STTAR Storytelling with Tarot Anthology Edited by April Ursula Fox

STTAR Storytelling with Tarot

An anthology of 12 original short stories created using the Tarot.

Andrew Romanelli

Stephi Blue

Harmoni Wallace

Jennifer Battisti

Najee Jamerson

Chris Mendoza

Lila Brissette

Mordecai Alba

Melissa Gill

Jeff Grindley

April Ursula Fox

Emily Ajir

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

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This project is supported in part by the Black Mountain Institute at UNLV

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STTAR - Storytelling with Tarot © Avantpop Publishing and April Ursula Fox - all rights reserved.

Publication of any related material without expressed approval is prohibited.

For inquiries contact: avantpopbooks.com aprilursulafox.com

Contents:

The story of STTAR...................................................................................2 What to expect of the STTAR Anthology..................................................4 The “Matrix” Tarot Spread - basis for the STTAR process....................... 6 April Ursula Fox..................................................................................7 Oh, Fool... What did you do? or, Foolish Wisdom for the Everyday Starchaser.........................................8

Harmoni Wallace...............................................................................32 DreamWORLD..................................................................................... 33

Jennifer Battisti................................................................................. 66 How to Drive Through the Desert.........................................................67

Jeff Grindley......................................................................................90 Azeroth's Mirror.................................................................................... 91

Stephi Blue...................................................................................... 115 The Lovers...........................................................................................116

Melissa Gill..................................................................................... 134 Judgment Day......................................................................................135

Najee Jamerson............................................................................... 160 The Fated Curse.................................................................................. 161

Andrew Romanelli.......................................................................... 183 Blazing Shade Negation......................................................................184

Emily Ajir........................................................................................203 First Mile to Grace.............................................................................. 204

Chris Mendoza................................................................................ 236 Of all the People in this Town!........................................................... 237

Mordecai Alba.................................................................................253 Westfall................................................................................................254

Lila Brissette................................................................................... 278 Quiet Internal Rebellions.................................................................... 279 1

The story of STTAR

by April Ursula Fox

STTAR, an acronym for “Story Telling with TARot,” began as most things do when the Tarot is involved, with a coincidence, or “Tarot-incidence,” as author Jeff Grindley likes to call it.

During my Tarot studies I had been experimenting with using the Tarot for storytelling and creative writing. One of my experiments led to a particularly successful Tarot spread of cards, which I decided to share with the world through my social media account. I mentioned and displayed in a video how that spread would lead to an intriguing fiction story, and how the Tarot was, in fact, an incredibly effective tool for unlocking author creativity.

My content was seen by Sugar Laytart of Avantpop, who happened to also be looking at a grant funding opportunity by the Black Mountain Institute at the same time. Sugar messaged me about applying for the grant with my idea of using the Tarot cards in creative writing, but the deadline for the grant was in 24 hours!

I drove to Avantpop that same afternoon, and in a few hours Sugar and I finalized all details for the grant application. Making use of occult magical rituals, a little bit of astrology, kabbalah, numerology, alchemy, and the Tarot itself, we ripped through the fabric of reality to drive our grant proposal into the hands of reviewers at Black Mountain.

Among the products of our occultist approach to grant-making was the name of the project, STTAR. Fitting to the project activity (storytelling), it was also fitting to astrological events happening in Aquarius at the time; to the alchemical nature of the digital, or technological medium that brought Sugar and I together around it; and to The Star, a Tarot card that had been the center of a Tarot class I had that same week, and represents all these characteristics that permeated the air during the creation of the project.

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In good fashion we completely forgot about the application, purposefully, avoiding expectations and potential heartbreak in case our project was not selected for funding. Until, on a typically extra-dry Las Vegas afternoon, I receive a message from Sugar, “we got the grant!”

Both of us knew with that news that the magic behind STTAR was vigorously at work, and that we now faced the true beginning of a journey that would take us further than we would ever expect.

Once we published the call for authors and began to see the interest of many of the best writers in Las Vegas at the time, we knew we had opened a vortex that would be largely expanding beyond our control. We hoped to have 10 writers with us, and exceptionally landed with a diverse group of 12.

We structured all final project details, also counting with the wisdom of Shwa Laytart of Avantpop during the process, and then set the project in motion with the first workshop.

The STTAR project activities consisted of two 3-hour long initial workshops around the nature of the Tarot, card meanings, and exploration of ways to use the Tarot in creative writing. During the second workshop, writers pulled Tarot card spreads that revealed their stories to them. From there, writers met weekly for 2 months to discuss their process and their drafts, until a final sprint of 4 weeks led all of us to our very final piece, published here, in this very unique anthology.

While myself and Avantpop Publishing (under Sugar & Shwa), are credited as creators and editors of STTAR, it feels to me that we are, more accurately speaking, gate openers for energies that were bound to manifest. All of us, the writers, and the team at Black Mountain Institute, have manifested a new platform for creative writing using the Tarot.

STTAR is here to stay and to continue to promote authors of stories that are interwoven with the metaphysical layers of the known and unknown universe.

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What to expect of the STTAR Anthology

by April Ursula Fox

STTAR is a journey into different literary styles, approaches, voices, themes, characters, dynamics, conflicts, intersectionalities, positionalities, and artistic propositions.

With original short stories conceptualized and produced by a diverse group of 12 Las Vegas writers, in this anthology the reader navigates through fiction, fantasy, horror, science-fiction, romance, and urban fantasy.

Each story is uniquely captivating and impossible to put down before the end: Andrew Romanelli explores a surreal paradigm clash between our obliviously unjust society and the case of an inmate who must survive incarceration while the structures of the world tremble.

Stephi Blue takes us by the hand into the dynamics of a couple who questions the nature and value of their relationship in comparison to their individual dreams, desires, and growth.

Chris Mendoza uncovers a hidden layer of social manipulation within a story of passionate love crushes, affection for dogs and closer social circles, and low motivation to perform boring everyday work.

Emily Ajir transcends time and the ages to expose, through a story of resistance and fight, ever-damaging colonialist and imperialist culture-ripping mechanisms still at work today.

Harmoni Wallace exposes the unsuspectingly deceiving nature of artificial intelligence within an uniquely formatted story that is displayed over the screens and code structures of technological devices promised to be beneficial to human health needs.

Jeff Grindley reveals the very unexpected, obscure, and perhaps unholy way that a young teenage girl reacts to confinement, emotional instability and loss, searching for answers in realms darker than our own.

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Jennifer Battisti takes a surreal life-long road-trip through magnificently described desert landscapes and ghost towns, following a journey of grief and forced maturity of a young girl facing challenges in her family.

Lila Brissette describes the curious, mysterious, and potentially maddening case of a prize-winning journalist who is challenged to cover a story that will change their lives, and their soul, forever.

Melissa Gill sets an unsettling tone to a nail-biting courtroom thriller exposing the dubious character of a small town USA case accusing a mother of committing a crime that, if condemned, will estrange her from her son for the rest of their lives.

Mordecai Alba opens the mind, heart, and soul of a character that navigates through emotionally uncertain friendship building, a potential love triangle, and self-reflection in discovery of a hidden potential to make a lot of greed-evoking cash.

Najee Jamerson enchants our senses by taking us to a not-so-distant world of kings, queens, and a sacred healer that is faced with a life-threatening decision when their traditions don’t seem sufficient to overcome a sudden, mysterious illness.

Finally, April Ursula Fox, yours truly, as one of the creators and editors, thought it could be fitting to take you into a world in which the Tarot is manifested quite explicitly, with The Fool card being a character chased by the King of Wands, accused of having stolen The Star.

Notably, after each story you will have a commentary by each author about their story, their process, and connections they made between their story and the Tarot. An image of their Tarot spread is also displayed.

So without further a-do, please enjoy this unique STTAR anthology, follow the authors on social media to keep track of their new work, and stay in touch in case you would like to participate in the next edition of STTAR.

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The “Matrix” Tarot Spread - basis for the STTAR process

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April Ursula Fox

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Oh, Fool... What did you do? or, ​ Foolish Wisdom for the Everyday Starchaser

QSN NEWS FLASH! Fool steals Star from King of Wands and is on the run!

Page of Pentacles and Page of Cups under complicity investigation!

The Knight of Wands leads the pursuit!

Concerned citizens with information regarding the whereabouts of The Fool can call the Queen of Swords News hotline at: 1-800-CATCH-THAT-FOOL!

Part 1. The Three Misfits, or There is Only One Way Out of This Mess, and One Way Only.

“Okay, I can see that you are anxious. Take a deep breath in two stages, like so…” The High Priestess gave two deep inhales in quick succession from each other, and exhaled slowly.

The Fool repeated after her.

“Now,” she continued, “you were saying that you were inside an… elevator?”

The Fool nodded with her typical smile that strangely would somehow always expose her tongue, “yes! I go there sometimes, I don’t really know why. I like the music, I guess… It’s Bossa Nova, you know?

Like… elevator music?… I like it!” She smiled. “And then you go up, and down, and up again… it’s fun, right?”

The High Priestess stared at The Fool with an inviting gaze and a calm smile that made The Fool slightly uncomfortable. “And?...”

“Oh! and… and… that’s where we met! The Page of Pentacles and I. Funny, right? Meeting in the elevator? Listening to Bossa Nova… going 8

up, and down, and up again together… a bit romantic, really, isn’t it? I just had to kiss her, I mean, wouldn’t you do the same?”

The High Priestess might have imagined that scene, or maybe she was thinking of something else. “I am not sure I see the appeal, but please, do continue… you also mentioned The Page had a… package?”

“Oh! yes! beautiful! I mean, you are beautiful too, of course,” she smiled at the still gaze of the Priestess, “but that beauty…” The Fool lost her breath. “That beauty is not of this world. It is pure light from beyond the sun. It is ancestral light, pointing the way to… to…”

The Fool nodded her head up and down as if looking for the missing word. The High Priestess nodded together with her in hope that the nodding would finally get them somewhere. The Page of Cups, who was sitting there quietly holding her fish bowl was also nodding, and so was the Page of Pentacles, with the ripped-open package that had started it all.

The Fool smiled as the nodding synchronized across the group, her mouth opened, showing her tongue, and the group became hopeful that this time… “to… to… oh! this is fun, isn’t it? I never thought nodding together could be so much fun, seriously!” The Fool smiled, to a long sigh from the other three.

The Page of Cups gently adjusted her orange dress, adjusted her fish bowl over her left leg so she could move just a little closer to the High Priestess, and smiled.

“Yes?” Asked the crow-like mother of mysteries, attempting not to show signs of frustration. “Please, my love, go ahead, this is a safe space.”

“I saw something.” The Page paused, letting her heart beat thrice before continuing. “The Fool thought it was a good idea to hide inside my bowl and open the package in there. At first I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. I had just entered the elevator, but The Fool, you know? can be very convincing!” She smiled so kindly that even the Queen of Swords herself would have considered agreeing. “So I gave The Fool an approving look, and she jumped right in and swam around everywhere in there. I felt for a second that something was happening between us.”

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“It was! I mean, it is! I… love you! let me tell you that much.” The Fool smiled.

“Anyway,” the Page of Cups gently continued, “until I saw the light. It is indeed as she said. It is not of this world, and it is ancient, and cold, and sad but also heartwarming, is that possible?”

“Indeed it is, my dear… The Star’s power is a mystery even to me,” the crow’s gaze shivered the scales of the Page.

“Anyway,” the Page of Cups stared at the water in her bowl for a little more than a few seconds before jolting her head back up. “Then I am not sure what happened. It was like someone was there without being there. Have you ever felt that?”

“Only when I choose to give into more… carnal… pleasures.”

The Page was confused, but the Priestess did not seem to intend to elaborate.

“Anyway,” the Page continued, “then everything started glowing and glowing more. For a second I felt the interconnected cosmos and how I am a speck of dust in all of that too… Then a shooting star splashed out of my bowl and passed right in front of my eyes, like right here, woosh!” she made a woosh! gesture with her hand close to her face.

“And then the elevator door opened. The Fool stepped out like she didn’t even care. We followed. It was the second floor. We saw your door right there. The Fool pointed out how pretty your black and white columns are, and… here we are.” She smiled even more kindly now. The heart of the crow did not resist, and the mother of mysteries actually smiled this time, a sad but heartwarming smile.

The High Priestess took two deep inhales in quick succession from each other, and exhaled slowly. “So… The Fool stole The Star and lost The Star on the very same day, and that day is today, of course! Why am I not surprised?”

The Page of Pentacles slowly raised her hand, “because you are the crow mother of all secrets?” The Priestess blandly gazed at the Page, who brought her hand back down slowly, mumbling, “was it… rhetorical?” The two other misfits didn’t have a better clue.

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“This is a big mess, don’t you agree?” The crow nodded, suggesting that the three did the same. “And it is your mess.” The four nodded synchronously. “And you will fix it.” Their nodding gained a tad of a frown. “And do you know how I know that?” Nodding… “Because I am the mother of all secrets!” Frown…

“There is only one way out of this mess, and one way only,” she continued. “If The Star is with who I think it is, then you have no time to waste! You must find her, urgently! for her own sake and yours, of course… and honestly, for all our sakes!” Inhale-inhale, exhale…

“If you fail…” the eyes of the crow began to flicker, “The Star will become dark and treacherous. Evil and corrupted. And the cosmos itself will become a maze of desperate souls pleading for forgiveness from sins they cannot keep themselves from committing, as if this was not already so familiar in this world, and…”

The High Priestess fell into a trance, channeling words that were not entirely hers. “You will seek the Queen of Cups. One drop from her Chalice of Truthful Tears will reveal the mysterious transgressor you seek. She resides at the penthouse of the Waterfall Tower, 13th floor.

You will go down to the 1st floor of this tower, Tower Majoris, then catch the second elevator to your right, past the Tower of Wanderful Wands. I know, Wands can be cheesy at times, but please nevermind the bollocks! Whatever you do, do not come back to Tower Majoris!

The King of Wands has friends in high places. I can sense he has messaged our friends on the 13th floor. You do not want to bump into level 13 of Tower Majoris, trust me!”

The three misfits stood up and began to tidy their garments.

“Thank you, beautiful High Priestess,” The Fool bowed in an overly fancy fashion, then opted instead to hug their host, and offer her a kiss on the corner of her big black beak.

“It will be 38 pentacles, please.” The High Priestess reminded the three, with a smile, and her stiff feathery hand open in front of them.

The Fool glanced at the Page of Cups, who glanced at the Page of Pentacles, who didn’t find anyone else to glance at, and had to pull out her Seven of Pentacles Credit Card to settle the matter and pay the seer.

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Part 2. Have You Ever Seen a Polar Bear? or The Greatest Show on Earth that You Never Knew Existed.

It wasn’t prohibitively difficult for the three misfits to reach the first floor. After all, they were quite familiar with the elevator by now.

And being on the second floor, they were not incredibly far from their destination. And yes, in case you were wondering, the elevator still played…

“Bossa Nova... I love it… you have to say ‘bow-ssa know-vah’ you know? or it doesn’t work. It’s from Brazil. Beautiful country. Never been. On my bucket list.” The Fool smiled, nodding to the other two.

“I have the King of Pentacles in mine,” the Page of Pentacles smiled and nodded synchronously.

“Is he handsome?” asked the Page of Cups, nodding along with the other two.

“Err… hmm… yes? I guess?”

“Oh, so you will make a lovely couple!” she smiled, very satisfied to hear it, shaking and raising her fish bowl.

“Oh, no!... no… definitely not, no… I mean… I want to be the king of pentacles one day,” she smiled, nodding.

“Oh! I am so sorry!” With a gentle gesture the Page of Cups excused herself and blushed her fishy cheeks so kindly there was no way anyone could not forgive her. “You would still make a cute couple, though,” she winked. * * Bling! * * First Floor! * * The elevator doors opened ever so slowly to reveal the very live and bustling crowd moving around and about on the first floor of Tower Majoris, the floor where everything happened.

The Fool drifted out of the elevator, overwhelmed with so much to look at, bumping into passerby folks, and…

Hey! Look! It’s The Fool!

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“Fool!” The Page of Pentacles grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into a corner, under the foyer of a lavish theater that just happened to be nearby.

The Page of Cups slowly followed the two, but then didn’t resist the urge to fall behind and flirt with a passerby, the very attractive Knight of Cups. Wearing a blue suit atop his white horse, the glimmering knight trotted right next to her. He raised his cup and extended his hand. She could barely hold her fish bowl together. She took that hand and climbed on that white horse with him.

“Oh, look! it’s a show… The Infinite Theatre Presents… they have a magician! It’s a polar bear! Have you ever seen a polar bear? Oh! we need to see this!” The Fool was half-way into the theater before anyone could hold her back. “Oh, look at that letterhead, The Greatest Show on Earth!”

“That you never knew existed!” yelled the Page of Pentacles running behind.

“Oh, but isn’t that the point? isn’t that the point of being here? alive? in this life? to find everything we never knew existed?” The Fool turned around and kissed the Page’s lips furiously, then picked her by the hand and pulled her into The Infinite Theatre.

For a second, time came to a halt. The beating of The Fool’s heart was lost to the glimmering lights of the magnificent stage, floating over a marbled dancefloor of shifting colors. The floor, of water, earth, fire and air, remained silent, waiting for the stomping feet of patrons of all suits. But before any dancing was to occur in The Infinite, under the eyes of all archetypal inhabitants of The Arcanum Towers, a single figure would show us all how it is done… !Drum Stab! Trumpets! Horns!

The curtains shake, still closed, dark blood red as the river of life.

They shake again, as the drums and horns stab the sitting audience into 13

alert for what comes next. On the third shake the curtains swing open and roll themselves out of the way for… !Drum Stab! Trumpets! Horns! Big Band!

On stage tonight! Entertaining Suits and Triumphs! He who makes something out of nothing! Remembering always that as above, so below!

The Magician! !Drum Stab! Trumpets! Horns! Big Band! Trumpet solo!

Suddenly a pop! of smoke reveals a tall standing polar bear. Wearing an impeccable white suit and glistening white shoes, the figure waved his white gloves in the air and began to pull rabbits and doves out of the hats of patrons sitting comfortably in their positions, to the applause of the sold out theater.

“The polar bear!” yelled the excited Fool applauding the show.

“Don’t yell!” whispered the Page of Pentacles, “don’t you understand you are being chased? What if they catch you?”

“They will catch me sooner or later, won’t they? Why delay the inevitable?” she smiled.

“Maybe because you get to live a few more days? months? years? maybe even your whole life?”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing now?” The Fool smiled with a confidence that did not put the Page at ease, not at all. “Besides,” continued The Fool, “who is going to find me here?”

The Page looked up and around the theater as the Magician’s show continued to put the crowd in awe. It didn’t take her too long to notice that sitting in a box on the upper level balcony, quite close to the stage, a certain King and Queen laughed and clapped and waved… their… wands!

“Fool! Fool! We need to go! We. Need. To. Go!” The Page could barely keep it steady.

“Wait! not now, look! It’s the big reveal! it’s coming up!”

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“No! You don’t understand! You have no idea what we…”

“Now, please! If there is one thing I understand in this brief breath of a life I have, that thing is definitely theatre! There is always a big reveal in theatre! Let me tell you that much!”

The shaking Page noticed that every time either King or Queen would attempt to look down their way, a gust of a breeze would swing the box curtains just enough to block their view. What the Page did not notice was that sitting in the mezzanine, a renowned champion of the suit of wands was already onto them more than a minute ago. The Six of Wands, a lady badger wearing a black tophat, had sniffed them out and was now ready to snuff them out tout suite.

And now… for the big reveal… we have invited a member of the audience to join The Magician on stage!

The stage went dark. A narrow spot of light illuminated The Magician’s face. A second spot popped on, illuminating the marbled dancefloor, and in it, moving as it moved with it, a white horse carrying a couple, so lovely, hearts would melt from mezzanine to the gods.

Approaching the stage, a pair of orange heels over hot pink stockings delicately land from the white mount. Blushed cheeks, a departing kiss on the lips of a Knight, holding an excited fish bowl, she smiled and lightly waved to the four corners and the stars.

Isn’t she lovely?

The Magician, with a swing of his gloves, projected a wand, a sword, a pentacle, and a cup. Flickering through the air they drifted around ever so quickly, forming a figure of eight pattern encircling the slightly shy Page of Cups holding her scintillating fish bowl.

“Suits and Triumphs! This is a very special night!” The polar bear Magician projected his bear voice. “A very special show!” He looked into the many eyes staring back at him. “An upsetting event has recently struck our community! Our beloved Star has been stolen!”

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The crowd murmured and gossiped. “Well… It so happens that I know a star! And she can sing!” The crowd laughed. “So I decided to bring her here tonight, to you! with magic, of course!”

Drum Roll…

“I needed a Page, you see…” continued the bear, “but I didn’t expect I was going to draw the loveliest Page in our deck…” he winked to her in a flirt, provoking giggles in the audience. “The reason being, this star I speak of has a name, and her name is star, but in italian, Stella. And her name is also Page, Stella Le Page!” The crowd cheered, rumors were that all of them had Stella’s latest album, Sluggin’ it up! in their Spotify music playlists. “So, following ancient magical rules and procedures that I will not bore you to death explaining, my next act is about transforming our lovely Page into Stella Le Page!”

