Caster threatened to call security, Wheeler relented, and was well-behaved albeit drunk for the rest of the night, according to Wake.
From a rambling diary entry written later that night, Wheeler remembers the night going differently:
There’s something blocking me here… or there’s something missing. There’s a firewall and I can’t get past it. Nearly died trying tonight. I
don’t know how to put it exactly. He hypnotized me or something. I was just getting some details straight and he came up and he did something to me. He saw me trying to find out about him, and he came and talked to me, and I could feel my brain trying to give up on it. Something he did or said had me totally convinced that there was nothing there worth knowing, and I didn’t even need to know if there were. I felt it working on me [...] I fought it and lost.
No one else recalls there being any further tension between the two men. In fact, most seem to remember them becoming closer than ever a er this. Wheeler began attending Caster’s off-Strip parties, and can even be seen in the background of a number of social media posts by other partygoers. The two men would talk at length, o en monopolizing table conversation at dinner or during a erparties on topics ranging from local politics, to esoteric histories, to obscure travel destinations. Wake recalls that Caster, typically the center of attention at these smaller functions, even started going missing from the party for hours at a time, only to be found in a back room deeply engrossed in conversation with Wheeler.
These conversations are never successfully put on the record by Wheeler, but he writes prolifically about them in his private journals. He extols Caster as the catalyst for him experiencing a dramatic return to self:
With each moment I spend in his presence, I feel that I become more myself again. I feel the journalist that lives inside me coming out to greet him, and I think he can tell, too [...] I know that he sees me, sees the version of myself I am constantly seeking to return to.
In some entries, he even addresses his muse directly. He praises Caster’s complexity and depth so passionately that it
nearly comes off as sarcastic, as if he were a court jester teasing his king.
Cyrus, how could I ever put you to paper? I fear that I’d be cheapening you with any attempt to immortalize you, but I simply can’t help it. Finally, I meet another creature that makes me feel the shortcomings of the English language ironically, it only makes me want to capture you more, to have even a chance of showing the world a fraction of your depth and beauty.
Each of these entries are contrasted with disoriented scribbles written the next day, in which Wheeler would attempt to piece together the conversations from the previous evening without much luck. He would o en attempt to create thought maps connecting various concepts or feelings for example, one page features the concepts of “ war, ” “homage to ancient practice,” “fine motor skills,” “sustainable food supply chain” and “phone radiation,” all with arrows pointing to the center of the page where a number of words appear to have been attempted before being scribbled out completely. In some passages, he questions what it is about Caster that has this effect on him.
Being lost for words is excusable, but being unable to recall the thing I’m specifically writing about is absolutely not. I’m losing my f***ing mind trying to come up with a reasonable explanation, and I’m running out of time. Will I become some fanatic believer in the supernatural? Just for a story? What is he doing to me? Why don’t his f***ing friends ever seem to have any answers either? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?
He never suffers from a full lapse in memory, as he recalls the rest of the evening between those conversations without issue. He
just couldn’t seem to pin down anything of substance, and he was still struggling to get Caster to agree to speak on the record.
This would be far from discouraging to the reporter. In fact, the challenge of documenting anything concrete about Caster’s life kicked Wheeler into overdrive. His conversations with Caster would remain clouded, but his interviews with members of their group would illuminate a figure whose existence as a social media-abstinent influencer seemed impossible. With these interviews in hand, Wheeler prepared to approach the Globe with his story of the surreal bachelor and his enchantment of Las Vegas’ nightclub scene. On October 28th, he pitched the concept in an email that his editor, Audrey Lowe, described as “familiarly manic.”
“When he starts writing that way, it used to concern me, but at some point I understood that that’s just how he walks his beat,” Lowe remarks. “Jay’s an incredible writer, but he describes his journalism as if it isn’t up to him, it’s up to whatever forces in his mind control his interests. When he loves something, he’s totally consumed by it, he has to write about it but the opposite is also true. If there’s nothing, he can’t just force it out.”
Lowe states that before his stay at Panorama Towers, the Las Vegas Globe had been struggling to work with Wheeler because of poor performance. In May of 2021, Wheeler was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in Local Reporting for “Solidarity Without a Roof,” the crown jewel in his series of articles illuminating the unique community bonds between members of Las Vegas’ unhoused population. The series ended in June, and The Globe began work to publish the articles in a collection of the same name. According to Lowe, Wheeler completed the supplementary essays and introduction to the book weeks ahead of schedule, but a er the book was sent for review, his work stagnated.
“He came to pitch meetings with ideas, and I felt like he seemed a bit down, but we brushed it off. When we gave him an assignment he seemed like he was working on it. He even ‘updated’ us on his sources during meetings.” Lowe uses air quotes around the word “updated,” because a er weeks of telling his colleagues that he was working on a massive story, he never seemed to have any evidence of it: “It was all just trust me, this is going to be great, I’ve got this source at the water district, I’ve got this source at Greenspun, I’ve got a guy in Carson City’ and it’d all be a complete lie,” says Lowe. Wheeler’s stay at the Panorama Towers was a last olive branch from the paper, according to emails provided to investigators, with the only requirements being that he send a pitch by October 28th, and then provide proof of his work each day a er if it was accepted.
The Cyrus Caster pitch was not met with enthusiasm from his team. Caster had been reported on at length by other papers, but Wheeler was convinced he’d be able to get something that none of the other publications had: an interview on the record with the impenetrable superstar.
A er some back and forth, the Globe accepted his proposal. The next day, Wheeler ecstatically reports that he had succeeded for the first time in remembering part of a midnight conversation between himself and Caster. It was a simple snippet, a story Caster told about the relationships between the clubs he works for, but to Wheeler, it meant his world had changed. Following this small victory, Wheeler’s diary entries take an immediate dramatic turn.
On October 30th, Wheeler begins making entries describing a new perception of Caster. A er another long night cajoling with Caster’s crew, Wheeler decides to take a swim in the early morning light, but stops at what he sees in the pool’s reflection.
The pool here doesn’t glimmer with the first rays of morning sun, and nor do the houses they’re all in the shadow of the towers but the sky brightens just enough to cast its own light across the surface of the pool, and for just about a quarter of an hour, the water turns into this cornflower-blue mirror. And today, I saw Caster in that mirror. When I looked up, he wasn’t there, but when I looked at the pool again, there he was. He spoke to me, and I can actually remember what he said: he told me that he was in trouble, and that he needed my help, that no one had ever found out enough about him to see this side of him, only me, and he promised to show me more about himself. He promised to go on the record for me. I have it. Finally.
Wheeler’s diary explodes with details about the encounter, documenting an hours-long conversation in which Caster’s reflection tells Wheeler a number of stories. Whereas his writings about Caster up until this point come off as manic and disjointed, when he discusses the version of him he saw in the water, he becomes entranced and, more importantly, he stops questioning the spell he’s under.
Wheeler appears to believe that this Caster, the one he saw in the water, is the real Caster, trapped in a way he never attempts to explain. (Bolded portions were crossed out in the source material, and have been preserved here for publication.)
I know it’s him. By God, I know it must truly be him some version of him that has been trapped behind with? some distorted version of himself. I feel that familiar hold he has over me, but it’s different somehow more authentic / powerful / empathetic / [unrecoverable] / closer to / [unrecoverable] / close / better informed / more intimate, or like he’s / I / he [space] I can’t seem to wrap my head around it. I just know I trust him. I think it’s because I can so clearly remember the things that he says to me. I’m his only hope, and I think he’s mine too.
This hallucination takes over as Wheeler’s primary subject in his diaries. Whereas before he would alternate between devotion and doubt, with these entries, Wheeler becomes almost mechanical while documenting their encounters. For clarity, the version of Caster that Wheeler speaks to in his reflections will be referred to in this article as “the man in the mirror.”