Cheers! Claps! Drum Roll… Suspense… Slow Bluesey Groove…

The Magician picked the Page of Cups by the hand and began a dance. The fluttering elements continued to encircle them and dance with their dance, move with their moves, and move faster, spin and sparkle around them, carry energy from this world to the next and back, and to other worlds and back, and to the infinite and back… It became a dance of lights and movements and elemental energy blurring the image of the dancers, until… in a swinging move, The Magician spun the Page of Cups around and let her go of his hand, spinning out to the middle of the stage. In between spins, colors began to change, then parts of her clothes, the color of her hair, and finally her shoes.

From bright orange to glistening silver. And just like that, with a spinning move, Stella Le Page was now on stage and the Page was gone.

Stella raised both her arms in celebration and with a welcoming bow signaled the band who kicked in immediately with her hit single Sluggin’ it up!

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The crowd wildly descended from their positions to the dance floor. What was before a magic show, was now a live concert of one of the most revered musical stars alive…

Music… Myst… Shifting Colors over a Marbled Dancefloor…

Stella Le Page takes the microphone…

Walking into lamp posts A star role in my own comedy show It seems that I’ve invented A proximity between you and me And now guess who’s lurking Mad-eyed and mortified I’m strolling oh so casually By your workplace Still hoping we can get past third base Back on the loose again Until the bitter end If you’re not obsessed with me just pretend I’m a slow-mo cyclone You’re stood in the way (Stella Le Page, Sluggin’ it Up!)

Part 3. A Strange Land Far Away, or A Fish Out of Water Must Quickly A Cup Find.

‘Pluft!’ was the sound of the Page of Cups magically landing on a cozy seat up in a box just across the stage from the King and Queen of wands. They noticed her. They pointed their wands. They sent both the Knight and the Six of Wands after her.

‘Ploompt!’ was the sound of her fish bowl arriving magically on her lap, just about three seconds later.

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“Oops! Excuse-me! I don’t often dis-appear and re-appear and… well… pardon my manners. It will certainly not happen again!” She sorted herself out as fast and as best she could.

“I certainly hope so!” The voice was stern but deeply caring.

“Excuse-me?” She finally turned to realize who was sitting immediately next to her. “My Queen!” She bowed her head to a wave of emotions rushing through her already disoriented fish bowl.

“It is heartwarming to see you, my dear Page,” said the undisputed sovereign of tides, storms, ponds, rivers, and waterfalls, the lady of emotional truth and the best of good manners, the Queen of Cups.

“My Queen, you… I… you are… I… need… is that the Chalice of Truthful Tears?”

The queen smiled, delicately, not showing any teeth, of course. “It might be? but that would really depend on who is looking for it. To some, it may be a portal, to others, a poisonous elixir of emotional doom!”

“A portal? To where?”

“Well,” pondered the Queen, “why don’t you see it for yourself?”

Slushhh! Shhlushhhh! Swirl! Sluurrrrrp!

And like so, the Page of Cups was gone into the chalice and beyond, swirling through to what seemed to be quite a different place, and certainly not the infinite theater anymore.

‘Plong!’ was the sound of her buttocks hitting a patch of grass surrounded by the sands of an infinite desert.

On the patch was a family of hippos, reading stories to children, with ten cups floating over their heads. They smiled, warmly, and in truly welcoming ways welcomed the awkwardly landing Page.

On the edge of the patch three geckos holding three cups that looked just like the Queen’s chalice were just about ready to sing a little song, acapella: 18

And, here she comes! here she comes!

Cute and tender and full of love!

But does she know how deep it hurts?

Does she know a star can burn?

She’s sent by the Queen! by the Queen! by the Queen!

To find The Star! where’s the Star? where’s the Star?

Aaaand!

Help we can give, help she shall have!

We know a girl! a girl, not a lad!

Who lives alone and carries her own… Light!

She just… Might!

Be carrying the Star in her lamp… she might!

And, she lives that way! that way! that waaay!

Follow the sun and its rays! its… raaays!

And… bye! bye-bye! bye-bye-bye! bye-bye-bye-bye!

Disoriented, the Page of Cups followed her nose and went that way into the desert. A fish out of water in a strange land far away.

The Sun, which was really just a giant sunflower carried by a green iguana in red bikinis, had such strong rays it was difficult to look at, and difficult to follow.

“Hello! Could you please just tell me where I can find the girl with the lamp with the Star? Respectfully, your rays are hurting my eyes a little bit, and with just a bit of instruction I am sure I could find my own way.” She tried to smile, but the rays were really killing her mood.

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“Babe! I’m The Sun, you know? Like, THE Sun? Get it? I am The Sun! Sunny sunny vibes rock your eyes, rock your eyes… Everyone follows The Sun. I am… a thing! you know? The thing to follow. Everyone knows that, I mean… honestly, right?” The Sun stared at her, almost blinding her to ash.

“I suppose…” She mumbled. “So… which way did you say you were going?

“Babe! I’m going that way! of course! I mean, seriously… get it?”

“I mean, totally… I get it, babesies! You go that way, I… will… be… right there!” And no, The Sun did not notice her mocking.

And just as The Sun moved that way, she moved this way. And one more step this way. Until she noticed that The Sun was actually not really seeing her. ‘The Sun doesn’t actually see anyone besides themself,’ she thought. ‘And besides, with all this light from The Sun, how am I ever going to see the light of The Star?’

So she turned and she ran, and she ran, and she ran!

Soon The Sun reached the point it would easily set.

In the crepuscule as light dimmed into night.

A far away glimmer of flickering starlight.

A single lady in a golden dress. She had a rhinoceros head.

With a long walking stick and a lamp.

“The Hermit, I am, now goodbye, you can go!” she said.

“I have come from afar for The Star, and I must set her free! The Fool and the cosmos itself depend on me!”

“Cute! But silly. The Star is not mine or anyone’s for the giving.

What I have in my lamp is a replica, of course. Of my own creation from years of thought. Who can capture The Star? Not a Fool, certainly not! Not a King, nor a Queen, neither Death! Only… maybe… just maybe…”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe…”

“Maybe?”

“I am not getting into this mess, but…”

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“But I can tell you this, follow your bowl! if you want to find The Star. She is always there, shining where you are. And if it seems she is gone. If it seems she is lost. It is you that are gone and lost to him, the unclean one…”

“What? The unclean who?”

“And besides, in this desert very soon you will dry. A fish out of water must quickly a cup find!” And The Hermit was suddenly gone, deep into the night, with no trace of her grace or her replica starlight.

What to do? What to do?

So cold is this night.

So dry and so pale.

This sand tells no tales.

Oh, Fool, what did you do?

Now I’m lost, all because, I kissed you.

No stars in the sky.

My fish bowl is dry.

And I am ready to sit down

and cry.

“Do you need a cup?”

“Huh?” “For your tears, you said you were going to cry?” It was one of the hippo children from the Ten of Cups patch.

“I am!... I mean… I was, but…”

“Now I’m here? oh, sorry! Should I go and let you cry in peace?”

“Uh… maybe not.” She attempted a smile. The little hippo smiled back. “Why are you here, anyway?”

“Emotional journeys. People get lost. Everyone needs a Ten of Cups in their life, you know?”

21

She took a deep inhale twice, and exhaled, “I do!” And a single tear escaped her eyes, rushed down her blushy cheeks, and launched from her chin in freefall towards the sand below.

As it gained the air it began to shine. Time ran in slow-mo as her tear became a star. She understood it. She understood it all.

Illuminating the pitch black desert night, her tear-star shone, its light piercing deep into her heart in freefall…

“Gotcha!” The little hippo smiled, excited as he captured the falling star-tear with her fish bowl. “Here, I got it for you.”

“Thank you… you are so nimble, I’m impressed!” She smiled. “But why me? I don’t understand… why was a star hiding inside me?”

“It wasn’t hiding, it never is.” The little hippo had the kindest of eyes. “We all have a star inside us, and if we don’t see it, that is because we are not looking.” It seemed obvious enough to the child.

“Looking where?”

“Where it hurts, of course! That’s where people stuff their stars.

They just want to make the pain go away. Then they stuff their star for it. But the star doesn’t stop the pain. So now they lost their star and they are still in pain. All because they didn’t look.”

“They stuff them, huh?” she smiled.

“They stuff them!”

They laughed together.

With kind eyes the little hippo raised her fish bowl.

“Time to un-stuff?” she asked.

“Only you can do it!” answered the child.

With both hands she accepted the bowl. She transcended her hurt.

She kissed the child on their forehead. She gave up on regret. She left that place.

It was dreamy, the journey back. It was swirly. And it became silent before it became loud. Very loud. Very, very loud.

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Part 4. The End is Not the Beginning, it is Really the End, or You Don’t Know What’s Good Until You’ve Kissed a Star.

“Welcome back, my dear. I surely hope you found what you were looking for.” The Queen of Cups was exactly where the Page had left her.

“Oh, did I doze off? I must have been more tired than I realized, I am so sorry! What did I miss?” She smiled as her senses came to her.

“Not too much, just… that!”

Catch that Fool! Get her! We want our Star! Fool thief!

As Stella Le Page finished her song, the crowd madly chased The Fool around the dancefloor. Dodging the grasp of desperation, there was nowhere to go but up! The Fool looked into the eyes of the Page of Cups and the Page of Pentacles. She always looked at her friends before doing something really stupid. Then, stepping on air, The Fool climbed to the floating stage.

“Stop!” Yelled The Fool. “Stop this madness!”

The crowd froze. Stella Le Page froze.

“No, dear Stella, not you, please do continue!” Stella continued.

“All of you!! Just look at you!” The Fool walked to the edge of the stage, addressing all suits and triumphs. “Do you really believe that a Fool such as myself would ever steal The Star? Are you telling me that you believe that The Star, I mean… THE Star! would ever belong to anyone?! The Star belongs only to herself, let me tell you that much!

Who do you think you are, King of Wands?! Sitting up there in your castle of vanities, your fomo factory, using and using and using and really not giving that much! Consumption is your game but we are not all the same! This world is about so much more than your flakey fire! It is truly about growth and following our journeys towards something higher! Much higher!

When I look at all of you I see the journey very clearly! I see the movement we all are going through, constantly! Living and re-living, 23

learning and moving on to then find ourselves in similar places, only different, because now we are different. We soon find that this life is not without its limitations. Big pictures are generally all the same! The joy of life happens in the details, in each moment we live we can find many joys. A smile from someone we love is still a new joy, even if we have seen them smiling before. It is about living the present, my friends! I may not be the King of Pentacles, or Swords, or Cups, but I know this much! Trust me!”

By now, half of the audience had tears forming in their eyes, and the other half had decided not to cry and instead nod, in synchronicity with The Fool who was nodding, and had decided to continue talking, mostly in self-preservation.

“What I am really saying is that all of us have a star! All of us are stars! In the infinite sky we all shine our light! So instead of looking for The Star and accusing this fool of stealing your light and joy, seek within you and many joys you shall find!

And besides, if the King of Wands purchased The Star but the package never arrived, who was it that sold it to him in the first place?!

Who is the real kidnapper here?!”

The crowd murmured and pondered and felt The Judgment called

by The Fool. A sense of release took over the theatre, maybe The Fool was right after all. Thoughts led to a possible new culprit. All thoughts but one, of the King of Wands himself.

“Catch that fool!” Commanded the King. “I want my Star!”

“Fool! Catch!” The Page of Cups stood up and launched her fish bowl into the air. As it gained the air it began to spin. With each spin drops of water slipping out became tiny sparkles of glimmering light.

She had aimed well, and her aim was true, but the bowl was not quite flying in the direction of The Fool. It was, instead, going straight at their guest. And Stella Le Page was not ready to get wet.

So The Fool gave two steps and stumbled on stage, while Stella tried to stand up but tripped by mistake. By now the bowl was about to fall on her head. She grabbed The Fool and together they…

24

Splashhhhh!!! … shhhhhhhhh!

Under a splashing bowl, some say it was magic, Stella Le Page transformed her semblance. From Stella to Star, had she been there this whole time? At this point all we knew was she did shine so bright.

“A light so pure it is not of this world, it is pure light from beyond the sun. It is ancestral light, pointing the way to… to…” The Fool gently touched The Star, and gently kissed her lips, uniting and melting the hearts of all those in disbelief.

An eternal moment in memory, forever left ajar, because you don’t know what’s good until you’ve kissed a star.

With a kiss a problem ends, that with a kiss begun. The mystery of The Star was now solved without one culprit to blame. Some say that, later that night, one just might have seen The Devil in flight. Down the stairs, going somewhere, or nowhere, or everywhere?

All we know, after all, once Death showed up, is that the end is not the beginning, it is really the end.

So chin up, starchaser! Your future is bright. If you don’t see The Fool, chances are that it might… be you. And whatever you do, please remember who you are. Never, ever, stuff your star.

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Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - April Ursula Fox Originally, April used the Curious Creatures Tarot.

This is the 1st row.

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Commentary I honestly pinch myself every time the thought comes to my mind,“did we really just create an anthology of original stories inspired

by Tarot cards?” And then a second pinch, “did we really just bring together the coolest group of writers? all from Las Vegas? and oh, the stories!”

STTAR is a dream come true to me for all these reasons and more.

Much like The Star card, I feel I am one planet in this constellation, connected by pure light and transmitting infinite vibrancy that will transcend the ages.

I am incredibly grateful, deeply thankful, and a huge admirer of everyone that joined the project. It was a journey, an adventure, a climb, a ride… what a ride! And now you are part of it! as you read this.

And yes, of course, let me also tell you about my process, and a little about who I am and how I see the Tarot.

I am a Taromancer. I use the Tarot often and in many ways. I have studied the Tarot very deeply. I have gone, and continue to go into the texts that creators of the Tarot have gone into. I have drank from the same pools of knowledge. I have observed celestial patterns, sacred geometry, writings on the wall of time. I have spoken with so many Tarot practitioners, young and old, very foolish and very wise. I see the Tarot at work across metaphysical boundaries. It all makes sense to me.

A deck of cards that reveals messages connected to so many different layers of existence. It all makes sense to me.

Once I was asked if I believed in Tarot, in magik, in what some may refer to as supernatural. My answer is simple, it is not about believing or not, you exist inside it, whether you believe it or not. The practice of Tarot is part of an awakening, that some choose to embrace, and others 27

will “postpone.” The cards are there for all of us, one has simply to enter the Tarot space, stop questioning themselves, and live the experience, live the Tarot.

I also know that the Tarot speaks to all of us, regardless of how we approach our construction of knowledge, experience, living, and death.

One doesn’t even need to know the Tarot to have an insight from a card. The cards also serve those that approach them with instincts alone. This notion is clearly present in the artwork of Pamela Colman Smith, and explicitly discussed in texts by Eliphas Levi, Edward Waite, and many others, “divination is intuition.” Intuition is… well, you can answer that one, can’t you?

This is exactly the point behind this work with STTAR. The Tarot speaks to all of us! This anthology, if anything else, is another proof of that. What that means is that while the Tarot is archetypal knowledge, or knowledge that belongs within the concept of one archetype or another (e.g. The Magician, The Empress, The Lovers, etc.), it continues evolving, always, as all of us evolve and change and transform the Tarot. A card such as The Magician may have been created with deep roots in intelligence as the primal quality behind creation (the action of The Magician). Perhaps today The Magician navigates the role of performance a lot more than that of thinking or developing something through intelligence. A magician-type context today may involve a lot more promotion efforts, and a lot more performance type tasks than perhaps originally conceived. This is, of course, only one example of how cards (archetypes) can be seen to change in different contexts.

In Tarot circles it is quite common to find those who become perhaps too strict with the meanings of the cards. These strict views will transform the Tarot into a very limited game of chance in which the cards will have the same meaning for every context, with slight 28

variations by spread positions. I see this as prohibitive to someone seeking to experience the Tarot in its full potential. I suggest that all of us can open our minds to the full potential of the cards, that is truly what STTAR is all about.

My Story Determined to push the limits on the potential of the cards, I explore in my story a fantastic world in which Tarot cards are alive. I translate card meanings into character descriptions, traits, interests, actions, objects, and dialog. The world itself, or the location where my story takes place, is one of the archetypes: The Tower (a support card in my hidden influences position), with towers for each elemental suit and major arcana. Instead of creating a bridge between my reality and the Tarot, I chose to depart my reality entirely and move fully into the Tarot world for a change.

The story itself started as I became immersed inside The Fool, my main character, which in my deck of cards, the Tarot of Curious Creatures, is a dog. I knew the fool would have a King of Wands problem, be influenced by the Queen of Cups, and through Judgment end up still having to run with an 8 of Wands. These were positions in my spread. I started looking for more on the problem and found The Star as a support card in my past position, under the Page of Pentacles as the main 1st row card. Staring at this the plot came to my mind: The Fool stole The Star from the King of Wands, and the Page of Pentacles was the courier carrying The Star inside a package. I also took a very surreal turn putting The Star in a package.

I had a plot but the story itself wasn’t moving too fast until the universe came together and gave me the flow of the first scene. I was at work, listening to bossa nova, and just thinking to myself that it is such a sophisticated genre, mixing jazz and rhythms from Brazil, and I was 29

amazed that people play it inside elevators in business buildings and any buildings that have music in elevators. The world had reduced bossa nova to elevator music! Then The Fool manifested in my thoughts, going into buildings and hanging out inside elevators just to listen to bossa nova. I started laughing out loud at work, imagining that kind of aspect of The Fool. From there, the Page of Pentacles comes into the elevator, then the Page of Cups (present position), and the story starts to flow!

Another challenge was how to use all the support cards. I used many through the main plot, as you may have noticed, and even while the remaining were all optional, I still wanted to somehow make use of them all. As I stared and stared into the photo of my 48 card spread, I finally saw all of them together, in a party… no, a show!... of The Magician! (hidden influences)... and in that show they meet the Queen of Cups, and The Fool has a Judgment moment, but at the end it’s still a big 8 of Wands mess!

That was my process in short. It was extremely intense for me once it started. I had dreams of being in that world with Tarot cards alive and manifesting in all kinds of ways. I started having conversations with cards, and watching cards interact with other cards in lively ways.

I produced a big watercolor painting of The Fool, that was accepted into an art gallery show by the Clark County Public Arts. It was intense! Amazing! Unexpected! Immersive! As I worked on my story, my notions of expanding the meaning of Tarot cards, and how I read them, expanded! I have grown significantly as a Tarot reader with the experience of working on my story for STTAR. Also, my story was heavily inspired by my favorite Tarot deck of the moment. The Tarot of Curious Creatures. Because it is anthropomorphic, I am both deeply entertained and fascinated by the connections I make between animal characteristics and the meanings 30

of the cards. The design of the deck is also colorful and uplifting, and maintains, to me, the weight of archetypal images, which I believe is necessary to exist in a Tarot deck. The King of Wands as a lion is perfect. The Page of Cups as a goldfish, perfect! I highly recommend this deck.

Finally, if you are a seeker and your journey through the Tarot is moving you deeper into the mysteries of this existence, I have one little gem for you, trust yourself! And don’t be afraid to change your mind either. If a new meaning comes up and transforms what a card meant to you before, embrace it! Know that, as you grow, the Tarot grows with you.

You are the Tarot, and the Tarot is you.

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Harmoni Wallace

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DreamWORLD Search: apps to help with nightmares Top Results: DreamWORLD , over 10m satisfied Reviews!

Sophia L.:

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“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.:

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“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.:

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"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 33

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_2060.10.24.2 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.

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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_2060.10.29.2 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 35

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.:

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 36

“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 37

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.

38

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!​

🌝 ✨ [riderttt]: 🌛🌛🌛So good to have another dreamer!!💤💤​ [44_marseille_]: Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii🩷🩷🩷🩷 [aquariusstar]: Welcome @temperancexiv!​ [zzzdreamer2048]:Welcome! ​

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.

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🩷🩷🩷

✨✨

✨✨

[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.

40

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?

💋💋💋 temperancexiv: hahah, 💯💯💯😘 see you soon

<3sharshar: idk? Maybe there’s something to it. i AM your dream girl, right????

<3sharshar: drive safe you “gifted dreamer” temperancexiv: haha, shut up

41

**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` revised_transcription_generating…logentry_206 1.11.30.24.10.33.log 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….

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….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.​

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**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`

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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?

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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 46

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.

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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.

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<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

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@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 **Dream sequence recognized** Transcription_generating…logentry_2061.2.19.0 7.33.51.log 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 50

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?

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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.

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**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?

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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…..

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**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 55

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.

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.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.

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.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….

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Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - Harmoni Wallace

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Commentary The Zeitgeist of the story and main character The 8 of Swords I chose to focus on this card’s association with a situation that makes the subject feel trapped, yet escape is possible. The subject is imprisoned by their own beliefs, and it is within their power to liberate themselves.

Supporting Cards 5 of Wands - This card is represented by the conflict between Temperance and the AI technology. The analysis and “support” she receives is misleading and she finds herself at odds with “Dr. Solomon Crowe”, despite her best efforts not to be.

Temperance -Taking the main character’s name from this card was an obvious choice for me. I also snuck in elements of the Temperance card throughout the plot, including the dream in which she saw a figure pouring two cups (an expression of her higher self, although it was interpreted as being her mother in an attempt to manipulate her.)

The Emperor, Knight of Cups and King of Swords determined other defining character traits for Temperance. She is courageous and intelligent, with a rich imagination and inner life.

The Past Queen of Cups I used this card to develop Temperance’s mother. Its placement in the past led me to conclude that she had, well, passed. The Queen of Cups represents compassion, caring, and emotional stability.

She is the “nurturing mother”, and I concluded that she and Temperance had a very close relationship.In many decks, the card 60

is adorned with images of the sea, inspiring me to set the first dream at the seaside.

Queen of Pentacles - A working mom who supported them both.

Tower -Her mother’s sudden and traumatic passing, leading to Temperance’s breakdown.

Sun, Two of pentacles- A happy, balanced past she yearns to return to.

The Moon- Her history of bad dreams, her fear and anxiety that leads her to download DreamWORLD. The present Judgement I focused on this card’s association with “awakening” and trusting one 's own inner judgement or “knowing”. Through this harrowing process, Temperance came to a profound transformation of consciousness, moving from avoidance, by-passing, entrapment, and self-doubt, into seeing clearly and liberating herself, not only from the clutches of DreamWORLD, but from her own self-doubt and grief.

9 of Swords -When we meet Temperance, she is experiencing anxiety, fear and despair.

The Empress-This card makes an appearance in a dream sequence.

The Hermit -Temperance has retreated from the world, abandoned her studies and her friends. She continues to cut ties throughout the story and isolate herself even more. However, the wisdom of the Hermit continues to guide her, even in the darkest of times.

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Ace of Cups - The Ace of Cups inspired the appearance of a new love interest in Temperance’s life.

Hidden Influences The World Determining this card’s role in the story gave me the most amount of challenge, but led to what became the most enjoyable aspect of its creation. The World card can represent the completion of a cycle.I was studying the “Tetramorph” when I remembered a recent conversation. I was talking to a friend about different types of AI models and was intrigued by the “group of experts” model.

What if, as a “hidden influences”, this card represented the cycles that underlie how the AI worked? The “cycles” of inputs, outputs, queries and calculations that the AI itself went through behind the scenes? What if each aspect of the tetramorph represented different “experts”, all with different motives, inspired by their corresponding zodiac signs? I made a few drafts with this idea, but after a few “word count” checks that led to severe editing choices, I abandoned the idea. However, the role of The World as the “code” behind the app stuck and helped me to land on “DreamWORLD” as the name for the app (which was previously going to be Seer).

Supporting Cards 7 of cups - this card can be a warning against illusion and wishful thinking. DreamWORLD promises relief from bad dreams and creates pleasant, alternative “illusions” to enjoy. This proves “too good to be true”, as we must all face our demons if we are to overcome them. Lovers- this card can symbolize “a union”. It inspired me to make a VERY strong union, combining the AI and Dr. Solomon Crowe into one and the same.

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6 of Pentacles-Reversed, this card represents “financial exploitation”. This “free” app had a hidden cost, and quickly demanded more and more of Temperance financially.

Fool - I imagined DreamWORLD as an app created not by Dr. Solomon Crowe, or any other engineer, but by another AI, independent from human intervention. The technology that allowed this to happen was in the spirit of freedom and innocence, but proved to be reckless.

The Problem Seven of Swords This card represents “deceit” and “trickery”. DreamWORLD is not what it appears, and manipulates users through its (artificial) intelligence. This theme is supported by The Knight of Swords, which in reverse, represents “a clever liar”.

8 of Cups- This card represents “letting go of the past”.

Temperance’s inability to move on from her mother’s death and face her grief has led her here.

The Star - I focused on this card’s connection with spirituality, faith and hope. All of which were used to manipulate and control Temperance. Likewise, the more she failed to trust herself, the more dire the situation became.

Ace of Swords- Reversed, this card can represent “confusion”, which the AI intentionally created in order to manipulate and control its users.

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Influence of Others Hierophant This card shaped the role of the AI as a cult-like figure bent on ultimate control, demanding absolute obedience and claiming access to unquestionable wisdom.

Strength- This card can represent powerful influence, the power to persuade, lashing out and aggression. This card influenced the tremendous hold and power that the technology and Dr. Crowe has over Temperance and its victims.

Six of Swords- Represented by the breakup between anTemperance her girlfriend.

Course of Action High Priestess This card represents the Divine Feminine, the wisdom of our intuition and subconscious mind. She has the ability to travel “between realms”. Ultimately, the way out is through Temperance.

Ultimately, through her mastery of her dreams, she receives the information she needs for salvation from the divine feminine force within her.

Four of cups- This card calls for us to “reevaluate” our perspectives and state of mind. Temperance must question everything she thinks she knows about DreamWORLD to break free and see her dreams as wisdom instead of punishment.

Five of Cups- Reversed, it symbolizes “self-forgiveness” and “moving on”. Temperance must stop blaming herself and do the hard work to leave her grief behind.

3 of Swords- “Grief, sorrow and heartbreak”, Temperance is forced to endure these things due to the manipulation and betrayal of 64

someone she trusted. However, due to her innate courage and determination, these experiences give her the power she needs to ultimately escape.

Chariot- Representing victory and overcoming challenges, this card determined that Temperance would be victorious in the end.

Magician- The Magician is depicted with all of their arcane tools laid out before them, symbolizing that we have all we need to succeed. Temperance has the ability to save herself if only she looks within.

The Outcome Knight of Wands Representing energy and passion, the result of Temperance’s ordeal was that she refused to be bullied and controlled any longer. She ultimately took charge and came to her own rescue.

Five of Swords-This card inspired a final blowout of intimidation, bullying and aggression from “Dr. Crowe”.

Page of Cups- With Temperance’s emancipation, and the embrace of her inner wisdom and intuition, we can imagine a “new beginning” for this character marked by more positive emotional experiences.

Devil - Reversed, this card represents separation, independence, freedom and revelation. Considering the role the “Hierophant” plays as the antagonist, freedom could only be gained by rebelling against the established order and claiming her own authority heretical and devilish behavior! To me, this is a powerful reminder that those in authority demonize the very traits that are required for liberation from tyranny.

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Jennifer Battisti

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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

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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 68

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 69

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 70

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 71

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 72

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.

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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 74

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.

II We wake to a family of wild horses, nudging us to get up.

Startled, we curl towards each other and realize Dad is gone.

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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. ***

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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. ***

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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 78

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 79

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.

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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.

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IV 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 82

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.

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Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - Jennifer Battisti

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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 85

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.

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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 87

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 88

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.

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Jeff Grindley

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Azeroth's Mirror Agony is a portal to the most pervasive of horrors, one only needs to take the first step.

Anyya's dad would be home any minute now.

Laying in bed waiting for his headlights to brighten the window, she thought about how he always managed to come through for her exactly when she needed him to. This typically meant around 6 pm, after her mom and sister had enough time to drain every last drop of life out of her.

Mom was an evangelical christian of the strict kind. Anyone living under her God blessed roof was used to new rules being unearthed based on whatever trend hit the pages of Focus on the Family, a christian magazine she devoured monthly. The recent topic to sweep Mom up in a frantic rush to protect her family from the devil's assault was an article entitled “Secular Music: Sweet Symphony or Lucifer's Leverage?” warning that “A new wave of wolves in sheep's clothing” were on their way to “destroy the fabric of the family through a sonic invasion!”

A family meeting had been called and rules put in place about what station the living room radio was to be tuned to at all times and the 91

meaning of ‘appropriate volume.’ “Always taking away all the things I love, it’s what you do best.” Anyya thought, reflecting on last week's mayhem that had nearly pushed her to run away for real this time.

The week started out with an innocent birthday request for Anyya’s very own boombox, complete with a dual cassette deck and automatic rewind. It was the kind of thing that would let her reclaim a little space of her own. “You can get books on tape too, not just music!” then a little white lie, “on TV I saw that listening to classical music while you study, like, improves your memory and stuff!” Her Mom saw through this, “You don’t need your own music player, young lady. What’s wrong with the house radio?”

“But Mom, I'm almost 15! I should be able to listen to what I want! I’m not a child!!!”

“Ha! Not a child?! Music is a very slippery slope Anyya. The devil uses music to rot your morals and your mind. Anything the devil can do to break us away from the most high, he will most certainly try to do!” ​ Anyya couldn’t believe mom wasn’t even going to consider it!

“Evie has a tape player in her room and she’s five!”

“Well you are also not your sister! We hand pick those bible stories on tape for her. They are positive and nurturing. The Devil led the choir in heaven, did you know that? Hmm? Music is his specialty! So you-” “Janet-” her dad slipped into the conversation, “why don’t we at least think about it? Her grades are pretty good right now and, you know, Holy Pages has an alternative music section. I’d bet we could find something there that would make everyone happy?” There was a pause and Dad looked at Anyya, a twinkle in his eye, “isn’t that right pumpkin?”

She loved that look. It came sometimes, when he could sense she was having a hard week, offering a hug and slipping her a ten dollar bill, saying “get yourself something at the Mall.” Even if the world was up against her, led by the matriarch of the family and a little bratty sister, Dad would be there to support her.

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“Yeeeees. It can’t all suck I guess.”

“Watch your mouth young lady!” Mom snapped.

The negotiation seemed to have relaxed her though, since she followed with, “Well I suppose we can think about it Roger.” It gave Anyya hope that she might get more than socks and a bible with her name inscribed on its cover for her birthday -again.

After a torturous wait, the day came to see if the father-daughter team had made an impact on the wall of rules that was Mom. After dinner, a sugar free vanilla cake followed by the gifting of socks and a bible cover with her name inscribed on it, made her feel less than hopeful. Then, just before she was going to fake happiness and go to her room, Dad brought out a big rectangle wrapped in newspaper. She squealed out loud “Oh my gosh!! Is it?” Tearing into the wrapping revealed an off brand boombox that had the combination of features she had asked for.

“No secular stations!” Mom said as Anyya disappeared down the hall with her new treasure.

Unpacking the boombox, she found that there was a cassette inside by a band called ‘BLENDERHEAD’. The name had potential, but with song titles like “Won’t Break the Spirit” and “Lift me Lord” she knew exactly where it had come from. Deciding not to take a chance on spoiling her birthday, she put the tape aside and placed the boombox proudly atop her dresser. Tuning into the only alternative station in town, she set the volume low just in case her mom passed by and could hear the secular debauchery of the Stone Temple Pilots through the walls. Falling back on her bed, closing her eyes she thought, “I’ll give the tape a listen tomorrow, it’s probably not as bad as it looks.” and in only a few minutes she was asleep.

After school the next day Anyya found out what she had already suspected. Blenderhead sucked. After track two, entitled ‘Heart Core’ she pulled the tape out throwing it into a pile of clothes with a heavy 93

sigh, “Back to radio I go” she said. But as she was about to switch the radio on, she heard her Dad’s three soft knocks on the bedroom door.

“Anyya?”

“Come in," she said.

Stepping in he spotted the cassette in a gray flannel and said, “That tape really ‘bites’ huh?” the door closed behind him. “Daaaad!”

“What? That’s what the kids are saying these days right? Bites and sucks?”

She laughed at his attempts at new slang.

At least he tried.

“Yeah Dad, it sucks. It freaking bites.”

He scooped up the cassette from the floor and sat next to her on the bed. “Well let's fix that..” pulling out scotch tape from his back pocket. “See those little holes there on top?” flipping the cassette to show her “Cover those up and you can record over the music that is on there.”

“Really? That’s cool but, I mean, record what? I don’t have any other tapes.”

“You can start by recording your favorite songs on the radio first.

It’ll take some time, but pretty soon you’ll have all your favorites in one place!”

He made the modifications, popped the tape back in and turned on the radio, keeping the volume low. To Anyya’s surprise, the band Nirvana had just played the opening riff to one of her favorite songs, “In Bloom”.

“You like this one?” her dad asked.

“Yeah!”

He hit record and let the song finish before rewinding the tape and pressing play to show her it had worked. The song started to play again and her joy was immediate. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed tight “Dad, you are the best. I love you!”

Strained by the hug he said, “I love you too pumpkin, let’s just keep it between us, yeah?”

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After a few days of getting home from school and sitting perched next to the radio, sketching or writing in her journal between songs, she ended up with a recording of some of her favorites and a new pastime, making mixtapes.

Nearing the week’s end, she had filled the tape with the best of what the radio had to offer. Coming in from her weed pulling duties in the backyard, she was eager to listen to the tape in full for the first time since she finished it the night before. She heard Evie's muffled voice as she came down the hallway, realizing the little fungus was in her room.

“Great, what is she messing up now?” and then she thought “Probably eating my strawberry lipsmackers!”

Evie and the glow worm plushy she referred to as “Mr Snugglebug” sat crosslegged in a tangled pile of shiny black tape. Mr Snugglebug’s head was glowing (a night light feature that made him popular among kids) illuminating in a soft red glow a broken cassette shell that had housed her mixtape. Anyya’s mind raced and her adrenaline spiked as she blurted out, “I spent so much time! Hours of waiting for the songs!

It’s, it's ... .ruined!” She might have kept her composure if Evie hadn’t burst into laughter as she tossed the strands into the air shouting, “Spaghetti! Spaghetti! Spaghetti!”

Dad had just come in with Mom to investigate, as Anyya tackled her sister. Anyya's foot slipped in the tangle of tape and her elbow made contact with Evie’s small nose. Blood burst from the little girl's face, staining Mr Snugglebug's nighttime attire. Dad grabbed Anyya, pulling her away as she screamed “You little shit!”

Mom's eyes bulged at the word as she rushed Evie out of the room to nurse her tender nose, and as Dad closed the door Anyya stopped him. “Dad, are you mad? I just lost it ya know? The nose, it was-” “Pumpkin,” he said, “I don’t want to hear another word. I’m not mad, but I am very disappointed in you.” And for reasons Anyya couldn’t explain, that disappointment hurt so much more than anger ever could.

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“Never again! You can’t even be trusted with a radio! I should’ve trusted what the Lord was telling me, you’re always finding a way to make my life harder. Your sister's nose could have been broken!” Evie held an ice pack to her face, eyes narrowing at her big sister. Mom finished her tirade with, “You’re not going anywhere for a month.”

“But it was an accident! Dad-” Anyya looked to him for help, but this time he was silent. She had let him down after he had been there for her, time and time again. If she could take it back she would. She would do a lot of things differently and Evie would never have any part of it. “I shoulda busted her nose on purpose.”

Now as Anyya sat, rehearsing an apology, she finally saw the sweep of headlights swing across the popcorn ceiling as dad’s car pulled in.

Heavy footsteps came up the walkway. Two sets of footsteps, she realized. The familiar clink and jingle of his key in the door was replaced by stern knocking.

“Weird, why would dad knock?” she thought. “Probably messing with mom, it wouldn't be the first time.”

Mom answered the door using a tone that told Anyya that this was not her dad after all. She went up the hallway, deciding that her orders to stay in the room till dad got home were secondary to her curiosity.

She couldn’t make out the words yet, but moms voice had escalated quickly in volume and speed, which scared her as she turned the corner into the living room. Evie looked confused in the kitchen, holding Mr. Snugglebug close to her body. Mom let out a scream, collapsing into a ball on the linoleum at the feet of a cop who was saying, “I’m so sorry ma’am.”

Anyya rushed forward, suddenly protective of her family, glaring up at the cop while she crouched over her mom, angry that this man had brought confusion and pain into their home. “What’s going on?”

Anyya asked. “And what did you say to Mom?!” Evie was crying now, sitting down in place, tucking her chin and peering out from behind the safety of her plush companion. The cop looked at Anyya, “Your 96

father was in a terrible accident while on the job. Unfortunately, he was killed.” Anyya got in his face. “Liar! My Dad would never leave me! You lie!” Another officer stepped in, reaching out to her, trying to calm her “I know it’s hard sweetie-” Anyya struggled against the starched uniform trying to comfort her. She did her best to get a few punches in against the brute, but with every one, the weight of the words sunk in until finally, she gave up and cried into the arms of the stranger. She didn’t get to say goodbye, or even, I’m sorry.

The next month became a blur.

Mom made her continue school the very next day, she was still grounded and Mom refused to talk about Dad at all. It was as if after the chaos of the initial police visit nothing had changed. For Anyya, what had already been a teenage hellscape, was now missing the only person that was ever in her corner. “Things couldn’t get any worse,”she thought. “I’m completely alone.”

In church on Sundays, Mom retained the perfect image of the woman she had been before Dad’s death. At home, though, she would mumble to herself while doing daily tasks. It sounded like nervous gibberish to Anyya, who only caught a few words one night while grabbing her pile of laundry for folding. As Mom folded a sheet, staring straight ahead she mumbled “...set the table for him.. should be home soon.. a test for the faithful- I am the faithful. Love is patient..”

She almost felt sorry for her but couldn’t help to think, “Where’s Jesus now, Mom?” If Evie had been impacted by the passing of their dad, she hid it well, which infuriated Anyya. Evie had taken up hiding in dark places, with her glow worm, and in turn scaring the hell out of her big sister.

One night, Anyya got up to use the bathroom and had no sooner started to relax into the soft vinyl seat, than she was greeted by a red glowing apparition behind the shower curtain.

“Boo!” Evie punctuated the air in a loud whisper.

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“Oh my god! Evie!” Anyya gasped, “Go back to bed you rodent!

The hell?!”

“Oooooh you said a bad word, I’m telling mom!”

Evie hopped out of the tub and scurried back down the hall like a mouse after cheese.

“I’m gonna kill her one day.” Anyya mumbled to herself, and finished her bathroom business.

School felt even lonelier than usual that week. Her friend Tif had tried to convince her to run away, but Anyya had chickened out on the plans as usual. Tif was always the one to take action. Being left behind by her dad and now Tif, she really had no one to talk to. Her stomach was perpetually in knots so during lunch break she made her way out to the soccer field to try to keep her mind occupied. Walking the fenced in perimeter, her fingers dragging along the chain link, she thought “I shoulda gone with Tif. Even if she’s only staying at Stephen's house and will be caught by the end of the week.” she sighed “It won’t matter where I go now anyway. Dad will still be gone.”

Wrestling with loneliness, dad’s words came to mind, “these teen years are tough for everyone, pumpkin, but they won’t last forever.

Promise.” Soon she slumped against the fence under the weight of her heartache and pulled her knees up tucking her face away from the world, “Dad, you would’ve known what to do, what to say. I’d do anything to have you back. God I miss you.” Then looking around quickly before turning her eyes to the sky she said “and fuck you God, why’d you have to take him away?!” Shifting in the grass, her hand touched a piece of paper. A single typed sheet, crumpled, but legible.

At the top of the page, was a simple cursive script followed by what looked like instructions to some kind of game. She read the name of the game out loud, “Azeroth’s Mirror” The opening sentence read like bad poetry to Anyya: “When power we seeketh 98

to move heaven and hell, Trade Azeroth a precious gift to fill thine earthly well.”

Further down the page, some setup for the game was followed by more bad poetry: 1. Wait until the stroke of the midnight hour before calling upon the great one.

2. Snuff out all lantern light. A lone candle upon the altar may remain.

3. Upon a looking glass of polished obsidian, mark the sigil of Azeroth in crows blood.

4. Gaze upon thine reflection, repeating the invocation three and ten.

Invocation: “Azeroth, thine messenger, Agony hath brought you to me.

For thine power and greatness amongst legions I sought thee.

Azeroth I ask my burden to lift Binding my soul to your service, that I may receive thine gift.”

5. Await the Duke of Low. It read like a dramatic remake of the old Bloody Mary game to Anyya. Tif had tried to convince her to play once at a sleepover years ago, but Anyya insisted it was a stupid waste of time and wouldn’t work. Anyya had been secretly scared that it might actually work and didn’t want to risk rousing a demon for fun. “This sounds less like a game,” she thought on a second read “and more like a ritual.” She traced a finger across the strange symbol on the page that she was to scrawl in blood on a mirror. Around the symbol was the name, “Azeroth” she said it aloud, the name feeling familiar but she couldn’t place why. “I ask my burden to lift ... That I might receive thine gift…”

The ache in her heart had been distracted by a deep curiosity for what might happen if she tried to play. She put the paper in her pocket, “this 99

time I’m not chickening out. I’ve got plenty of burdens Azeroth, and it beats sitting in silence all night.”

The house was all quiet except for the hall clock. Striking midnight she slipped out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. Passing mom’s room she felt a rush of adrenaline that accompanies the taboo and the risk of being caught for doing something mom would certainly call ‘satanic’.

Placing a votive candle that she found in the junk drawer onto the edge of the sink, she struck a match and lit the wick. Lipstick was the closest match she found for crows' blood, so with it, she drew Azeroth’s symbol on the mirror. The geometric shape framed her face in Revlon Black Cherry lines “It’s not blood but it’ll have to do," she said. Flicking the light switch off, she found herself bathed in shadows that danced in the gentle glow of the candlelight. She felt the candle’s warmth through her oversized shirt and, staring into her reflection, addressed herself in her best British accent, “Hello Anyya number two, how does life fair for thee on the other side?” Anyya number two raised her eyebrows “Here? Oh here, on this side of the mirror? It suuuucks!”

In candlelight, once familiar objects looked like props on the set of a B movie, bad reproductions of the real thing. It all gave Anyya the impression of having crossed into another world that looked like hers but was not. Magic happened in settings like this. Beautiful magic, sinister magic, strange magic, but all -magic.

With the setup complete, she reviewed the instructions once again before starting the recitation. Taking a deep breath she looked into the reflection.

“Anyya number two, are you ready to ask for the only thing you really want?” They nodded in confirmation.

Azeroth, thine messenger, Agony hath brought you to me.

She started slowly, her voice sounding clunky and silly in the echo of the small room.

For thine power and greatness amongst legions I sought thee.

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The words developed momentum with each line recited.

As her breathing deepened so did the shadows, the candlelight moving in time with her words.

Azeroth I ask my burden to lift.