In keeping with his agreement with the Globe, Wheeler provides proof of his pursuit of the story to his editing team. He masquerades his conversations with the man in the mirror as on-the-record interviews with Caster. Alongside interviews of his regulars and the owners of the establishments they’re frequenting, Wheeler illustrates a rich story of Las Vegas’ locals-only social club. The Globe is thrilled with his progress, but Lowe says that she could see signs that something was wrong. Although she was looking forward to the completed piece, Lowe remembers feeling more concerned than usual about Wheeler’s working state. “I think I warned him at some point. I was like ‘dude, you ’ re really scaring me, you have to level out.’” She’s looking through notebooks kept during past assignments of his during our conversation. When asked what differed so greatly about his diaries, Lowe says that it was his lack of self-interrogation into his initial obsession with Caster that was out of character. “He’s always been a bit less afraid to throw himself into a story, but he always had some level of self-awareness. This was the first time I’d ever seen him consumed by an idea without at least trying to figure out what exactly drew him to it. He’s getting everything about this guy except for that central piece, why he liked him. I thought Christ, is he going to make it out of this one? Not just physically, but mentally?”
The portions of his diaries that Wheeler decides not to share with Lowe reveal a strange double life. His nightlife remains
largely the same: he meets Caster wherever Caster decides to make his evening, and returns home in the early morning hours. But a er the incident at the pool, he abandons his morning-homecoming routine of attempting to document the previous night’s conversations, and instead begins describing daily encounters with the man in the mirror.
He observes a number of rules that this hallucination seems to follow, the first being that he’s only able to see it in the daytime. When they’re out for the evening, Caster’s reflection “behaves,” as he puts it; but at daybreak, the man in the mirror appears just outside Wheeler’s doorstep on the surface of the pool. Due to the excessive level of detail he now employs in his diary entries, I will summarize the main events that occur a er their first encounter, for brevity.
Wheeler speaks with the man in the mirror almost daily. On November 5th, he says that he invites the man into his rental so that they can talk longer. The man appears for the first time in Wheeler’s bathroom mirror, and Wheeler offers to bring in more mirrors to allow them to speak in other areas of the house. The man in the mirror agrees. They talk every day about Caster and his strange hold on his friends, and the man in the mirror tells Wheeler that Caster has a deep secret which allows him to have this effect on people. He can’t directly tell what it is, only that it’s shocking, and absolutely true. Wheeler takes this as an indication that the Caster he knows in real life must be an impostor of some kind. This fact doesn’t prevent him from continuing to join Caster for his nighttime adventures.
Forensic analysts theorize that this is the point when Wheeler begins to vandalize his accommodations. He begins keeping paper receipts of every purchase, organizing them into loose categories by pinning and eventually gluing them to the wall. Lines, drawn in Sharpie, connected each receipt to ATM statements documenting
cash withdrawals from his checking and savings accounts. One wall is covered entirely in pages full of permuting letter combinations and random words in Wheeler’s sharp handwriting.
In his diaries, Wheeler reveals that this is all a part of an elaborate game of supernatural hot-and-cold that he’s playing with the man in the mirror. The man promises Wheeler that this is the best way to trap Caster into revealing the secret to his charisma. By Wheeler’s account, the man can’t tell him directly what he should be doing, only whether something was right or wrong. It’s through these non-instructions that Wheeler triangulates the components of an elaborate ritual, the remains of which make up the disturbing scene discovered by investigators just three months later.
During the months of November and December, Wheeler also conducts interviews with a number of sources familiar with Caster. These interviews are all conducted over the phone during daylight hours, save for two: his interview with Justin Wake is recorded in a bathroom stall in Marquee Las Vegas, a nightclub in the Cosmopolitan; and his interview with Taylor Tucket takes place in her living room.
In his interview with Tucket, the only one that would be recorded on video, Wheeler is seated stiffly on the corner of a stained corduroy sofa while Tucket lounges at the other end. Her tone during the interview is erratic. She may spend one moment laughing alongside Wheeler, and then the next glaring at him, or even interrogating him back. She is at once casual and cautious, watching her trade freely between the two feels almost voyeuristic. During one portion of the interview, Wheeler asks her about her relationship with Caster:
TAYLOR TUCKET: What about it?