She had lost track of how many times she had repeated it all. She listened, no longer sure the voice she heard was her own, the volume rising as she continued.

Binding my soul to your service, that I may receive thine gift.

The warmth of the candle disappeared as its light dimmed.

She felt a sense of wonder as the symbol of Azeroth began to shimmer, taking on a soft chartreuse glow. The geometry lifted from the glass and positioned itself over her reflection as a wobbly halo. She was in darkness now, only the glow of Azeroth's symbol pulsing in time with her breath.

The bathroom had disappeared it seemed, the exception being the vanity and the mirror still hanging in space with its reflection. She had a sense that she was in some expansive place between her world and another. Looking in the mirror to try to ground herself in reality, she found Anyya number two’s breath was audibly out of rhythm with her own. This detail made this all feel wrong and instinctually she outstretched her arm, flailing her hand up and down,trying to find the plastic switch that could tie her back to the familiar. She found only empty space.

She felt her chest tightening, her hands and feet all pins and needles. “Crap crap crap!!” A movement in the reflection and the rustling of heavy fabric snapped her to attention. The back of a large hooded figure had replaced Anyya number two in the mirror frame.

Squinting she could see that this was not her twin but someone, something new. A dark cape cascaded off its wide shoulders, gold flakes woven into the fabric shimmering as the material reacted to a silent breeze. The symbol that she had drawn on the mirror floated above this creature's head, now more like a crown than a halo.

Azeroth.

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“What agony brings one so young seeking the gifts of Azeroth Duke of Low?” The deep voice washed over her, soothing to not only her ears but her mind as well “Am I dreaming?”

A distant intuition told Anyya she should be running away from this humanoid figure as fast as she could muster, but the Duke of Low silenced that notion with the question “I ask again. Why has the messenger, agony, brought you seeking the Duke's gifts?”

Anyya felt a storm of thoughts enter her mind, clouding any words she tried to retrieve until one word cut through it all.

Pumpkin.

Immediately she blurted out, “Dad. I need- need him. Everything sucks. Mom is nuts and my sister is the worst. Both of them act like my Dad isn’t dead! Well he is dead!” She was shaking as tears began struggling out before rolling down her cheeks. “I can’t do this alone anymore!” Azeroth spoke with firm but tender inflection. “Tell me what it is you want. Precisely. Craft thine anguish into a singular question.”

Clearing the snot and tears taking a breath, she closed her eyes and said, “I- I want him to come home. Can you -can you bring him back?”

The space between the question and answer seemed to stretch over an eternity and then, “Yes.” It was not what she expected. “I know it’s not really -what?”

The gold flecks in Azeroth’s hood shimmered in the candlelight as it spoke the word again, “Yes.” “Y-Yes?” she stammered, “You-You can bring my daddy back?”

“Resurrection is one gift I offer for a price. Bind thine soul to my service and it will be re-written as you have asked.”

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Full of hope, her heart beat loud in her chest as she stared up at the glowing symbol above the creature's head. “I would do anything to have him back. I loved him so much and I mean- well- How? Bind my soul?”

“Bind thine soul to me.”

“How would I even- How does someone bind their soul? IF I were to-” “Return when the moon is whole at the stroke of midnight.

Repeat the summoning. Speak the words of the binding. Blood must be spilled to inscribe the soul onto the tablet of forever. Thus the resurrection be written.” Azeroth began to move away from the mirror in slow long strides. Stopping, its head still concealed, Azeroth turned slightly and answered the question Anyya was too afraid to ask “You will know the words of the binding. I will guide the mind of my faithful devotee.” The black figure then dissolved into the darkness.

The symbol stayed rotating in place before returning to the mirror, regaining its crimson hue in the candlelight again. Her arm shot out, fingers fumbling for the light switch. Looking on her reflection she looked tired but felt stronger, “We can have Dad back Anyya,” she told number two, “Azeroth said we can bring him back.” She was taking control. She didn’t understand how it had all been possible, but she knew that she had tapped into something powerful and it had given her hope.

She slept soundly for the first time since her dad had died.

Days stretched into weeks as Anyya made note every night of the moon phases. School had become an excruciating social exercise.

To avoid as many of her peers as possible, even Tif (who had gotten busted as Anyya predicted), she took advantage of their open campus policy walking the two blocks to the old cemetery to be alone. She reflected as she wandered through the headstones, what it meant to bind her soul to Azeroth. So many questions and none had been answered. “Anything has to be better than this.” Every day without her dad felt empty. She came to the headstone that was her father’s and 103

resting against its granite, she remembered when Dad had put on that old scary movie when Mom was out of town. The movie was called Night of the Living Dead.

There was something about those zombies that fascinated her even at nine years old. Brainless and slow as molasses, they seemed organized, working together, even better than the people in the movie did. She had worked up a theory by the end of the movie and shared it with her Dad that night, “In the beginning, in the graveyard, that person Johnny was a real jerk. Not just to his sister but to the zombie that came to help them find their mom’s grave! The zombie was just trying to help but Johnny got scared causa how he looked so Johnny fought the zombie guy. He ruined it! You gotta listen to everyone, even if they are scary lookin.”

Dad laughed, impressed by how wise she seemed for her age. “You really have a neat take on things don't ya pumpkin? I don’t think anyone but you would have thought that the ghouls were misunderstood.”

“What are ghouls?” she asked “I thought they were zombies?”

He explained, “The guy who made the movie called them ghouls.

Ghouls are the undead looking to feast on human flesh! Empty bodies looking for their souls! But who knows, maybe all the brains they eat give em real good ideas like you said!” They laughed together while, on the television, a ghoulish girl ate a human liver, its black blood streaming down her hands and spilling onto a well kept lawn.

The cemetery was a place, Anyya learned, for ghouls like her to get away, to do some soul searching and not be bothered by anyone. Her journal was now filled with sketches of that symbol of ancient power.

With each one she drew, she could feel herself grow stronger, every line sealing the promise of Azeroth made in that strange chamber between worlds.

“Resurrection.”

She would trade anything to leave this emptiness behind. Looking up, she could see the full moon on the daylight horizon. Tonight would be the night that she would bind herself to an immense power 104

and get her dad back. Looking down at the headstone she said, “See you soon Dad. Love you.”

Anyya’s voice was full of strength as the ritual began.

Words repeated.

Shadows deepening.

The space between worlds shifting.

Azeroth appeared facing her, filling the frame of the mirror with muscle that rippled under pale green skin. A red light from some distant source illuminated its chiseled features, casting deep shadows into the hollows of its eyes. Azeroth's lips, full and sinister, peeled back to show the tips of black canines, adding to an already heavy sense of menace.

Azeroth spoke, “Your soul. The oath. The blood."

Trembling, her father’s words came like a mist into her mind, “this will pass, sweetheart,” doubt began to creep into her heart. Was this worth being a ghoul with no soul? Roaming graveyards looking for something she never could have? Was this what Dad would’ve wanted?

Dads voice said this was going too far.

Azeroth’s words came in like a strong gust of wind, the thoughts tumbling aside. The timbre of his voice could be felt in her feet.

“Take this gift of power. Fill the void and reunite. Let us continue the unholy rites to resurrection," she felt as if her mouth had moved with the words it spoke.

“I don’t have to be alone.”she thought “Bringing him home fixes it. Dad always fixes things for me. Now I get to fix things, soul or no soul.” Azeroth’s smile broadened, eyes closing revealing a deep pleasure. “And my father will be returned to me?” she asked.

“Yes, the oath and-” “Wait! I want to see him! How do I know you aren’t lying or or-” “Ignorant child of Agony! You dare question the power of Azeroth? The ceremony must proceed…”

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She felt the Duke's voice seep into her mind, making it difficult to distinguish the source of her thoughts “Will he be normal? Will he be my Dad?” “Yes.” The weight of the decision loomed as she hesitated.

“I had to be sure. I-” The soft red glow on Azeroth's skin grew in intensity, “The oath!” he said The symbol of Azeroth spun above the beast's head, wildly. The words of the binding came to her, as he had said they would, taking over all other thoughts. The voice she spoke them with was not her own.

“For the dead a price Blood for blood Restored And sealed forever” Becoming a chant echoing in her ears Anyya began to feel lighter, the burden that had weighed her down lifting.

“Now the blood.” She looked down and found she was holding a razor. When had she taken that out? Her fingers trembled as she gripped the edge of the blade, a voice from behind drew her attention.

“Annya, who is that man in the mirror?”

Anyya's eyes widened as she recognized her little sister's voice piercing the ceremonial stillness. Turning she saw Evie was at her hip, Mr Snugglebug held tight in her arms. How much had she seen? What did she know? She would tell mom everything! Anyya's surprise turned to anger. Here Evie was, ready to screw things up for Anyya yet again.

She grabbed her sister by the shoulders shaking her “What are you doing here? Why are you here?!!!” Evie shrank, holding the glow worm close, “Mr. Snugglebug wanted to glow and we like it here cause he glow so bright.” A thought flashed into Anyya’s mind “I’ll let Azeroth have her. Why should I sacrifice everything all the time?” Her mind 106

flooded with every time Evie had ruined things for her and recalled how callous she had seemed about Dad being dead.

Azeroth insisted.

“The BLOOD!” Azeroth's deep eyes closed, its mouth opening in anticipation of the most twisted part of this game.

Anyya looked to the mirror, then back to Evie. She hoisted Evie up onto the step normally used for the brushing of teeth before bed, empowered to take destiny into her own hands rather than just going along. Evie tried to squirm away but Anyya's grip was firm. Anyya’s hand trembling, she put the blade near Evie's soft flesh “It’s just a little blood” Anyya thought, an icy resolve flushing through her veins. She watched as though she was a spectator as the blade cut deep into Evie's soft pale flesh. Evie screamed. The world slowed. Instead of spilling to the ground, the blood defied gravity, pooling mid air, a wobbling sphere that grew in size with every beat of Evie's small heart. Drop by dark drop it began to make its way into the dark hole of Azeroth's mouth.

A distant laugh could be heard reverberating.

As Azeroth gorged on Evie’s blood, its green skin began to peel back, revealing a black endoskeleton, triggering memories of horned beetles terrorizing Anyya by the pool when she was young. The Duke of Low’s mouth, lengthened until the humanoid jaw fell away, replaced by large mandibles extending out from the dark.

Anyya backed away in horror, releasing her grip on Evie, her body now floating before the transforming demon. Mr Snugglebug hit the ground jostling Anyya from her trance.

“Anyya!” Evie let out a small scream of sheer terror “Ev-” she reached out but Evie was pulled into the mirror by the will of Azeroth before Anyya could reach.

A clawed arm sunk into Evie’s throat, replacing her screams with a gush of dark blood. Gravity returned causing blood to splash everywhere including Anyya’s open mouth.

She understood then, as the copper wet her lips,“It meant to kill me. The price. It was death…”

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Evie’s body dropped out of sight and was replaced by a replica, softly glowing and translucent. Evie’s soul. Like smoke being pulled into a vent, Azeroth pulled the helpless figure of light into its chest.

“Evie..” Azeroth had absorbed her completely.

Then she heard the words, echoing, “the binding is complete.”

“Dad is coming home," she said to herself.

Anyya was dizzy as her world shrank, the bathroom becoming tiny at the far end of a telescope. “Will it take me next? Is my Da-” but before she could finish the thought, darkness had overtaken her.

She awoke to the sound of birds outside her window. Startled, she sat up in her bed. Frantically she scanned the room for Azeroth, blood, or any signs that the nightmare had been anything but that. Finding nothing she felt relief wash over her. “That was so messed up,” she thought. “I wish there was a way to bring Dad back. Evie can be intolerable but I wouldn’t sacrifice her to a bug god!” she laughed uneasily at the thought, then she admitted to herself “well maybe I would.”

Groggy, wiping the sleep from her eyes, she heard the footsteps coming down the hall. “Great, another day of drudgery begins.”

Expecting Mom to barge in, she instead heard three light knocks on the door before it swung open. “Pumpkin, we got breakfast ready downstairs, better get up!”

They sat at the table, the three of them.

Anyya, Mom and Dad. “Pass the pancakes, please,” Dad asked.

Anyya, confused, mechanically passed the plate, staring down at the table.

“Dad is back,” she thought. “It-it was real? We got Dad back, Anyya but that means-” “You know I had the strangest dream,” Dad said.

“Oh?” asked Mom. “Yeah! I dreamt that we had another little girl…”

Evie.

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“…and that I had been in a terrible accident and died!”

“Roger! Don’t even say things like that! That’s awful.”

He laughed, but it was a strange laugh that made Anyya uneasy.

“Aw honey, come on, it was just a dream.”

He turned to Anyya, “right Pumpkin?”

“Right dad” she gave a small chuckle before lifting her eyes.

A smile had formed on Dads face, slowly, waiting for his moment of recognition.

The cold dark eyes of Azeroth stared back into her own.

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Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - Jeff Grindley Originally, Jeff used the Fountain Tarot deck. This is the 1st row:

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Commentary Tarot had found its way into my rotating list of interests this year, so when I learned about the STTAR writing workshop employing it as the building block for storytelling, I knew I had to apply. The idea of using alternative methods to draw inspiration and break through writer's block were not new concepts to me, but I had never taken the opportunity to fully embrace any in my writing. It was a chance to dive deeper into the meaning of the cards and meet other writers with a shared curiosity or devotion to the occult.

Meeting in the bookstore for the drawing of the cards that were to be the bones of our story, I could feel the energy and excitement filling the room. Looking through my Tarot deck, preparing to shuffle, I was nervous, realising how little of the card meanings I had retained in my studies up to this point. I started thinking of the hours I would need to digest each card, diving deep into each one to understand how they would translate to some kind of story before even starting to write! The discouragement was real.

Luckily April, our guide and editor in chief shared examples of how the cards could tell a story through the Tarot archetypes. She reassured us that we would all find our story and that if we encountered problems, she would be there to answer any questions along the way.

I recalled the importance of shuffling the deck with intention as one prepares to draw the cards. If I lacked knowledge I would need to make up for it with my intention I thought. I would send out a mantra to the universe and see if the cards responded in kind.

I began my fumbling shuffle, closing my eyes and silently repeating the words: Weird. Horror. Scary. Sci-Fi. 111

I drew the cards and as each archetype lay looking up at me from the table, I waited for inspiration to wash over me. Ten minutes of staring at them, I found that my mind was not only blank, but had erected a wall around the void that guaranteed nothing would get in or out. Our guide came around to review and discuss our draw. When she got to me, she assured me that I had a really cool spread and explained different ways the process could work. I tried to latch onto certain interpretations she offered, taking notes on the examples given. I started to recover some of my initial excitement and thought that with some help this may work out.

I spent the remainder of the workshop silent, taking copious notes about each card.

Later in the week in front of the page, I looked at the cards and found my mind was as blank as it had been at the workshop. The pressure and expectation of making something amazing was holding me back. I told myself I had a few months to get it all done and that the story would come if I’d only start writing. A ghost story from my wife's childhood came to mind and I decided to see where that would take me. My main character, Anyya, was a Page of Swords which meant she was curious but inexperienced. The writing was ok, but lacked direction and felt like walking through thick mud. The deadlines were getting closer and in spite of productive meetings with my fellow writers and our fearless leader, I was feeling uncertain about my ability to finish on time.

After trying for a few weeks to make things work with this ghost story (and putting things off!), my wife, tired of my bellyaching said “Break the story down for me in three parts. Using only one or two sentences to describe each part”.

I slumped into the couch and stared up at the ceiling, clearing my mind. I let go of all the details and mess of what I had already written 112

and the sentences rushed out of my mouth. “A girl loses her Dad. She makes a deal with a spirit to bring him back. That deal means selling her soul. She trades her sister's soul instead.” This last twist came in the moment.

“Sounds cool!” she said.

“Yeah. It does, don’t it?”

I jumped up from the couch and retreated to my writing nook, deciding to scrap what I had and start fresh.

The story finally began to come together. Now that I had some building blocks, I only needed add details to the structure As my familiarity with the editing process and the Tarot meanings grew (thanks to regular check-ins with our Oracular guide and editor April) I whittled the story down day after day into something I enjoyed writing and looked forward to sharing.

My fondness for Anyya almost led me astray in the editing process, but the cards (and my editor) were there to straighten me out. While doing revisions I decided that I wanted Anyya to be possessed when she made the decision to sacrifice her sister. I believed that she wasn’t actually capable of doing something so terrible to her sister and wanted to take some of the responsibility away from her. She could make poor decisions because she was young and human, but she wasn’t capable of pure evil was she? The possession gave her an out and made me feel good.

I rewrote the scene and sent it with notes to the editor explaining the situation. April cautioned against the change and encouraged me to rethink it before committing to the decision. After sleeping on it, I decided this would be the perfect opportunity to see what the spread had to say about what Anyya was capable of. I reviewed the spread card by card.

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The Devil in my outcome was clearly the deal Anyya would make with Azeroth. This would backfire and create a reality she hadn’t imagined possible in the worst way. The Lovers as a hidden influence seemed to map directly to the relationship and love she had with her Father. This would become the driving force behind her grief and clouded decision making. The Problem, Two of Swords, was the decision she would need to make during the ‘game’ with Azeroth.

Deciding whether to sell her soul without knowing the cost. In the position of outside influences was the Tower, represented by the death of her Dad. I finally came to the Character position of my story and the Page of Swords who represented Anyya.

Flipping through my Tarot resource I read about the Page being a very inexperienced archetype in the cast of Tarot characters. Certainly this combined with the Swords, a suit representing communication, could explain why she wasn’t thinking ahead to the possible consequences of her actions. This, I realized with sudden clarity, was absolutely something Anyya could do. I still didn’t want her to, but she could and for the sake of the story she would need to. Her intention was never to kill her sister, but the responsibility for that outcome would lay squarely on her shoulders.

The support of the editor and her sense of story combined with the cards as a structure to build from made this process go from intimidating to incredibly rewarding. The STTAR workshop helped me explore my writing in a new way and gave me some new tools to use in crafting characters. I hope you enjoy Anyya's story as much as I enjoyed writing it, and if not I hope it at least inspires you to write a better story yourself!

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Stephi Blue

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The Lovers “The Lovers are about two people, but not the people you would expect, Given time to reflect each other in their gazes, they would begin to notice their predictable phases, Visible figures passing through day and night, but neither can feel the other’s warm light, A union as grand would shatter the fabric of solitude, bending space time with catastrophic magnitude, O, how they search for each other in the heavens all the while, with no avail along their familiar paths can their union reconcile.”

-The Lovers, Stephi Blue Part I - Infinitely Past the Present A mountain of books laid sprawled across a table with stacks of paper scattered about. Abby couldn’t remember the last time she cleaned up her workspace which littered her home office. Looking at the clock, Abby suddenly panicked as she realized her partner Dylan would be home soon.

Where did it all go wrong?

Do you remember when we met?

Dylan’s words echoed out to Abby as she sat pondering the mess.

Yes, she did remember that glance when their eyes met in passing at the college library. Things had been simple then, almost tinged with a golden glow with both their cups so full of possibilities. Abby remembered the hell she went through with law school, but even then 116

life seemed vibrant and Dylan was the fantasy come true; or so she thought. It was better in comparison to before that point at least.

Abby could hear the front door creak open and footsteps shuffle past the threshold signaling her beloved was home from their band practice. Immediately she went to greet her partner who enthusiastically smiled when seeing her.

“Mon cheri! How was your day?” Dylan grinned. They had a gift for being the most charming goof in existence.

“Can’t wait to have a glass of wine and if you speak French to me again I’ll…”, Abby couldn’t finish the thought before Dylan snuck in for the softest of kisses, disarming her in a flash.

“I picked up your favorite bottle on my way back actually. I had a feeling you wanted to relax tonight, you seemed stressed this week.”

Dylan pulled a bottle from behind their back and presented it like it was an offering to Dionysus.

“You know exactly what I need sometimes.”

Dylan laid across their couch in their shared apartment waiting for Abby to open the wine and join them. Abby removed the cork from the bottle and poured two glasses before bringing them to the couch.

“How was band practice?” Abby inquired.

Dylan shrugged as they took a sip of wine and laid their head back, “it was okay, working on a couple new songs.”

“When are you going to book a gig though?” Abby said sarcastically.

“Is that all you care about Abby? I know you are supporting us and have a demanding job, but making music is hard too.” Dylan regretted the words as Abby gave them a glare.

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“It’s just hard juggling being a lawyer when my partner can’t even help out because they want to chase their dreams.”

Dylan went quiet and didn’t want to push it any further.

“The only reason I’m a lawyer is because I want to provide for you in the first place.” Abby chugged her wine.

“Oh bullshit, that’s not even a bit true. Where’s your sense of justice?” Dylan scoffed.

Dylan was right, Abby recalled how her father was abusive and controlling like a malevolent emperor at times. All Abby could do was escape to college and vow to never be like him, but she also met Dylan and someone has to be a provider.

“Someone has to make money Dylan.” Abby felt herself holding onto resentments that only showed their ugliness at the worst moments and this was one such time.

Dylan made a painful face, Abby’s words had cut them like a sword slicing an already open wound.

“I have some work to finish. This week I have a huge case coming up so I need to be prepared.” Abby left the couch as Dylan gave her pleading eyes to stay a bit longer.

“I know, you always do.” Dylan sighed. “Remember when we used to take walks to the library and you’d go ahead of me and stop so I would bump into you and then I’d wrap my arms around you?”

“That was a while ago, we were still young and dumb. You had longer hair than me then I think.” Abby recalled.

“I miss those times.” Dylan got up and went to their room.

Abby couldn’t understand how Dylan had not seemed to grow up all this time. Dylan was still the carefree, nonchalant, enby babe Abby 118

had always known; but still there was a point Abby thought Dylan would settle into themselves and start contributing to their relationship. Abby started to feel tired as her strength had been drained from the petty argument. She reluctantly made it to the bedroom to see Dylan lay in bed already scrolling on their phone.

“I’m sorry for being mean earlier, I’m just stressed and I really need someone who won’t stress me out on top of that.” Abby said as she snuggled into bed with Dylan.

“I get it. I mean I don’t really, but I know you are stressed and I don’t mean to make it worse. I just wish I could be better for you Abs.” Dylan kissed Abby on the forehead.

The next day the sun showed dappled rays onto Dylan’s form as they lay on their stomach in blissful sleep as Abby got up for work.

Abby was about to leave when Dylan stirred and groggily sat up.

“Oh erm, I forgot to tell you that my band booked a tour actually.

We are leaving tomorrow to make it to the gig next week. It’s across the country and we are driving, I might need to borrow some money for the road.” Dylan mumbled most of the words as they left their mouth.

“I wish you told me earlier, but we’ll talk about it later. I need to run.” Abby left the house in a hurry and made it to her firm.

“Hey there Abigail! Did you see my email?” Terri came up behind Abby as she entered the building.

“No, I haven’t made it to my desk today.” Abby worked part-time at home and came into the office when having to meet with clients and workshop cases with coworkers.

“Ah right, well I have great news! You know the Brown case? Well it turns out it was a big win for the firm and a huge payout so congrats!”

Terri excitedly bumped shoulders with Abby. “Want some coffee? I’m 119

making a run but we should celebrate later!” Terri bounded off before Abby could react.

How Terri had the energy in the morning was a mystery to Abby.

This was great news though and a sense of accomplishment washed over Abby. All her hard work had been paying off and she was sure Dylan would be happy for her as well.

Maybe I won’t tell Dylan about this…

The thought crossed Abby’s mind as she felt guilty for not wanting to celebrate with her partner since they didn’t even have the courtesy to do the same.

Abby went through the day with reluctance to face Dylan later but made it home and found Dylan sitting on the couch watching a show.

Dylan paused the show upon Abby entering.

“Sorry I just sprung that info on you this morning, but I thought you might be happy to know that Devil In Me is finally booking shows.” Dylan beamed.

“Yeah that’s great to hear hon, but I’m not thrilled that you’ll be gone for a week. What about our anniversary?”

“I’ll be back in time to celebrate.” Dylan reassured Abby.

Dylan patted the seat next to them on the couch and Abby collapsed onto the cushion in an exasperated manner.

“No need to pout dear, I’ll be back in time I promise.” Dylan hugged Abby and nuzzled their face into her hair.

“How was work?”

Abby was quiet for a moment.

“Fine, it was fine.”

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Abby left it at that and continued spending her last night with Dylan before they went on tour. Dylan could sense Abby was hiding something but didn’t want to push her if she didn’t feel like talking, it was pointless anyway, Abby was great at holding back.

Part II - Problems With Pentacles Abby sat at the bar swishing the wine in her drink back and forth as she waited for Terri to join her. Terri walked in bouncing as usual and spotted Abby sitting alone.

“Abigail, you look a little despondent given the occasion, come on cheer up!” Terri waved the bartender over and ordered a margarita.

“I’m really pleased that we won the Brown case, it’s just stuff at home.” Abby sighed.

“So your girlfriend is gone for the week, live a little.” Terri rolled her eyes.

“My partner Terri. I can be a little sad that they are gone for the week.” Abby took a sip.

“Oh right my bad.”

“We were disagreeing a lot before they left and they get back the day of our anniversary. It’s been nine years together but it’s been… rough lately.” Abby looked at Terri and saw genuine concern.

“I don’t know what to do. They texted me again today asking for more money for this tour because their van broke down in bumfuck wherever.” Abby groaned before continuing, “I’m just tired of always having to be the sole provider for everything. I need a partnership that makes me feel like we are equally contributing to something you know?”

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“Of course. It should be like that and honestly it doesn’t sound like you two are in love anymore.” Terri received her drink and toasted with Abby.

“I don’t know. Dylan has stayed the same this whole time and it feels like I’m the one who has changed.” Abby looked off into the distance at nothing in particular. “Sorry for just dumping all of this on you Terri.”

“Oh you’re fine, I love this kind of stuff. If I was a fairy godmother and had a magic wand, I’d fix the problem for you like, poof!” Terri laughed jokingly as Abby gave a smirk.

“I used to be silly like that, I’m sure that’s what Dylan thinks. Now I’m no fun.”

“When do lawyers ever have fun?!” Terri burst out into a hearty laugh, her cheeks starting to get a little red.

“Ugh you are right, I should just have fun tonight. It’s just I didn’t even tell Dylan about how well work went this week. I don’t want them to know because I just don’t feel like I can trust them with knowing about my success anymore. What if they start to use me?”

“Stop worrying so much Abigail.” Terri ordered another round.

“I guess I should just tell Dylan how I feel, but later after I think about it some more.” Abby shook the stress from her mind and continued to have a good night with Terri.

This can wait until Dylan gets back I guess.

After a week, Dylan came back from tour feeling elated about the adventure, but knew coming home that Abby would probably be in a sour mood. Dylan prepared mentally for the coming conversation. For one, Abby was being stingy with her money lately where usually she 122

had been so generous. Now it seemed like Dylan had to beg for any sort of financial support from Abby, which made Dylan feel trapped in their relationship. Not to mention the distance that was being put between them on their life paths.

How did it come to this?

Dylan entered through the front door with a large bouquet of yellow roses. “Happy anniversary mon amour!”

Abby stood there in a beautiful green dress, already dolled up and ready to go to dinner.

“We’re going to be late and what did I say about speaking French.”

Abby tapped her foot while her arms were crossed in a very pouty manner.

“You are so adorable when you are annoyed though.” Dylan grinned that charming smile and Abby sighed as they left out the front door.

The restaurant was quaint and nothing too fancy, Dylan and Abby had come here for a couple anniversaries before. Both liked the food, but mostly enjoyed the wine options; the atmosphere was quiet and warmly lit. They sat at their usual table close to the window and enjoyed the silence for a quick minute before being interrupted by the waiter. After ordering, Abby began to pick apart the bread left on the table as an appetizer.

“Something on your mind?”, asked Dylan.

“How was the tour?”

“It was life changing. I finally got a taste of my dreams and it feels unreal, I can’t thank you enough for your help with the van and stuff.”

Dylan beamed.

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“I’m glad you are finally getting the success you deserve, but it comes at the expense of mine. I can’t always pay for all of your bills Dylan.” Abby’s voice started to shake a bit.

“I-I know, but it will pay off eventually!”

“When Dylan? I can’t keep doing this after nine years of supporting you completely when you haven’t helped me once. I’ve done everything myself!” Abby could feel her eyes tearing up but blinked the tears away.

“Abby, I didn’t know you felt this way. I understand I haven't been the most supportive financially but there isn’t much I can do when you suffocate me. This tour helped me see that.” Dylan struggled to continue and paused as the waiter returned with their meals.

“I messed up while I was gone.”

“What do you mean?” Abby’s heart suddenly felt heavy and her appetite was replaced with a sinking in her stomach. She knew by the look on Dylan’s face that this was serious because Dylan was never this serious ever.

“You know our guitarist, Zoe? We um, hooked up while we were on tour.”

The silence became deafening as it suddenly felt like they were worlds apart. The entire restaurant faded away for Abby and only Dylan and her remained. Dylan’s words felt incomprehensible as the heaviness in Abby’s heart became a hollowness that she clutched as if it were physically enveloping her.

This can’t be real.

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Part III - Upheaval & Crossroads Abby felt the tears she fought so hard to keep at bay overflowing in large rivers down her cheeks. Dylan made no attempt at consoling her because they knew it would only make things worse. The wheel of fortune no longer favored Dylan as this news shattered what remained of their relationship. When Abby finally composed herself she stared at Dylan with the longest of stares as if viewing the finish line from a chariot race.

“Say something, please”, Dylan muttered.

Silence.

“So that’s it? Is it over?” Dylan hung their head in guilt.

Again, Dylan was met with deafening silence.

Suddenly it seemed as if Abby was shaken from her trance and finally looked at Dylan, but not just looked, analyzed her partner as if seeing them for the first time in years.

“I just can’t believe this is happening. I knew we weren’t happy-” “Exactly, Abby, we weren’t happy!” This sudden outburst from Dylan surprised Abby and she could feel the anger starting to replace the sadness.

“We used to be happy! But you never change, you are still as immature and childish as when we first met!” Abby’s voice was raised and shaky, but she still continued. “You used me! Now you go and cheat on me! You are the worst person I’ve ever been with!”

“Oh how are you so quick to pass judgment on me! I was basically a prisoner with how you loved being in control of everything. You don’t care about my dreams and we fell out of love a long time ago.”

Dylan was gasping at this point after unloading all of their feelings onto Abby.

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“If we don’t make each other happy, then what is the point in being together?”

Abby realized in that moment how different they were, about as different as the sun is from the moon. They both obscured each other’s light and hid things from one another. Dylan began to break down, it was true after all, they let their supposed chemistry cover up the deception and insecurity that had been festering underneath.

“Abby, I don’t want to lose you completely.” Dylan burst into tears as they finished the sentence.

This time Abby was the stoic empress and watched as Dylan fell apart before her very eyes with pity and indifference. The pair paid their checks separately and got up to leave the restaurant that was now stained with a bitter memory. Abby decided to kick Dylan out the following day and the pair went their separate ways. ●​

●​

●

A breezy day left the sunlight to dance across the room while Abby organized her home office. She felt lighter and more at peace, but still felt twangs of longing for the smile that used to greet her days. A text popped up on her phone as she was wrapped up in her cleanse, it was from Dylan. Abby saw that they wanted to meet and catch up as it had been three months since they last spoke. Reluctant at first, Abby felt the need for closure since she wasn’t proud of how she left Dylan to fend for themselves and part of her still cared. She quickly responded and within minutes Dylan knocked on the door.

“I was in the area.” Dylan explained.

“Yeah, I just want you to know that I’m doing well and I hope you are too.” Abby said.

“So you forgive me?” Dylan asked.

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“No, of course not,” Abby scoffed. “But, I think I still want to be friends. I do care about you and your dreams, I always have.”

“I know. I love you, even if we aren’t good for each other. I will always still love you.” Dylan embraced Abby in a way that felt like the closure Abby needed.

“So how are you and Zoe?” Abby inquired.

“We are doing really great and we have an EP in the works, so we have another tour booked. What about you?”

“Work is stressful but paying the bills, it’s actually picked up quite a bit so the money is flowing. I’m also seeing a therapist and finally starting to feel comfortable on my own.” Abby smiled and gave a chuckle. “Who knew that this whole time I just needed to get to know myself. You were my world, but maybe that’s where I went wrong. I couldn’t balance it the way I needed to, but now I feel like I can and I am so grateful that you taught me this lesson.”

Dylan started to tear up and feel overwhelmed with emotion, a bittersweet feeling, moving on but still missing the love that was there.

The love was replaced with a new love, a deep admiration for the person Abby was becoming. The feeling was almost spiritual like a hierophant unlocking sacred mysteries to interpret to the masses.

“I’m so happy for you, I mean it Abs. I want you to be happy and not for anyone else but yourself.”

“Thanks Dylan. I want the same for you. I feel like finally we can move on and be better people, but part of me wishes it could have been with you.” Abby looked into Dylan’s eyes and saw temperance in the reflection. It was hard to not want to say ‘fuck it’ and just get back together, but where they were now could never be taken for granted.

“I’m just glad we had what we had, even if it wasn’t forever.”

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Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - Stephi Blue Originally, Blue used the Avantpop Tarot by Seth Singer.

This is the 1st row.

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Commentary Hello dear reader, I want to start out with a huge thank you for reading my story “The Lovers” and for supporting the STTAR project and all the involved writers. This was a unique and delightful writing experience to be a part of and I’m really happy to share this creative endeavor with you! For those interested in the process, here is a bit about the characters, how I developed the story using Tarot, and my overall vision.

During our first meeting with everyone involved in STTAR, we got together and drew cards based on a matrix of storytelling facilitated by April Ursula Fox, who guided us through the whole process. The card I pulled for the main character and underlying plot happened to be The Lovers, which coincidentally is the title of a poem I wrote back in 2018 with an accompanying watercolor painting. This card is very special to me and influenced the tone and type of story I wanted to convey, but I also wanted it to be an unconventional love story– qualities of which came out when I pulled the rest of the cards for the matrix. The poem and my story both echo the idea of two people bound by love that slowly fades into mutual respect for eachother, with the poem being a direct metaphor for the sun and moon, which also appeared in my tarot spread down the line if you can believe it! The supporting cards I used for this column were the Page of Pentacles, Four of Cups, and Six of Pentacles.These supporting cards are what gave me the basis of Abby and Dylan’s relationship in the beginning of Part I, with Abby and Dylan being together for a long time and building a life together; one being on the creative side and the other more of scholar.

Setting up their past and backstories was all dependent on the second column of cards, with the first card being Justice. Now, Justice is 129

a major arcana that I really wanted to be highlighted in the story and so Abby’s dedication to her job as a lawyer is what I chose to reflect this.

The Emperor and Seven of Pentacles were supporting cards I used to give reasons as to why Abby was a lawyer, with The Emperor relating to her father and growing up in an unstable household and the pentacles relating to Abby’s investment in Dylan’s dream. The Page of Swords also played a part in creating the petty squabbles over finances and developing Dylan’s persona of being laidback and nonchalant. Justice also relates to the balance of work life and relationships and how they can affect each other, which I reflected in Abby and Dylan’s dynamic throughout their history.

For the present column, the key card was the Knight of Swords which is what I interpreted as their relationship at the core of the story.

I used this card to determine how Abby and Dylan had a young love that evolved as they developed their careers and interests. Rushing headlong into love early but ultimately growing apart as time goes on is what I was trying to capture through the Knight of Swords. Abby developing herself was represented through Strength and Dylan remaining carefree and happy with how life is despite their partner’s concerns was represented by The Sun. I also used the supporting cards Ace of Pentacles for Abby’s success on a case as a lawyer and The Devil as inspiration for Dylan’s band as well as how it is creating a rift in their relationship. The Three of Swords is where the cracks start to form and build the exposition up to the climax of the story at the end of Part II. The Four of Swords is the next card I pulled for the hidden influences column, which I attributed to the tired nature Abby feels for the relationship in comparison to Dylan’s energetic enthusiasm. The supporting cards included the Eight of Pentacles, which I used in the story to reflect how Abby wants to hide her success at work from Dylan which occurs directly after she has the conversation with Terri 130

who is inspired by the Queen of Cups. This leads to Dylan and Abby’s relationship becoming more estranged as they spend less time together which is from the Nine of Wands. I also used the Four of Pentacles to represent how Abby has become protective of her finances while Dylan is concerned over Abby’s control of them, leading to a feeling of being trapped in an imbalanced relationship. Neither one wants to yield their passions for the other which is represented by Seven of Wands. All of this builds up to the next column and confronts the main issue and problem of the story.

Abby’s financial control over Dylan leads to them fighting over the power imbalance in the relationship and is influenced by the Ten of Pentacles. That card being in the main spread really represents not its conventional inheritance but more of a metaphorical carrying of the weight in the underlying issues that builds over time. For this column of the matrix I drew a bunch of sword cards, which really worked out for creating tension and anxiety at the peak of the story. To quickly summarize, the Six of Swords was used to show how Abby wants to hold on while Dylan wants to be set free. The Nine of Swords represented how they were both stressed over their relationship as it reached a breaking point with the Ten of Swords being the point at which Dylan confesses to cheating on Abby. I chose this point as a climatic cliff hanger on their anniversary as a couple because of the Three of Cups, which has to do with celebration and I felt like that little detail would add a lot of emotional weight to the context.

The next column was the influence of others or the direct and visible influence, law, or rule. The Five of Swords was the card that represented the main spread which ties into the lack of communication and deception between the couple leads to a bold truth– they are no longer happy together. Supporting cards included the Wheel of Fortune in which Dylan embodied this path; the destiny of change, 131

karma for their actions, upheaval of this relationship with who they thought was their soulmate. Where the High Priestess represented the unattainability of their love and Abby embodied the path of The Chariot, conquering the fear of letting Dylan go over her ambition and dedication to her career. This led into the course of action column really well which included a lot of major arcana cards to really characterize the story in a unique way.

How the story unfolded, path, and map to the solution was represented by The Moon card expressed by the deception and insecurity that was hiding behind the facade of their relationship. I also had the supporting card of Judgment to use for how they held onto past mistakes and judged each other's life choices, which led to an awakening in each of them. Their fallout leads to them doing what’s best for each other and committing to their own happiness through the manifestation qualities of The Magician card. The last card I used for this column was the Two of Wands, which is why I decided they would go their own ways. Ending things amicably after realizing they weren’t good for each other, but still wanting to remain close friends. A really great card to kind of set the tone for the ending resolution as I wanted this story to be bittersweet.

The outcome of the story was influenced in the main spread as the Five of Cups where I had Abby and Dylan break up and the whole story crescendos to them realizing that they are better off without each other despite their strong feelings. In the end Abby embodies The Empress card as she realizes her mistakes and seeks to rectify them by respecting Dylan as an individual. Dylan in turn is represented by The Hierophant by moving on and committing to a new relationship where they are secure and in love. I also used the supporting card, Two of Swords, to represent the crossroads of two lovers that leads to a mutual understanding while still having residual love from what once was a 132

complicated entanglement. The last and final card, the one I think that truly completes the story is Temperance. It directly ties into The Lovers so perfectly and reflects how their relationship becomes harmonious and tranquil after balancing that they are better off without each other but still remain irrevocably connected by love.

“The Lovers” was intended to be relatable and also inclusive, which is why Dylan is a non-binary character who uses they/them pronouns, to add layers of ambiguity and leave more to imagination that the reader can infer for themselves. Another thing was bolding all the tarot terms throughout the story, my idea behind that was to emphasize within the story where important arcana, cards, or suits were integral to the development. I also did not expect this story to affect me so much emotionally, but while I was in the process of writing I did become overwhelmed at times with the intensity of the characters and tried to draw on personal or realistic dialogue to convey those emotions– which I hope is apparent as you read the story!

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Melissa Gill

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Judgment Day

“Invisible things are the only realities.”

Edgar Allan Poe

Twisting overgrown vines climb the external walls of a decrepit courthouse. A rain-soaked aroma tickles my nose when I step inside.

My heels clack against terrazzo floors as I walk down the hall of the law building situated on a mountain. The gritty town with a population of about 500 people disappears into clouds, encircled by a dense forest.

Under steely skies, Mount Mistwood is far from its neighboring city, Seattle. The roads lack paving. Most of the farmhouses are family-owned. This rural town is eerily quiet and antiquated, like a dead grandfather clock.

Every time I enter a courtroom, I feel my father’s presence. The judge’s bench, witness stand, jury box, and attorney tables are weathering. I'm sporting my freshly pressed Dolce & Gabbana suit along with my late father's vintage leather briefcase. In provincial towns like this one, my reputation, charm, and good looks won’t do me any favors. Other lawyers at the office refused to take this lawsuit because it has a slim chance of success. To me, there’s nothing more satisfying than proving people wrong. The only exception may be a glass of merlot on a Sunday evening.

A few witnesses, spectators, and Thomas Thatcher's surviving relatives are present at the hearing. The townsfolk are dispersed throughout the benches, gossiping and murmuring. It’s not 135

uncommon for curious minds to gather in a courthouse for a no-body homicide trial. In fact, 86 percent of no-body murder cases that go to trial result in convictions, even though murder charges without a corpse are unusual. My moon-shaped eyes land on a polished middle-aged man with silver hair wearing a royal blue tie. Sitting behind me, he smiles warmly, but his lifeless amber eyes pierce through mine like an arrow. My heart hiccups. The upward pressure markings around his neck reveal a pale yellowing groove, a hue similar to timeworn parchment paper. Signs of strangulation. When I blink, he disappears.

On the opposite side of the courtroom is the defendant, Bethany Thatcher, who’s also Thomas Thatcher’s separated spouse and the mother of their child, Elliot. Their 10-year-old son is sitting with a family friend a few rows behind her. When I meet her eyes, she raises the right corner of her lips, flashing a cavalier look. Something unsettling creeps behind her fishy glare, giving me gooseflesh.

Bailiff Bobby Halverson, a stout mustached man with a double chin, calls the court to order, “All rise!”

Everyone stands. Twelve jurors file into the courtroom. District attorney Wren Jones’ upturned nose and snooty face made my eyes twitch. His baggy tweed suit is reminiscent of an oversized Sherlock Holmes costume. All he needs is a deerstalker cap and a pipe to complete his cartoonish getup.

“The Superior Court of the State of Washington for the County of Mount Mistwood is now in session, the honorable Jeffrey Johnson, judge presiding. Please be seated,” says Bailiff Halverson.

After everyone is seated, I clear my throat. My lips press against the star-shaped tiger’s eye pendant hanging around my neck, a gift from my father. The ghost in the courtroom who stole my attention earlier enters my body, shaping me into the spirit’s mouthpiece. My owlish 136

hazel eyes flicker into a glowing amber. As I approach the jury, my consciousness slips into a hazy space somewhere between dreaming and waking. I become a puppet before the court.