JAY WHEELER: How did you feel about him?
TT: He was everything to me. Is everything. [pause] He’s just extraordinary. Whenever we were together, I felt like a complete person. He had this way of pulling out the liveliest version of myself I had ever been, and I knew that he knew it too. I mean, I feel like we made this city together, you know? Like it used to be so difficult to make friends, because people would just come and go, but with him people always stuck around. We have such a massive community now, and we were kind of the first power couple in it [laughs].
JW: [laughs, nodding]
They discuss Caster’s inimitable charm aura, as Tucket refers to it. A er some turbulence, they fall into phase as they discuss their shared feelings about Caster. Judging by his body language, Wheeler feels comfortable expressing a number of things that had lived only in his journals until that point, sometimes even reciting passages almost word for word. He goes so far as to mention seeing Caster’s reflection in the pool, and his desire to free the “real” Caster from his “shadow self,” as he puts it. This is when the interview takes a final turn towards the violent.
TT: Wow. [laughter] You know, I f***ing heard about you from Justin, right? He said -
JW: Wake?
TT: - some hack was sniffing around Cyrus, and I didn’t really give a s**t because I thought that he’d be able to shake you off like everyone else, but you ’ re really something else. In fact, I think you have whatever those other s**theads had worse than anyone I’ve ever seen, and you think you can just take a seat next to Cyrus and soak him all up for yourself? You think -
JW: I’m just -
TT: - he’s just not going to notice that you ’ re trying to steal him away from all of us? He’s going to eat you, motherf***er. He’ll eat -
JW: What?
TT: - you alive. He loves when a f***ing sad-sack piece of s**t cuddles up to him for comfort and he’s going to f***ing eat you and spit you out, I can tell. You don’t have anything Cyrus wants except for your f***ing peace of mind and your career and your f***ing life, and when he’s done with you you’ll f***ing see. You all will. F***ing idiot, get out of my house.
Tucket stands up as she’s yelling at Wheeler, and begins pushing him as he protests, grabbing his phone hastily as Tucket shoves him violently out the door. Wheeler writes only one sentence in his diary a erwards: “Why was she like that?” Taylor Tucket could not be reached for comment.
A er this interview, Wheeler continues to collect various occult objects, attempting different arrangements of them, documenting his failures and rare successes. On January 30th, he writes excitedly that he finally had all of the pieces he needed, but he seems to have some reservations:
I’ve been looking forward to this so much that I haven’t really had a chance to process it all. I’ll be honest, I’m not even really sure how to document it I have to turn off all of the electronics in the house, I can’t have a tape recorder on, I’m blocking out all the light possible from the outside so I’ll hardly be able to see. But I trust Cyrus.
The next day, he attends Caster’s New Years’ Eve party at Marquee, where he interviews Justin Wake.
The recording of his interview with Wake starts with nervous laughter, followed by the slamming of a bathroom stall. Wake
starts to speak, but Wheeler hushes him into whispering. This interview would be the shortest in Wheeler’s materials, as well as the last.
Wheeler: Hey man, can I get some advice?
Wake: I mean [pause] sure man, what’s up?
Wheeler: I just don’t really know what to do. With Cyrus.
Wake: What, like, with your friendship or something?
Wheeler: Yeah. Kinda. It’s a long story. I think he’s in trouble. Or something. It’s weird.
Wake: [pause] Uh, okay, man.
Wheeler: I just don’t know, like [pause] I don’t know. I’m just second guessing myself. [pause]
Wake: I mean. Don’t feel bad if it’s over, dude. Sometimes things just happen, people grow apart, I wouldn’t take it personally.
Wheeler: What?
Wake: I don’t know, man, I don’t know what you ’ re talking about. I haven’t been around. I just kinda figured that maybe you were feeling kinda f***ed up about your friendship or something, or like he was acting weird towards you or something.
Wheeler: No, dude, I mean [pause] Well, he’s acting kind of weird, but like, that’s not what I mean. I feel like I can finally do something to help him and I’m just not sure if I should or not. That’s all.