“Your Honor, members of the jury, my name is Francesca Stein, representing the prosecution in this case.” I inch closer toward the jurors.

“These are the facts. On the evening of September 22, officers found Thomas Thatcher’s blood on the couple’s bedroom wall. It was on the same night he went missing. Bethany's fingerprints were found on the trigger of the revolver discharged that night. Their next-door neighbor, Mildred Louis, phoned the police at the same time this incident took place when she heard a gunshot and a scream. Although the body has yet to be found, we do know that Thomas Thatcher’s wife, Bethany, had an affair with her old high school sweetheart, Simon Blackstone.

After Thomas discovered she was unfaithful, he expressed that he wanted full custody of their son and to move to Las Vegas, Nevada, to live closer to his parents. She assured him that she had cut all ties with Mr. Blackstone, but Mr. Thatcher was devastated. He worked with a family law attorney and served the defendant divorce papers. When the police searched their home, they discovered the documents in pieces on their bedroom floor.

“The three witnesses: their longtime neighbor Mildred Louis, forensic specialist Elan Yakama, licensed therapist, Maggie Miller, and the defendant herself, Bethany Thatcher. Miss Louis will tell you she heard a gunshot and a scream coming from Thatcher's home that night. Mr. Yakama will share the findings of the DNA evidence. Miss Miller will explain the defendant’s mental state, and Mrs. Thatcher will share her account, which begs more questions than it offers answers.

“Based on the evidence presented to you, at the end of the trial, remember this: Most people with mental illnesses are not likely to be any more dangerous or violent than anyone else. She did not murder 137

him because of her mental state. She murdered him because she didn’t want to lose custody of her son. A mother’s love isn’t always logical.”

When I return to my seat, fresh blood rushes to my cheeks, my palms sweat profusely, and my heartbeat ripples through my chest. A gentle voice inside my head, a deep and calming echo, asks me to trust him. So I do.

District attorney Wren Jones scoffs. He stands up from the table, pulls a chair up to the jury and sits backwards on it like a high school rebel. This isn’t a new tactic. He wants to appear personable and relatable, but he looks foolish. He leans forward on the backrest, looking at the jury with a glimmer of mischief in his blue eyes.

“Your Honor, members of the jury, my name is Wren Jones, representing the defendant Bethany Thatcher in this case. We all know Bethany in this town. She’s not perfect, but she’s redeemed herself over the years, proving that her domestic abuse reports were merely a cry for help. Miss Stein conveniently didn’t mention my client was severely addicted to alcohol early in their marriage and would black out frequently. Discovering her actions while intoxicated mortified her.

Before their son was born, she apologized to him and finished the 12-step program. She’s been clean now for five years. She also experiences schizophrenia, but she’s taking medication and visits a therapist regularly. Although she faces mental health struggles, don't we all grapple with them to some degree? Her dark past and mental health condition don’t make her a monster; they make her human.”

Irritated, I lightly drum my fingers against the table and listen carefully to Wren, studying his every move like we were playing a game of chess. I haven’t lost a case yet. The silver-haired apparition possessing me has seen this opening enough times to know how this will end.

Inside my head, he whispers, ‘Amateur.’

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“I’m sure the blood found in their home sounds rather convincing,” he keeps his voice soft and steady. “Not to mention the gun has her fingerprints on it. All of this seems very damning, doesn’t it? What if I told you I could explain these incidences and demonstrate how it is merely circumstantial evidence? I don’t know about Miss Stein—but me and the U.S. legal system—don’t recognize circumstantial evidence as enough proof to convict someone. I don’t think we should continue without addressing the elephant in this room. The body of Mr. Thatcher is missing. He could be alive and well somewhere at this very moment, could he not?”

I bite my lip. This is the crux of my argument. Wren is not a rookie, by any means. I can tell by the way he owns the room. Despite his clumsy attire, long crooked nose and caterpillar brows, he’s clearly a smooth talker, and he knows his audience. The voice inside my head says, ‘Have faith in me.’

Juror eleven nods, agreeing with the statement. A droplet of sweat slides down my spine. I peek over at Mrs. Thatcher's son, Elliot. The young kid feels my gaze, meeting my pensive stare. He politely forces a smile. His heavy, droopy eyes say something different. Oftentimes, when our amygdala processes stress or anxiety, it becomes overactive.

This may lead to a heightened emotional response, causing him to perceive this watchful feeling as a threat. The ghost within takes stock of it. He always notices details that would have likely gone over my head had I been on my own.

Wren continues. “Their neighbor, Mildred Louis, will tell you she heard a gunshot, but she never witnessed anyone taking a bullet. The forensic specialist, Elan Yakama, will explain the DNA test results, but he cannot speak about her character. The licensed therapist, Maggie Miller, will share the results of Mrs. Thatcher’s mental evaluation, proving that she wasn’t insane when the incident occurred. And last, but certainly not least, my client Bethany Thatcher will tell you what really happened because she’s the only one in this room who was there.

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“Let’s say Mrs. Bethany Thatcher is given a guilty verdict. How awful would you feel if Mr. Thatcher was discovered to be alive? You would have to accept the fact that you put an innocent, frightened mother behind bars, separating her from her beloved son.”

The defense attorney returns to his table, sets his chair down facing the judge, and takes his seat. Mrs. Thatcher pats him on the back. My brows furrow as my mouth twists into a snarling frown. Mr. Jones winks at me. Vomit tickles the back of my throat. The jury seems invested now, as all of their attention is on me.

“For my first witness, your honor, I call Miss Mildred Louis to the stand,” I say.

Judge Johnson nods. His face is impassive, but he watches over the courtroom like a hawk. When I look at him, I feel a pain in my chest like something inside of me is on fire. He’s as stiff as a marble statue yet an agonizing pain plagues him. The spectral that’s taken me over informs me that the judge has awful heartburn. I sigh with relief, having thought he was going to have a heart attack. “Will the witness please stand to be sworn in by the bailiff?”

In the back of the room, a slight elderly woman donning a floral dress with a cane hobbles toward the front of the courtroom. The room falls silent. Her thin white hair is pulled back into a neat beehive hairdo. I fold my arms across my chest.

Miss Louis takes an oath before sitting at the stand beside the judge.

She looks at me, smiling nervously. She fidgets with a shiny bracelet on her wrist. I glimpse at the jury. Juror number seven, a schoolteacher, has her head down while taking notes. I wonder what she is writing.

The ghost inside my head says she’s doodling a picture of her tabby cat.

The other jurors lean forward attentively.

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“Miss Louis, do you live across the street from the Thatchers’ residence?” I ask.

“Yes, ma’am,” she says. Miss Louis gawks at Mrs. Thatcher, who narrows her eyes and wrinkles her nose.

“Can you please walk me through what happened on Tuesday, September 22nd, 1998, around 8:30 p.m.?”

“Yes, ma’am. I stayed home all day, sitting in my rocking chair while knitting a Christmas sweater for my grandson, Joseph. Mhmm. I listened to my Johnny Cash album,” she says. “As ‘Folsom Prison Blues’ played, I shuddered at the sound of a gunshot. My hands shook. I dropped my needle and yarn. I rushed over to my landline and dialed the authorities. Something told me, maybe it was the good Lord himself, that something foul was happening. The holy cross on my wall fell to the ground.”

“Let’s play the recording of her phone call,” I say. I slip a cassette into a tape player. I put a microphone beside it so everyone can hear it.

“911, what is your emergency?” a gentleman with a hoarse voice said.

“I heard a gunshot coming from my neighbor’s house and a bloodcurdling scream. It’s the only residence near me. I’m very concerned. Someone might be terribly hurt,” said Miss Louis.

Her voice trembled, and she was panting, as if she was on the verge of a panic attack.

“What is your location, Ma’am?” the operator asked.

“I’m on 66 Northwood Lane in Mount Mistwood. My neighbor, Bethany Thatcher, lives at 65 Northwood Lane.

Mhmm. I saw her husband earlier today when I checked my mailbox. He smiled and waved at me. I returned the 141

sentiment,” said Miss Louis. “When I peeked out the front window after the gunshot, I saw his truck was still in her driveway.”

“Officers are on the way. Do you hear anymore gunshots?” asked the operator.

“No, sir. This area has become suspiciously quiet. Mhmm. Not even the wolves are howling.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No, but I’m scared.”

Three loud knocks rattled her front door. “Police!”

“They’re here. Thank you, sir,” said Miss Louis.

She hung up the phone.

I stand up to address my witness. “Miss Louis, when are hunters legally allowed to hunt in this area?”

“From one half-hour before sunrise to one half-hour after sunset.”

“Did you hear this gunshot after permitted hours?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you often hear gunshots after lawful hunting hours?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I see,” I say, glancing at the jury to gauge their reactions. The jurors' heads bounce back and forth between me and Miss Louis like a tennis ball.

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“Miss Louis, I have one last question. Typically, a woman and a man’s scream don’t sound the same because a woman's scream usually has a higher pitch. When you heard the scream, did it sound like a woman’s or a man’s scream?”

“Objection! Speculation,” shouts Wren. He slams his fist on the table.

“Sustained!” says the judge.

I squint at the judge. “That’s all I have for now, your honor.”

Wren dusts off his shoulders playfully, chuckles softly, and raises an eyebrow at me. I purse my lips, shaking my head. He approaches the witness with a boyish smirk, as if he already has this case in the bag. I suppress the urge to slap that smug expression off his face. No matter what he says or does, I have something he doesn’t. A speaker of the dead.

“Miss Louis, you look lovely today,” he glances at her ears. “Tell me, do you wear hearing aids?”

As Wren asks her about her hearing aids, it is a stab to the heart. I could not believe that detail slipped through my hands. My ears flush red. The voice inside my head hums a song from my childhood to soothe me.

She blushes. “Yes, sir.”

“Were you wearing them when you heard the gunshot?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you have any other electronics playing in the background while you were knitting?”

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“Yes, sir. My television was on, but I set the volume very low because I prefer listening to music when I’m sewing. Mhmm.”

“Of course. What do you usually watch on your television?”

“Old Westerns. Mhmm. Mostly John Wayne movies.”

My head spins. How did I miss crucial details after poring for months over the files? His question was a second dagger to the heart.

The deep voice inside me says to trust him. I have no other choice but to comply.

“Could the gunshots you heard have come from your Western shows?”

“No, sir. I know what I heard.”

“Did you actually see anyone get shot?”

“No, sir.”

This could not be any worse. Who I believed to be a solid witness was entirely circumstantial. It was hardly as impactful as planned. Now my heart takes a third blade, gouging my colossal ego. How would I recover from this mess? I had to let go and trust the spirit. I surrender.

“No further questions, your honor.” Wren returns to his seat.

Bethany rubs his knee under the table. I gag.

Before I call my next witness, I reach into my pocket to unfold a crumpled piece of paper under the table. Miss Louis steps down from the stand. It takes her a few minutes to settle back into her seat. I had no idea how it got into my hands. The note written in crayon reads, “My mom is a liar.”

“For my second witness, your honor, I call Elan Yakama to the stand,” I say.

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“Will the witness please stand to be sworn in by the bailiff?” says the judge.

Yakama is wearing a navy blue suit with a white tie and polished dress shoes. There are tribal symbols inked on his face. His presence is intense, but he appears as calm as a still pond. His eyes scan the room in a calculating manner, confidently clasping his hands in front of him.

He takes the oath before settling into the stiff wooden chair next to the judge. When he is ready, he gives me a little nod. Waiting for my inquiry, he leans forward.

“Mr. Yakama, how long have you been a forensic specialist?” I ask.

“Over twenty years,” he says. His face is blank.

I wave the evidence in front of him and the jury, an antique gun, a diary and a voodoo doll identical to Thomas Thatcher with a wound that resembles a bullet hole in the glabella, the spot between his eyes.

The jury’s eyes widened. Juror number three, a grocery store stocker, gasps.

“Three pieces of evidence found in Mrs. Thatcher’s home that night were a firearm, a diary, and a makeshift doll that resembles Mr. Thatcher. When you examined the evidence, what did you discover?”

“The blood on the doll’s forehead and splattered on the wall in Mrs. and Mr. Thatcher’s bedroom wall matched Mr. Thatcher in the Combined DNA Index System.”

“Can you please share your expert opinion of what the blood placement could mean?”

“It’s unlikely that he would have put his own blood on the voodoo doll, but it’s not impossible.”

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“When you examined the gun, did you find Mrs. Thatcher’s fingerprints on it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“If Mr. Thatcher was shot between the eyes, is there any way he could have survived it?”

“It’s highly improbable. About 90 percent of gunshot wounds to the head are fatal.”

“When you tested Mrs. Thatcher’s diary, was it her handwriting?”

“Yes, ma’am. The connecting strokes to the letters, slant, word formations and baseline arrangements all matched her handwriting. In the journal, she fantasizes about murdering ‘the devil’ with her antique gun. According to the graphologist, she wrote the letter “I” much larger than the other capitals, which can mean a person is arrogant.

However, handwriting analysis is often considered a pseudoscience.”

“Last question: When you examined the evidence, was the gunshot fired using a right or a left hand?”

“Looking at the blood placement on the wall, the bullet’s pathway appeared to travel right to left, meaning the person who pulled the trigger was likely right handed.”

“That’s interesting, especially since Mr. Thatcher was left-handed. If he allegedly shot himself, it would be strange for him to not use his dominant hand.” I pace back and forth in front of the jury.

“Interesting.”

“That’s all the questions I have for now, your honor.”

When I return to my seat, I fold my hands and rest them on my lap.

Wren shakes his head while staring at his shined shoes before rising to 146

his feet. A reassuring whisper reverberates inside my head, ‘We’re on the right track.’

“Mr. Yakama, according to your report, Mrs. Thatcher’s fingerprints were on the trigger, correct?” asks Wren.

“Yes, sir,” says Mr. Yakama. He wipes a bead of sweat from his brow.

“The gun belongs to her, so of course it would have her fingerprints on it. You also said the forensic test showed that the blood on the voodoo doll and on the wall belonged to Mr. Thatcher. How old was the blood? ” “The evidence suggests that Mrs. Thatcher shot the gun with her right hand and the bullet hit Mr. Thatcher in the head. His height matches where the bloodstain was found, according to the measurements. We did a Benzidine color-crystal test on the blood on both the item and the scene. This test can detect blood stains up to a year old. His blood on the wall was only three hours old. The blood on the doll was about six months old.”

“None of us were there that night except Mrs. Thatcher and Mr. Thatcher. Why would she lie about all of this? What does she have to gain?”

“Objection!” I yell. “Leading the witness!”

“Sustained,” the judge announces. He bangs the gavel.

“No further questions, your honor.”

“For my next witness, I call Maggie Miller to the stand,” I say.

Maggie takes a deep breath before heading to the stand. She’s a petite woman in her mid-thirties wearing a pinstripe pencil skirt and a white blouse. Her cat eye spectacles that are too big for her face slide 147

down her button nose. She straightens her posture as she takes the oath. A strand of red hair falls in her olive green eyes. She tucks it behind her ear.

“Miss Miller, when you conducted a series of tests and interviews with Mrs. Thatcher, what were your findings?” I ask.

“Mrs. Thatcher was diagnosed with schizophrenia at 16-years-old.

Her earliest documented psychotic episode was in high school, when she screamed in the middle of her finals exam because she hallucinated that her geometry teacher was a demon. She managed her medications very well until her early years of her marriage with Mr. Thatcher. Her addiction to alcohol consumed her, but she was able to overcome it and has been sober for five years. Although she has mental health struggles, she proved to be competent in the tests. Her diagnosis of schizophrenia and alcoholism did not hinder her judgment on that day.”

I float to the witness stand, growing closer to Miss Miller to get a read on her expressions. Her shoulders look tense. She keeps adjusting her messy hair bun as wisps of red hair occasionally fall into her face.

“So it’s clear that Mrs. Thatcher has a clean record since her past domestic abuse reports, but what about the night her husband ‘allegedly’ went missing? The police reports describe her behavior as ‘erratic’ and ‘scatter-brained.’ What would cause her to react this way?”

“She was under a high volume of stress when the officers arrived, so it’s not uncommon for her to act nervous. But there’s one thing I found concerning in Mrs. Thatcher’s reports. It said in the documents that she did not seem very upset that he was gone. But they also were in the middle of a separation and he served her divorce papers. Given the status of their complicated relationship, she said she was angry with him, especially when he said he wanted full custody of their son and to

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move with him out of state. That is a lot of conflicting emotions to process.”

“Of course. When you said that the report described her thoughts as ‘disorganized,’ can you offer us an example?”

“Certainly. Mrs. Thatcher was fixated on finding a piece of evidence during the interrogation. She claimed that Mr. Thatcher had bought two plane tickets to Las Vegas and planned on taking their son on a brief trip to see his grandparents. His designated weekend to spend time with their son, Elliot, was coming up and she feared that if they went on the trip that she would never see her child again. The court approved this trip beforehand, but she never found the physical receipt for his tickets. She didn’t seem worried about his disappearance and kept dodging specific questions about it. She brushed it off, saying she just wanted to know for her son’s sake. She wanted to prove to him that his father was going to steal him.”

“Mrs. Thatcher has a record of domestic abuse. If a spouse is charged with domestic abuse, how likely are they to repeat this behavior?” I ask.

“Unfortunately, re-offending is not uncommon; however, there have been no reports of any domestic abuse between them for five years.”

“In the past domestic reports, is it true that Bethany accused Thomas of being the devil during her hallucinations?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is it possible that she hasn’t been taking her medicine as prescribed after the separation?”

“Objection! Leading the witness!” shouts Wren.

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The judge looks at me and then looks at Wren. He rests his chin on his fist. Wren’s hand covers his forehead.

“Overruled,” the judge commands. “Go on, answer her question.”

“It’s possible, but she passed all her cognitive evaluations. She’s regularly visiting a licensed psychiatrist, and she gets her prescriptions filled. Mrs. Thatcher is doing everything her psychiatrist has asked her to do.”

The spirit inhabiting my body turns my head toward Mrs. Thatcher’s son, Elliot. The 10-year-old kid shakes his head, disagreeing with the statement that his mother is taking her meds. Bethany glares at him. The judge raises an eyebrow at Bethany, whose grimace shifts into a pouty mouth.

“Although all of this appears true on paper, she could also be a talented actress. Her son is shaking his head, disagreeing with your statement. Seems suspicious.”

“Objection! Speculation, you honor,” yells Wren. He gets on his feet, his face burning red, while he throws his fist in the air.

“Sustained!” declares the judge.

“No further questions, your honor.”

Using my peripheral vision, I keep an eye on Elliot. He mouths, “Thank you.” I nod graciously. A chill rolls across my shoulders. I shake it off.

Wren approaches Miss Miller with a toothy smile. He gives the court a slow clap to taunt me.

“We should give Miss Stein a round of applause for that performance. What an act to follow!”

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A few of the jurors laugh in hushed tones along with the townies present. The only woman juror purses her lips in disgust. Clearly, I’m the only one in the room repulsed by Wren’s elementary antics.

“Proceed with the cross examination, Mr. Jones,” says the judge with his head held high.

“Yes, sir,” says Wren. He readjusts his tie before stepping toward the witness stand.

“Miss Miller, you claim that Mrs. Thatcher passed all the competency tests, meaning she was not insane when the incident occurred. Could it be possible that the diary and voodoo doll were coping mechanisms for her as her marriage was collapsing?”

“Yes, people do all kinds of rituals to cope with stress. Some rituals, such as praying and meditating, are more normalized by society. The diary and voodoo doll don’t prove that she was insane.”

“I see,” says Wren. He comically rubs his chin as though it helps him think. I cover my mouth to hide second-hand embarrassment.

“I think it would be helpful if the jury understood how you tested Mrs. Thatcher and how it proved she was not experiencing insanity.

Can you please give the court an example of a test you conducted on Mrs. Thatcher and how you interpreted her results?”

“Certainly,” she says. A strand of red hair falls in her face again. She blows her hair away from her eyes. “One test we ran was the Irresistible Impulse Test, which examines whether the defendant could control her actions, although the defendant knew it was wrong. The evidence showed the gun fired, his blood was present at the scene, and a neighbor heard a gunshot coming from their home. The defendant claims that when she shot the gun, it grazed the side of Mr. Thatcher’s head, but it didn’t kill him. Then, he took off, and she hasn’t heard from or seen him since that night. She sounded very rational about it.”

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“According to a survey, about 20 percent of fathers with minor children are absent. How often do fathers disappear from their families after having a violent dispute with their spouse?”

“It’s not typical for a father to abandon their family immediately after a fight with their spouse; however; it’s important to note that she had an affair, and he was serving her divorce papers. It’s possible that—” “Objection! Speculation,” I shout. I get on my feet and scoff at Wren.

“Sustained!” says the judge.

“No further questions, your honor,” says Wren. He huffs back to his seat.

“For my last witness, your honor, I call Bethany Thatcher to the stand.”

When I say her name, the entire room holds their breath. The dead air is uncomfortable, reminiscent of the silence following an heated argument at a family dinner table. My heartbeat pulses in my throat like a hammer. It weighs on my heart, knowing that if I win this case, she may not see her son for a long time, if ever again. I believe people can change and that people make awful mistakes, but that doesn’t mean they are bad people. Thankfully, the young boy’s grandparents are eager to take him in if he needs a home. If she loses the case, which I’m sure she will, he will move in with his paternal grandparents.

Mrs. Thatcher shows no emotion on her face as she graces the stand.

After she takes the oath, her eyes lock onto mine like a pair of lasers.

Maintaining eye contact while sharing an account can be a powerful indicator of deception or honesty. Clearly, she is a skilled performer.

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“Mrs. Thatcher, in your own words, please tell us what happened on Tuesday, September 22nd, 1998, around 8:30 p.m.?”

I peek over my shoulder at Mrs. Thatcher’s son. He gives me a thumbs up. The judge raises a quizzical eyebrow at me. I shrug my shoulders. Judge Johnson shifts his focus to the defendant’s response like the rest of us.

“That night, my son Elliot was in his room working on a school project. He was supposed to go to his dad’s house that weekend, but I was worried when he mentioned wanting full custody and moving to Vegas. There was no way I would see my boy if he left. I can’t afford to travel or relocate. I panicked.”

“So when he planned to take your son to Vegas for the weekend, you were afraid he would not return and you would lose him. If a parent ‘kidnaps’ their child, they can face criminal charges. Why didn’t you call the authorities if you were concerned about the trip?”

“I can’t trust the police. The domestic reports are not true. He was abusing me, but since I have a mental illness, I was the scapegoat.”

“I’m sorry to hear that you experienced mistreatment. Please, correct me if I am wrong, but the domestic reports say that you had no injuries, but he had a black eye and bloody nose. His skin and blood were under your fingernails.”

Elliot stands up. His brow furrows as he shouts, “Daddy would never hurt you! You always hurt him. He told me the purple spot on his face was nothing, but you slapped him at dinner time. And you don’t take medicine anymore because you said it makes it harder to hear God talk to you.”

Mrs. Thatcher grits her teeth and rolls her eyes at her son. “I can’t stand…to see my son…look at me like that…anymore. It’s that same look his father gave me and my mother gave me and every damn idiot 153

in this town. Your father deserved to die because he would not listen to God. Maybe I gave birth to the devil’s son!”

She pulls a bottle from her coat pocket and pours pills down her throat.

“What…are…you…doing?” I stammer.

Mrs. Thatcher’s body convulses. The bailiff runs to her aid, but it’s too late. He picks up the bottle and reads the label. He hollers, “Call 9-1-1!”

I rush over to the bailiff.“What did she take?”

“Cyanide.”

“Shit.”

Everyone in the courtroom panics. A jury member faints. My heart races, and my mouth dries out. I quickly cram my files into my briefcase. The silver-haired ghost possessing my body gently guides me toward the exit, leading me away from the courthouse. Shock numbs my limbs, yet I keep moving forward until I reach my vehicle. I don’t remember the walk there.

After settling into the driver’s seat, I coughed so hard it felt like my lungs were about to implode. Peachy hairs on my arms stand at attention. A cloud of silvery smoke spews from my mouth, shapeshifting back into the dead man I saw before the trial started. The sly ghost from the courtroom lounges in the backseat of my car. My mysterious amber eyes revert to their natural hazel hue.

“Thanks, dad,” I murmur to the silver-haired ghost. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”

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“It’s not your fault, kiddo. We did the right thing,” he says. “The boy is better off with his grandparents. I know it was hard, but I’m proud of you for letting me take the reins.”

He meant well, but no words could console me. All I wanted was to slip into my silky pajamas, drink a few glasses of merlot and binge I Love Lucy reruns. In my rearview mirror, I watch news reporters swarm the courtroom as I drive away. My beeper buzzes. As I glance at him, I see him read the message. He looks at me, shakes his head disapprovingly, and chucks it out the window.

“Hey! You owe me a new one!”

“We need a vacation!” he says. “You look pretty shook up after what just happened.”

I scratch my brain for a snarky comeback. My mind goes blank. I hate to admit it, but he’s right. As we dissolve into the hazy summit, I picture myself far from this gloomy mountain, basking in the sun while drinking red wine, avoiding the brazen ghosts occupying my mind.

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Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - Melissa Gill Originally, Melissa used the Wild Unknown Tarot.

This is the 1st row.

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Commentary For several years, I’ve dabbled in tarot, but I mainly practiced it as a self-reflection tool. I enjoyed the challenge of this tarot writing project.

When I pulled the Judgment card for my main character, I became excited at the idea of writing a supernatural crime thriller. Through my prosecutor character, Francesca Stein, I’m given an opportunity to explore the legal system and courtroom procedures. While I was in college studying journalism, I took an introduction to criminal justice as an elective. Investigative careers, whether it be through reporting or detective work, have always fascinated me. While it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, I’ve always wished to be selected for jury duty, but it hasn’t happened yet. Fingers crossed. Luckily, my tarot spread favored this concept, with many sword cards and hidden influences that complemented this genre. What was even more exciting was the opportunity to blend courtroom drama and paranormal thriller together.

As a writer, I enjoy challenging myself by trying different writing techniques. Creating a fictional murder trial using a tarot spread was both eye-opening and exciting. Squeezing a big story concept into about 6,000 words was the most challenging aspect. This character’s story widened my eyes with grand notions yet I only had enough space to share a slice of her life. I’m considering writing a novel about Francesca Stein, fashioning her into a fully developed character that occupies my mind. I wouldn’t have met her had I not been chosen to take part in the wonderful creative initiative. I’ll forever be grateful that this tarot project introduced me to her, my new fictional bestie.

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It’s important to note that I did a great deal of research to write this story. I learned many interesting tidbits about forensic science and law practices, which made it even more enjoyable. Those aspects of the story are based on real methods and data. I like to believe that on a different timeline I could have been a bright, beautiful and wealthy lawyer residing in Washington state just like my character does. One of the best parts of writing fiction is that you get to live vicariously through your characters, experiencing another facet of yourself that you might not get to in this lifetime. Fun Fact: Francesca Stein is a name paying homage to one of my favorite classic novels, Frankenstein

by Mary Shelley. Oftentimes, when I pen a fictional story, I get a kick out of sprinkling in easter eggs like that one. The deck I used for the story is the Wild Unknown, which is filled with hauntingly beautiful artwork that has a dark forest energy. Setting the story in a fictional small town in Washington on a foggy mountain takes inspiration from the deck’s creepy folkish illustrations. The imagery of the cards is woven into the tone of my story, too. Some of the character descriptions, although very subtle, also come from that tarot reading.

In many ways, I think this story was a way to process many difficult moments I had in my childhood. My mother, who passed away from cancer, was schizophrenic and bipolar. Our relationship was complicated. My parents also divorced when I was in the sixth grade.

Giving the son, Elliot, a voice in this fictional story also gave me a voice in a sense. So although this story is not autobiographical, it draws inspiration from some personal experiences.

Aside from the writing aspect, I appreciate that this tarot project included optional group gatherings at Avantpop Bookstore, Zoom brainstorm sessions, and the opportunity to work with the talented 158

April Ursula Fox. It was wonderful to meet other local writers while penning this paranormal courtroom drama. Listening to other wordsmiths' tarot card interpretations and story ideas was very inspiring. Writing usually feels like a solitary pursuit, but this project was more collaborative and it was a refreshing experience. We all received beautiful tarot decks and posters, too. My tarot poster hangs beside my bed and I look at it often. The art of tarot and storytelling share more similarities than many of my other hobbies. What I think makes tarot so interesting is how it can shift one’s perspective and sometimes its messages hit close to home. As I wrote my story, this is something I thought about a lot amid the process. This particular spread follows my main character, but it also could have been fun to make spreads for each character in a story. I’ll save that idea for my novel. The possibilities are endless when tarot is a device in your creator toolbox.

Huge thanks to April Ursula Fox, Shwa and Sugar Laytart of Avantpop Bookstore, and the Black Mountain Institute for this stellar writing initiative. I’m in awe of everyone who participated in this project, showcasing their creative skills and thought-provoking interpretations. I appreciate all the time, effort and energy everyone contributed to make this project come to life. I’m grateful for my amazing husband, Chris Wenck, and my dear friend, Meghan Franky, who also helped with the story by proofreading and offering feedback during the editing phase. To everyone who reads this beautiful collection of tarot-inspired tales, I hope you enjoy our stories and thank you for your support!

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Najee Jamerson

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The Fated Curse

“Do you not care for me Silas?” I could hear the crack in Princess Mavery’s voice, I wanted nothing more than to comfort her, to take the fear of rejection from her eyes but I could not.

“Princess, what good would it do to say those words to you? It would bring more harm than good.”

Princess Mavery closed the gap between us, wrapping me in her arms.

I tried to get my heart to beat evenly as her perfume assaulted my nostrils.

“It would be confirmation for me that I am not crazy Silas. That our stolen looks and touches are not of my imagination.”

Her eyes were pleading for the truth. “Princess, I am a healer, and you are the daughter of King Adir. It is forbidden for me to love. My only life purpose is to heal the people in the kingdom. That is my burden to bear. Your purpose is to do your duty as a princess for your kingdom.

Please do not ask me this again.”

I could feel her heart breaking and as a healer I wanted to mend it, until her next words were a slap to my face. “Then you are a coward!”

Loud banging woke me from my dream. “Silas! Silas! You must come at once!” It was my mother. Hearing the panic in her voice caused my sleepiness to dissipate. I climbed out of bed pulling the door open.

“What is it mother?”

“Princess Mavery has fallen ill. The king is summoning you now.”

Still groggy from my dream, I slid into my slippers and followed my mother into the night air. “Mother it’s too cold, stay in the house. I know my way there.” My mom shook her head but watched me as I headed toward the palace.

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How was Mavery sick? We’d only left each other a few hours ago. Did I leave her outside too late and she caught the night chill?

My feet moved on auto pilot as I made my way to Mavery. The palace was so illuminated it felt like it was the middle of the day.

Servants were moving about, almost in a panic, the chaos twisted the pit of my stomach. This doesn’t look good. I fear Mavery is in a bad state.

I could hear the king barking orders from down the hallway. “Your Highness,” I bowed as I entered the room. Relief washed over his face upon seeing me.

“Oh, thank the heavens, Silas, you're finally here.”

“What is happening?”

“The princess has a fever, we’ve been trying to break it for the last hour but to no avail.” The fear in King Adir’s eyes was palpable.

Mavery was his only child, his heir to the throne since the prince died in a freak accident a few years ago. He was overly protective of Mavery, making sure harm never came to her.

“Don’t worry Your Highness, I will take care of the princess.” I walked further into the room so I could get a look at Mavery. Her ladies surrounded her, dabbing her with cool washcloths. Her beautiful hair plastered her skin as sweat glistened on her face. Her body trembled under the blankets. Her appearance was nothing like it was a few hours ago.

I placed the back of my hand on her forehead but pulled it back feeling how hot she was. ​ “Silas, you must cure her as soon as possible. Prince Imre will be here in two days to celebrate their engagement which will unify our two great families. She needs to be ready to welcome her fiancé,” voiced Queen Acosha.

I avoided eye contact with the Queen for fear that she would see my love for Mavery shining in my eyes. I know she’s promised to Imre, but I also knew the truth. Her heart belonged to me and me alone.

“Acosha this isn’t the time to speak about Mavery’s engagement.

Our daughter is unwell,” the king spat.

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“Do not use that tone with me Adir. You know how important this engagement is. We need to unify both families to bring peace. It’s Mavery’s job to do so. She needs to be well to welcome her fiancé.”

“I will heal her,” I assured Queen Acosha hoping to silence her. I don’t want to hear about Maverys' engagement to someone else. “May I please have space to work on our princess. I think a calm and quiet space will help with the healing process.”

“Everyone clear out now, let's leave Silas to work,” King Adir ordered. Everyone immediately followed orders and began clearing out of the room.

Once the room was empty, I sat on the bed, my hand immediately going to the princess’ cheek. “My love,” I whispered only for Mavery’s ears. She slightly opened her eyes, I caught a trace of a smile on her lips.

“Silas,” she croaked, wincing in pain.

“What happened? Did you eat or drink something last night?”

Mavery opened her eyes, I held my gasp in. Her eyes were bloodshot red as if she hadn’t slept in days. “After I left you, I started to feel ill. My body began to ache so bad I had to call the hand maidan to help me to bed.”

“You should have called me right away.”

“You’re here now, that’s all that matters.” Mavery laced her hand through mine, causing a ripple of warmth to run through me. It was a feeling only experienced with her. A warmth that reminded me that I was breaking all the rules of being the head healer for the Adir Kingdom. Mavery was already spoken for, and I was forbidden to take on a lover. I couldn’t help it though, because Mavery was interested in healer work, we’d spent hours in my shop together. I’d teach her about the different roots and medicines that could be used to heal people.

Spending so much time together our feelings slowly grew beyond the friendship we’d shared growing up and I found myself falling deeply for her.

“I’m going to make you feel better, okay?”

“Okay.”

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I closed my eyes, drowning everything out around me except for Mavery. My body began to tingle as our bodies connected. I whispered an incantation of healing over Mavery, one that I’d used often to heal people in the kingdom. Her symptoms should have transferred to my body, relieving Mavery of her illness. I was stunned when she started withering in pain. She cried out as blisters started to form over her body. Her hands grew so hot I thought I might see steam coming from them.

“Silas, it burns,” she cried. “It burns!”

I immediately picked her up and carried her to the bathtub that was already filled with water. I lowered us into the water hoping it would cool her down and ease the pain.

Hearing the commotion King Adir burst into the room. “What happened?”

“She became too hot, I’m trying to cool her body down. It’s not good for her to have such a high fever.”

His eyes went to Mavery’s blistered body. “Silas, what is this? What happened?”

I didn’t have an answer for him because I didn’t know myself.

Why hadn’t my powers healed Mavery? Why did it make her worse? “I just need some time to figure things out.”

“Figure things out! What does that mean? Why haven’t you healed her,” he barked.

“Because it didn’t work,” I shot back.

“What do you mean it didn’t work? You can’t heal her?”

“I didn’t say that, I just need more time.”

I saw the shift in King Adir’s demeanor, and I knew it wasn’t good.

He stood a little taller, the warmth in his eyes turned cold. “Silas, you are the head healer. The kingdom trusts you; I trust you. If you can’t do your job, what use are you to me?”

My blood ran cold. I knew I wouldn’t like the next words from the king’s mouth. “My King, what are you saying?”

“You better figure out how to heal Mavery. If you don’t, your life will end with hers.”

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The King had clearly gone mad to threaten me with such a thing.

There was no one in the kingdom who could do what I do. “But my King, I am your head healer…”

“And as my head healer I expect for you to heal my daughter!”

Without allowing me to get another word in, King Adir dismissed himself leaving me dumbfounded.

Chapter 2 Every few decades a healer is blessed by the ancestors to become the head healer of a kingdom. The one who doesn’t need potions to heal but can heal with their hands and incantations shared only between head healers. I was blessed to be the chosen one of the Adir Kingdom, a gift that I didn’t take lightly.

I knew before taking the oath that I was binding myself to a life of loneliness, for the head healer could never take on a lover. Taking the oath meant I committed myself to helping others, I belonged to everyone. I was okay with that because I loved healing people. I was okay being alone until Mavery.

The early morning cold wrapped around my body like a hug from death. Was death in the air waiting to claim my beloved? I wouldn’t let it have Mavery, not now, not ever. Why hadn’t my incantation worked?

I could usually heal something like a cold or a fever easily, but Mavery only got worse, which meant there was something terribly wrong. The thought nearly seized my breathing, but I took a moment to let out a few deep breaths. Even doing so I could feel an ache in my chest that I’d never experienced before. I believe this is what people call heartbreak. I despised the feeling.

Before doubt could settle into my spirit, I straightened my spine and came to the conclusion that this would be my burden to bear.

Mavery was my responsibility; she was my beloved and I would do everything possible to heal her. I wouldn’t watch her die. I wouldn’t lose my life over this.

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“What ails you to have you outside in the cold child?”

“Mother, has there ever been a time that a head healer couldn’t heal someone?”

“Goodness no. Head healers possess powers that are unmatched.

You are personally blessed by our ancestors. Silas were you not able to heal Mavery?” she asked, alarmed.

I didn’t want to worry her, so I quickly covered my inquiry up. “I might have been tired, I’ve been working all day. I will recharge and try again later today.” I didn’t dare tell my mother that my powers didn’t work.

“Well, if that’s the case, let's get you to bed. I’ll brew the princess some tea to help with the fever and you can take it to her in the morning.”

“Thank you, mother, I appreciate you.” I followed her into our home. As if she knew I needed to be comforted, she guided me to my bed and tucked me in like I was a little girl.

“Get some rest, it’ll be a better day for you.”

“I love you mother.”

“I love you too.” I closed my eyes hoping my mother’s words would ring true. *** I was even more tired when I woke up a few hours later. My sleep was plagued with dreams of watching Mavery die. I watched as her body withered away and there was nothing I could do about it.

I rubbed my tired eyes while trying to center myself and prepare for the day. I didn’t want to go see Mavery just yet, but I knew the king would be calling for me soon.

My mother peaked her head into the room. “You’re finally awake. I made breakfast. Come out when you’re ready.”

“I’ll be right there.”

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As I sat to eat, Nila, my apprentice, greeted me. I’d asked her to stay with Mavery while I got some rest but, by the solemn look on her face, I didn’t really want to ask how Mavery was. “How is she?”

“Not so well, her condition worsened since you left.”

I gripped the edge of the table trying to numb my emotions. I had to have a clear mind in order to figure this all out. I couldn’t let my love for Mavery cloud my decisions. “Worse, how?”

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever encountered. Her hands are starting to turn purple and blue. She’s constantly shivering and still has a fever.

Silas, I don’t know what this is. The king is hysterical, he’s snapping at everyone so we’re all trying to stay out of his way. King Adir is out of control. He’s going mad from fright.”

I stood abandoning all thoughts of eating breakfast. “I will go see her now. My mother was supposed to brew some tea for the Princess, once it’s done, please bring it to me.”

“I’ll do it right away.”

Without saying another word, I took off toward the palace. There was a twisting feeling in my gut that I wish would go away. How did anyone get any work done feeling like their insides were exposed?

“You finally decided to show up,” King Adir’s voice caused me to jump.

I bowed in front of him. “My apologies Your Highness, I needed to rest.”

His appearance was one of a mad man. His clothes were disheveled, his hair out of place, his skin ashen. He looked nothing like the King Adir I served. “So, you will heal Mavery now?”

“Yes.” I hope. I kept that last line to myself.

His gold chains clinked together as he shook his head. “Remember what I said Silas.”

“With all due respect Your Highness, I am the most powerful healer in the lands. There is no one I haven’t been able to heal.”

“There was one,” he spat.

I stepped back as if he’d hit me in the gut knocking the wind from me. “He was already dead.”

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“You dare speak of the late prince in that tone,” he roared.

I wasn’t there to open old wounds but, king or not, I couldn’t allow him to make a mockery of my gifts. I prided myself on helping people when I could. “I only speak the truth.”

“Enough!” Queen Acosha came to her husband's side. “My love, you're upset and stressed. Let's give Silas time and space to work. She will do her best, isn’t that right Silas?”

“Yes, Your Highness. Please excuse me.” I wanted nothing more than to get away from the King and Queen, their energy was suffocating. I already had enough pressure on me.

“Silas,” Mavery smiled as I walked into the room.

“Hey Princess,” I kept my tone as even as possible as I walked over to her bed. I felt the first crack in my heart as I took in Maverys appearance. There were deep, dark bags under her eyes, her face was pale, and her hands were indeed purple and blue. It was as if she’d spent too much time submerged in ice cold water and was now battling hypothermia. I knew she was getting closer to death’s door.

“Don’t look so serious,” Mavery joked as she reached for my hand.

“Mav, this is serious. I don’t know why your health is declining so drastically.”

She brought my hands to her lips kissing my knuckles. Her lips were so cold I wanted to pull away, but I didn’t dare. “I’ll be okay, right?”

“Yes. Let's begin.” I engulfed both of her petite hands in mine.

“Close your eyes love.” She did as I said.

My lips moved rapidly as I tried to manifest Maverys illness into my body. I held my groan in as I felt the pain Mavery was experiencing. It was as if someone set my body on fire, and I was burning from the inside out. Beads of sweat formed on my brow as I continued to take in her illness. I couldn’t believe this was what she’d been feeling. The heat was almost unbearable. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, chills rocked my body. I didn’t know if I was hot or cold. It all felt like symptoms of a severe flu.

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Mavery’s color began to return to her face. The purple and blue started to fade from her fingers. I continued to chant even when my hands became discolored, even when blisters started to form on my body I chanted for my life. I chanted for Maverys' life.

I thought it was working until suddenly, my symptoms went away.

I watched as the illness left me and returned to her body.

I released our hands, jumping up from the bed. The realization of what was happening hit me all at once. Mavery wasn’t just sick, she was cursed.

Chapter 3 Explaining to the King and Queen that Mavery was cursed was not an easy task. King Adir threatened to strike any enemy he’d ever had.

Queen Acosha bawled her eye’s out realizing Mavery was doomed because we all knew I could heal people, but I couldn’t break a curse.

My mind couldn’t fathom who would want to curse the Princess.

She was sweet, and kind. She was loved throughout the kingdom. I’ve only ever heard good things about Mavery even when I traveled outside of the kingdom. Who would do this?

My back slid down the tree as I finally succumbed to my tears. I’d held it together in front of Mavery, I held it together in front of her parents but finally alone the heartache of the situation settled into the deepest part of my heart. Mavery was dying.