Wake: [pause] Go with your heart, man. I don’t know what else to say.
The interview ends shortly a er some rustling, which Wake says is when Wheeler gave him a tense hug. When I asked him to clarify his comment about their friendship, Wake says that Caster had an elegant way of icing out the people who no longer served him. “I remember when he broke up with Taylor, he didn’t badmouth her or anything. But it was like one day she came
around and everybody had just decided to stop talking to her, and eventually she just stopped showing up. ”
He saw this happen with one or two other people before deciding to distance himself from the scene for personal reasons. In fact, Caster’s NYE party was the last one he attended as one of the “in crowd.” Wheeler hadn’t seemed to notice that Wake had been distancing himself. “He just came up and talked to me like I’d been there every night,” he told me. “Kind of weird. I feel bad saying what I did to him, because maybe he took it as some sign to do whatever it is that he did.”
A er arriving home early on January 1st, Wheeler writes his final words in his diary.
I don’t know what will happen a er I start. I’m sitting in the mirrors right now, about to blow the candle out, and I feel oddly freed from the world. I hope I can write about it a er.
That morning, Wheeler powers off all of his devices in his last known act before vanishing, leaving only his apartment, his journals, and his absence as evidence. All of Wheeler’s possessions are recovered from the apartment following the report made on January 2nd, but none generated any meaningful leads, nor new information. A er a year of no new discoveries, the missing persons case was transferred to the FBI, where it remains open. I checked in expecting to stay just for the weekend, but found that when my time there was about to end, I didn’t want to leave. At the time, I couldn’t explain why. I rationalized that it made sense for me to stay while I was still conducting interviews, and a er that I reasoned that as long as I was writing, it couldn’t hurt to stay in the place that got me into the groove. During my second week there, however, I found the piece of Wheeler that the believer in me was searching for.
It was in the furthest back corner of a dusty supply drawer. A folded-up note, handwritten on the back of a concert ticket, printed just before the printer ran out of ink. Brand-new evidence, discovered a er two years of nothing: a letter addressed to Jay Wheeler, from his ex-fiancée Helena Pond.
Compared to his early journals, Helena’s letter paints a starkly different picture of the end of their relationship. She sounds defeated as she describes the exhausting effect that his workstyle was having on their shared life. In this letter, we learn that Wheeler would disappear for days at a time during which she would fear for his safety. She talks about the extreme bouts of depression that would strike him a er finishing any project, only to throw himself back into a frenzy as soon as his next subject presented itself. She implores Wheeler to seek help with this erratic lifestyle. At the end of the letter, she even tells him that she would consider giving their relationship a second chance but only a er Wheeler accepts the need for change.
This letter describes a side of Wheeler that was prone to a productive madness. I had almost found myself caught up in the whirlwind of his hallucinations as I studied his case here, but a er reading her letter, I had a moment of clarity. There is no supernatural element to Wheeler’s case, simply a psychological one. There may be no evidence as to where he went, but this is not unheard of in missing persons cases. “Though his case is tragic, Wheeler is not an outlier,” says Officer Harry Arbor, who serves in LVMPD’s Missing Persons Detail. “We get lots of reports that, unfortunately, don’t always get very far.”
When I asked her for an interview, Helena refused to answer any questions. She simply stated that she wishes for nothing more than her former life partner’s passion and talent to be returned to the world unharmed.
PAUL KNIGHT is a contributing writer for the Las Vegas Globe covering local crime and missing persons cases. His work has previously been featured in Desert Companion and Las Vegas Weekly.
AuthorCommentary&TarotSpread-
LilaBrissette
Originally, Lila used the Pulp Tarot. This is the 1st row.
Commentary
Sometimes, when I’m wandering around in my thoughts, I’ll happen upon a half-baked idea, or maybe ruins where a whole idea once stood. If I’m thinking straight, I’ll document as much of it as I can, and usually as I’m thinking about it, I’ll uncover it more and more more often than not, though, it won’t quite all connect into a complete enough story that I get the drive to really put it together in a creative way. These ideas might sit for some time before I come back to them with enough new experiences to turn them into something complete; at the moment, I have a lot more idea fragments than I have completed stories.
“Quiet Internal Rebellions” came to me as a series of vignettes about a vampire and a mirror demon bound together by a pact, and the unfortunate journalist who saw just enough to know there was something to investigate. In my notes, my main characters existed as “the journalist” and “the vamp/demon” for far longer than they were Wheeler and Caster. They might have stayed that way without the tarot pull helping me connect it all together: Wheeler, a man who has met his fate because of his ignorance of his true self, was named for the Wheel in the Present column. I found that Cyrus Caster was represented in my pull by the King of Wands in the Infinite, the Emperor in the Problem, and the Magician in the Course of Action, so I named him Caster (as in a caster of spells), and then Cyrus after King Cyrus the Great. They don’t seem to share any meaningful qualities, I just thought some alliteration would sound good. Helena Pond (The Star) and Aubrey Lowe (Strength) were named for their cards as well. I originally shied away from naming characters like this I thought it’d be too direct of a way to apply the tarot pull in my story. While working with April, though, I realized that those little uncertainties are exactly the sorts of problems that the tarot is well equipped to handle when reading to write a story.
I had a very visual approach to organizing my cards while writing this story. In fact, I don’t think I would have finished this story if I did not have my whiteboard to rely on. When I got home from our in-person meetings, I researched every single card individually to determine where they should fit in the story. I
worked backwards, from column 8 (the Infinitive) to column 1 (the Past), and as I defined each card’s potential role in the story, I taped it up on a whiteboard and wrote notes beneath it. I used sticky notes near the end of the process to mark cards that indicated plot points, cards that represented people, and cards that answered fundamental questions, or maybe were questions themselves. In the end, the cards painted a picture of an unfortunate soul who picked a fight with the wrong side of reality by befriending Caster. He meets his fate after completing an elaborate ritual dictated to him through a game of hot-and-cold, and the mysterious creature he met in the mirror comes out on top.
Writing this story was a meaningful exercise to me. Wheeler’s work issues are autobiographical. Instead of a muscle that needs to be exercised, my creativity has lived in my mind as an event that finds me, something that happens to me instead of a practice I cultivate. For STTAR, I had to figure out ways to get something down on paper even when I wasn’t actively struck with inspiration. While writing this I was fighting not only my “workstyle,” but also my addiction to the short-term dopamine hits of scrolling on my phone, which is my usual procrastination method. Analyzing the cards became the best way for me to fight on both fronts. It didn’t always translate to me getting words on the page, but it had a greater success rate than hitting “five more minutes” on the digital hamster wheel.
As is the case with most tarot readings, though, analyzing the cards didn’t solve all of my problems. One of my biggest roadblocks was that I wanted the voice of the narrator to be someone who had been involved in the story, but no matter what I tried, it didn’t feel right. Originally, I thought it was meant to be a first-person account by Wheeler, the journalist; unfortunately, I hate writing in first person, so that was a non-starter. I didn’t like how the story felt when I told it from an omniscient perspective, either; there were secrets I couldn’t justify keeping from the audience if I wrote it that way, and I didn’t want to write a supernatural story, despite this really being about one man’s enthrallment by two very charismatic and humanlike monsters. I even tried second person, and I would have gone with that, but I don’t think I’ve written enough choose-your-own-adventures to do justice to a second
person perspective of this story. I came to the idea of making this a news article-style story when I stepped away from thinking about the cards during one of the Zoom calls with my fellow writers, I brought up my problem, and as is often the case, talking it out with my peers brought me to the solution.
I’m proud to have the final product published here in the 2024 STTAR Anthology, but I also know that there are a number of things I would have liked to put into this story that didn’t quite fit this is far from the last time I’ll be touching on the story of Cyrus Caster, Jay Wheeler, and the mysterious new voice writing their story, Paul Knight. I’m hopeful that I’ll have more opportunities to publish other stories from the world I’ve introduced in “Quiet Internal Rebellions.”