A scream I’d never expect to come from me rippled from my throat and echoed into the night sky. I’d never felt this before, this heartbreak, this pain of losing the person you love. I wasn’t supposed to ever feel this.

“Silas,” my mother's arms wrapped around me.

“Oh mother, she’s dying,” I cried and held onto her for dear life.

My mother looked at me with sympathy in her eyes. “Is there nothing you can do to save the princess?”

I shook my head defeated. “She’s been cursed.”

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The shocked look on my mother’s face mirrored mine earlier when I realized the truth. “She can’t die. My heart wouldn’t be able to bear it.” Confusion took over the look of concern my mother had. I knew I had to confess to someone. “Mavery…Mavery and I are in love.” *** “You dare call me a coward?”

“I do because only a coward doesn’t face what’s right in front of them.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about Princess.”

Mavery pulled me toward her. The move was so sudden I barely had time to register it. “Silas, you love me, and I love you. You are always in my thoughts. I can barely breathe anytime I am near you. I hold onto your every word because I love the sound of your voice. I love you. I’ve loved you for a very long time and I believe you love me as well.”

Even though her sweet words shot an arrow through my heart I knew I still had to fight these emotions. I took an oath to not fall in love with anyone. The logical part of me was telling myself I needed to honor that oath.

“I don’t,” I lied.

“If that is the case,” she placed her hand at the center of my heart.

“Why is your heart beating so fast?”

“Mavery,” I tried to break contact with her, but she held me close to her. Everything about her was intoxicating, from the sound of her voice to the perfume she wore, tickling my nostrils. I felt myself losing this battle.

“You are promised to Prince Imre, he will be here soon to celebrate your engagement. Why would I risk the three swords that will clearly pierce my heart if I allowed myself to entertain my feelings.”

“Three?”

“Yes, the one that will strike me from seeing you marry someone else and the two the King and Queen will surely use to end my life if they ever found out about us.” I couldn’t give into my desire for her. I’d held back over the years, even watching Mavery grow into the beautiful Princess 170

that she was but now Mavery was ready to let her feelings be known, and I couldn’t handle it.

“Silas, I’ve loved you since we were teenagers, even if I was promised to God himself my heart would belong to you. I am yours until my last breath.”

Her last words were my undoing. I took her into my arms, and we consumed our love under the stars. *** “Silas,” my mother gasped. “What have you done?”

“I know that I am not to love anyone, I know my duty, but I have loved Mavery for so long. I am only human, how am I not to be fond of someone?”

My mother stood abruptly. “Did you tell her you loved her?

“I did.”

My mother smacked her hand over her mouth. “Oh no.”

“What is it?”

“Silas, there are reasons you’re not to love anyone. You took an oath that your life would belong to healing. You took the oath of the head healer that you wouldn’t love another.”

“I know, it wasn’t like I meant for this to happen.”

“There are consequences to breaking an oath, Silas. Severe consequences.”

“Tell me.”

“If you fall in love with someone, breaking your healer oath, the one you love will become the sacrifice to your betrayal.”

I don’t remember passing out, I just remember waking up in my bed with a throbbing headache.

“You’re finally awake,” Nila brought water to me but I shooed the cup away. As I tried to stand the room began to spin. Nila grabbed my arms holding me steady. “You need to lay back down.”

“I need to see Princess Mavery. Where’s my mother?”

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“She took tea to the princess to ease her pain. She told me to stay with you just in case you woke up. What’s going on Silas?” The conversation with my mother played over in my head causing me to sway again. I did this. I cursed Mavery.

“Nila, I need you to find every book I have about the healer community.”

“Okay but why?”

“Don’t question me, please just do it.”

Nila bowed respectfully. “Yes Silas.”

I stumbled out of the house toward the palace. I couldn’t believe I was the cause of this. To my beloved. My love was killing her.

I stopped walking as I hurled near a tree. The acid burned my throat, but my tears stung more. Why hadn’t anyone warned me before taking the oath? Would I have agreed to it if I knew the truth?

I watched from outside of Mavery’s room as my mother wiped Mavery’s trembling body. The air left my body as I saw Mavery’s appearance. The purple and blue blotches had spread to her arms and legs. She was suffering because of me. How could I do this to her?

“Silas,” my mother broke me from my thoughts. I slowly walked into the room.

“How is she?”

“In pain. I gave her tea to ease the pain. It should put her to sleep.”

“Thanks mom. Can I have some time with her? We’ll talk later.”

“Of course, sweetheart.” She squeezed my arm before leaving the room.

I clasped Mavery’s hand as I sat on the side of the bed. “Mav.” She weakly opened her eyes. “Silas. Where have you been?”

“Sorry that I’ve been gone. How do you feel?”

“Like a million bucks,” she smiled but winced after.

I held the cry back that attempted to escape. Instead, I kissed her hand allowing my lips to linger. “You can’t heal me.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

“I can.”

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Mavery smiled. “You would have already healed me, my love. This is different. I feel it in my body. It’s like something is taking over making me weaker by the second. This isn’t something you can heal.”

“I will,” I said with determination in my voice. There was still time, I just needed to search the books to find an answer. It couldn’t end like this. Mavery still had so much life ahead of her. There had to be a way for me to heal her.

“Silas, if this is it, I am okay because I get to leave knowing I was loved by you. That’s the greatest gift this world could have given me.”

I wanted to hold Mavery and never let go. How was I so lucky to have her? “Mav, I will heal you. I will find a way, do you hear me?” I kissed her head over and over. “You will not die on my watch. I promise.” *** “I pulled all the books I could find. If you tell me what you’re looking for I can help you search.”

I didn’t want anyone else to know about the curse, but Nila was my apprentice. I knew I could trust her. “I fell in love with Mavery, and she is dying because of it so I need to find out if there’s a way to reverse this curse. I didn’t take my healer oath seriously. She can’t die because of me.” I quickly wiped the tears from my eyes because there was no room for crying. I needed to remain focused to find my answer.

It was like Nila could feel my determination because she responded with just as much determination as me. “We’ll find the answer. We’ll save the princess.”

I shook my head as we cracked open our separate books. Nila and I work at it for hours. My eyes burned, the words began to jump off the pages, but I kept going because we were nowhere near an answer. My mother joined us and began her own search. I could feel the knots growing in my neck as the burden of this situation began to weigh heavier on my shoulders.

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“Sweetheart, maybe you and Nila should take a break, you’ve been at this for hours. Give your mind a rest.”

“I can’t Mother. Mavery doesn’t have much longer. I need to find the answer.”

“What if you’re running yourself thin and there isn’t one? What’s going to happen if you have a burn out? You remember how bad it was last time. It took a while for you to get back to normal.”

“I don’t care, I will run myself ragged if it means I get the answer I'm looking for. The rule was made so the consequence has to be there as well.” I threw the current book down and grabbed another.

“Nila, take a break. I’m going to change my scenery.” I ignored the worried look on both of their faces and left the house. When I was far away from my home, I closed my eyes and allowed the sun to welcome me into its warm embrace. I took a few deep breaths hoping the tension would leave my body. Mavery’s bright smiling face appeared, sending a calmness near me. I would see that smiling face again no matter what.

I found a spot under a tree and cracked the book open. When I was about to call it a day, the passage I was looking for jumped out at me.

“No, that can’t be right.” I read it over as if the words would change.

“No!” I threw the book. “This can’t be happening.”

“Silas what is it?” Nila ran over to me hearing the commotion.

“Sit with me Nila.” I placed my head between my legs to stop the world from spinning. This was an absolute nightmare.

“Silas talk to me.”

“I found the answer to the cure.”

“Okay that’s good, right?”

I shook my head. “It was my love that caused the curse, and it’s my love that will break it.”

“What? I’m not following.”

“I have to sacrifice my life for Mavery’s. My death brings balance to the oath, and it saves my lover’s life.”

Nila stood abruptly. “What? No!” She ran over to the book, snatching it up from the ground. “Show me the passage.”

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“Nila, it's the only way.”

Tears welled in Nila’s eyes. “Then the Princess dies. You can’t.”

“Nila!” I scolded her. “This is my fault. I broke the oath. I have to fix this. I have to save her.” I knew I loved Mavery because there was no hesitation in my decision. I would give my life for her. “You won’t speak of this to anyone Nila, not even my mother. I don’t want to burden her with this.”

“Silas! You can’t ask this of me.”

“But I am. You are the only one I trust.”

Nila finally let her tears fall. “When will you do it? How will you do it?”

“Tonight. I’ll drink enough of a special brew. I’ll just fall asleep.” I couldn’t believe I was planning my own death.

“Oh Silas,” Nila cried as she launched herself into my arms. “This isn’t fair.”

“Life isn’t always fair, kid, but it has been an honor to teach you.”

That only made her cry harder.

“The honor is all mine, Silas.” *** My last walk to the palace was solemn. After spending some time with Nila I sent her home. I couldn’t stand to see the heartbroken look in her eyes much longer.

King Adir summoned me before I could make it to Mavery’s room.

“Are you closer to a cure? Mavery is getting worse by the hour. I don’t know how much time she has.”

“I have the cure, Your Highness. Mavery should recover in the next few days.”

“You have the cure!”

“Yes. She’s going to be okay.” Without warning, King Adir engulfed me in a hug.

“I knew you could do it. I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Silas.”

I smiled.

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“If you would excuse me, Your Highness, I want to check on the Princess.”

“Of course.” I bowed before heading to Mavery’s room.

She looked so peaceful laying there. It meant my mother’s tea was working. As I sat and watched her sleeping, I could tell her breathing was labored. “Without knowing about this curse, I was still so afraid to admit my feelings for you. If I’d known this was the outcome, I would have kept my damn mouth shut. Mav you have your whole life ahead of you, this is not your end. I hope you take this second chance to grow into the woman you’ve always wanted to be. Even if our love is brief, know that I will take the warmth of your love with me until my last breath. I love you so much Mavery. Please don’t forget me.” I allowed my lips to linger on her forehead one last time. “See you next time.” I made my way out of the palace. I looked up at the sky, seeing that this would be my last starry night. Life was so funny. Confessing our love to each other felt like there was nothing in the world that could stop us, but our love was what would destroy us.

I wrote letters to my mother and Mavery as I prepared my tea. I didn’t know how to feel. I wasn’t sad, I wasn’t scared, I would just miss the two women that I loved.

“Silas,” I jumped hearing Nila’s voice.

“Nila what are you doing here?”

She walked into the room timidly. “I don’t want you to be alone.”

I smiled. “Nila, you don’t have to be here for this.”

Nila sat on my bed and held my hand. “I don’t want you to be alone,” she repeated. “Is there anything you want me to do?”

I pointed toward the two letters. “Give those to my mother and Mavery please.”

“I will.”

“You will be an amazing healer.”

“I had a great teacher.” I hugged Nila tight before grabbing the cup of tea.

“Are you sure about this Silas?”

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“As sure as I’ll ever be.” I swallowed the tea before I could talk myself out of it. I laid down on my bed, Nila held my hand tight and allowed her tears to fall. “Please tell Mavery that I love her.”

“I will, I promise.” I closed my eyes as death welcomed me with open arms. *** Mavery I made a full recovery but wished for death when I found out Silas sacrificed herself for me. My heartache was worse than the pain I felt from the curse. I confessed my feelings to my father after no one was able to console me. He admitted that he pushed Silas too far by telling her he would end her and her mother’s life. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive him for putting that type of pressure on Silas. What good was it to be alive if my heart was gone?

King Adir As I stared at Silas’ lifeless body, regret sank deep into my spirit. I didn’t expect this to be the outcome. I was grateful that Mavery was alive, but sorrow filled me. As the king I used my power to my advantage so as the king I would use my power to try to bring Silas back. I knew I had to do it for Mavery’s sake. She’d been a shell of a person since confessing her love for Silas. I had to do this to save my daughter.

“Are you ready Your Highness?” My advisor stood by my side.

“I am. Have Silas’ body brought to the pillar.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Once the people from court filled the courtyard I made my entrance. People buzzed with conversation wondering why they’d been summoned.

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“As you all know we lost our beloved healer two days ago.” The chatter grew louder, but I put my hand up to silence them. “I think we should take the time to recognize how great of a healer Silas was. I think sometimes we take our healers for granted and I wish I would have cherished Silas more. Most of you know that Princess Mavery fell ill, and, in my grief, I put Silas and her mother’s life on the line to save Mavery.” Mavery finally looked up at me. The pain in her eyes was enough for me to attempt what I was about to do.

With one nod from me, Silas’ body was brought to the center pillar. My wheel of fortune was brought to me. “I’ve collected many treasures over the years. The wheel of fortune being one of them. I was told it held magical components that could help me when the time was needed. I have the opportunity to bring Silas back. It will cost me one blessed coin to spin this wheel. Infused with the energy of youth and fire, fate will decide the outcome.”

Mavery’s eyes bulged. “Is this real, father?”

“It is, dear, but please know this will not be my decision. As the keeper of the wheel, I only have one chance at this, do you understand?

It is not guaranteed.”

She shook her head as she held Silas’ lifeless hand. “Please Father, do whatever you can.”

I placed the wheel of fortune over Silas’ body. “Let your will be done.” With one final prayer I spun the wheel.

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Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - Najee Jamerson

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Commentary This was my first time using tarot cards not only for a story but ever so, I was really excited to try something new. After drawing my spread I focused on my eight main cards. My first step was to research my eight cards to learn the significance of each card upright and reversed. I started to brainstorm what type of short story I wanted to write using my cards. After writing my outline and having a solid plot I started to include my supporting cards. These are the cards I used and how I used them: The Emperor (Reversed) King Adir allows his fear of Maverys illness to take over his emotions, so he uses his power of authority to threaten Silas into finding a way to heal Mavery. His fear has blinded his judgment.

Ten of Wands Silas has taken on the burden and responsibility of finding a way to heal Mavery after her powers didn’t work to heal Mavery the first time.

Three of Swords The three of swords is used in the flashback of Silas and Mavery confessing their love to each other.

Five of Pentacles Silas is on the outside looking in as her mother takes care of Mavery. She feels hopeless and responsible for Mavery because she just found out she’s the reason that Mavery is sick.

The Chariot For the Chariot card I used Nila, Silas’ apprentice. Once Silas and Nila find out that Mavery is cursed because Silas fell in love with her, Nila jumps into action and is ready to help in any way possible to find the cure. She’s just as determined as Silas is because she can see how the news of the curse is affecting Silas.

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Knight of Pentacles Silas is working hard going through every book to see if there’s a cure for the curse on Mavery. Her mother reminds her she still has a responsibility to take care of herself.

The Sun Silas has been working tirelessly to find the answer for the cure, she finally takes a break and goes outside soaking in the sun's warm embrace.

The World The world card is used to symbolize the full circle and consequences of Silas and Mavery falling in love.

Death Card The death card was used for Silas sacrificing herself to save Maverys life.

Ace of Wands As a King, King Adir uses his power to his advantage to try to bring Silas back. He sees an opportunity to use resources only he has access to, to attempt to bring Silas back from the dead.

Six of Wands After her death, King Adir publicly acknowledges how great of a healer Silas was.

Wheel of Fortune King Adir literally uses a wheel of fortune to see if fate will grant Silas her life back.

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Ace of Pentacles and Page of Wands In order to spin the wheel of fortune King Adir uses one blessed coin from the ace of pentacles and the fire energy from the page of wands.

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Andrew Romanelli

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Blazing Shade Negation

“You must have wanted to be caught.”

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: “If you’re going to do it, just don’t get caught.”

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, 184

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, 185

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 186

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 187

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: 188

“What is next for me will be 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.

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➢​ 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.

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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 191

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 192

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

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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.

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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 195

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.

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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 197

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 hombres invisibles how 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.

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Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - Andrew Romanelli

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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.

The 4 of Cups was drawn for The Infinite ( main character / overall theme), with the Page of Wands supporting. 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 Page of Wands sweeps 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 Justice with the Ace of Cups supporting. 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, 3 of Cups supported by 10 of Cups. 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 200

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: Page of Pentacles with the Two of Cups 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 Ten of Pentacles with the Knight of Pentacles supporting. 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: Nine of Pentacles with Four of Wands 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: The Tower with The Chariot supporting. 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 201

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: Queen of Pentacles with King of Pentacles 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.

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Emily Ajir

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First Mile to Grace

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.

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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. 205

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 effect on the sky, pressing into it, its weight drooping down between them. And then Fuzzy realizes — (Oh god wait, I got shot.)

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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 fluffy 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 huffs 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 207

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, 208

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.

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(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 fluffy 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.”

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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 fluffy 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?” …

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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

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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 off 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 off 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–” 213

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.

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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.

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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 office, 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 216

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 effort, 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 coffee 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.

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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 scoffs. “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 off.” Fuzzy reaches into a pocket, and

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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 afford 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?”

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Fuzzy visibly ruffles, 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.”

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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 221

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 stiff 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.

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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 223

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 afford to keep killing us all? This is the real world, and we 224

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

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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) 226

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 coffee.

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 office buildings and polished condos dominate the 227

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 afford. 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 off 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 228

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 scoffs 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

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doom, or choosing to die right now. It’s hogshit, frankly, nothing makes a difference.”

“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.”

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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 coffee 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,

D. 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 231

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.

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Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - Emily Ajir Originally, Emily used the Da Vinci Enigma Tarot.

This is the 1st row.

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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 of Grace 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 234

seen it grow in the hearts around me from that. This is how we win.

The title of Fuzzy’s story: The First Mile to Grace, is a direct reference to the late David Lerner and his work The Last Five 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.

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Chris Mendoza

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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.

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“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?”

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“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. “This phone.” 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 239

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 do enjoy 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.

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“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 would give 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 241

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 love my 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

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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 Songs from the Sunroom by Field Medic.” The classic drum machine sounded, tit tit tat tit tit tit tat. 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.

“I think I know you, I love the scar across your face.” 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 are jah faysh of, you are jah faysh of a powafoo luv.” I glanced smiling at my absolute unit of a toddler and flipped the eggs. Both pans sizzled as another track began.

“Learn to keep your hands to yourself the hard way. Now you’re old enough to follow your own winds.” I grabbed a knife out of the block 243

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. “Love is something you like to take comfort in, but sometimes you wanna be on your own again.” 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.​ “No needs, no wants–just thinking pegasus thoughts,” 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, 244

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’ll have to start this one up.” He was a 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 are pay to play. 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’t sell 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 245

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 fucking husband 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 fuck left 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.”

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“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 felt every 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 247

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

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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, who are 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.”

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“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 250

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, you ought 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.”

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Author Tarot Spread - Chris Mendoza Originally, Chris used the Under the Oak Tarot. This is the 1st row.

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Mordecai Alba

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Westfall

August 2005 The newly installed checkout machine, gleaming all spark-like in the sun, was uncontrollably spurting out thermal paper on the first day I ever spoke a word to the person who would come to define my senior year. He was bent over in front of the machine, the muscles of his back shaking as he shoved his weight against the machine’s open front, effectively blocking the library entrance. I stopped in front of him.

This library was the closest to Ella’s private school. Here, she could bang out eight-page essays on the newer version of Word 2003 as her blue fingernails flew effortlessly across the keyboard. There, I was expected to pick her up for the world’s most silent public bus ride home, long after the safer school buses had departed. We never had much to say to each other—there was always the feeling that she was the child I should have been, that my younger sister had bested me in everything.

I’d seen him a couple times before that day. He’d replaced an older librarian, and there was something about him that gave me a desperate need to be close to him. He was always wearing the same three polos over and over and trying to keep his head high, but his wrists were coiled in weird little stick-and-pokes and his head was freshly buzzed.

Practically catnip to me at that age.

That day, he’d been the one assigned to deal with the new machine.

Foot after foot of blank paper cascade around his legs as he tried to shut the thing down and slam its lid shut at once, a giant loading wheel whirling around the screen.

I leaned over to pull the plug, trying to keep from laughing. By the time he’d swept the thermal paper away, while I ran the old scanner at the desk and beeped everyone out, Ella was tapping her pair of ballet flats impatiently against the linoleum.

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“Thanks for helping out, man,” he said, taking the scanner from me. “Did I get your name?”

“Marlowe,” I said.

“Ian.” He fistbumped me, and my knuckles tingled all the way home.

June 2006 Cassie is able to convince me to come to her graduation party pretty easily, despite how tough I think I am. She waves a bottle of grape Fanta at me while I’m cleaning out my locker, aiming her signature puppydog eyes at me as she does.

The scene jolts me back so hard to being six and her begging me to tag her back into Freeze Tag that I’m nodding before I know what I’m doing.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so glad. We’ve all been so worried about you, you know.” She leans in and hugs me tight, the bottle in her hand cold against my back. “Even if we don’t talk that much anymore, I’m really gonna miss you.”

The cold, guilty sweat that runs down my spine at that moment is powerful. That night, I find that it’s easier to climb out of my basement bedroom window and walk nearly a mile to her house than it is to call and tell her I’m sick. Luckily, Cassie is more focused on hosting than keeping tabs on me when I get there, and it’s easy enough to find my way into an unoccupied closet. It’s there that I sink myself into the must of the carpeted floor.

The fear of being found out comes like waves, and I let it wash over me now. I stare blankly at Cassie’s dresses, mixed with her mom’s, their pinks and blues muddled out in the dark of the closet.

I’ve been online a lot these days, scrolling through pages of forums on being arrested, on the legality of running an online gambling scheme. I read them obsessively, rating each post on that dinky five-star scale with the ruthless hand of God. I find myself wanting to know 255

what it really feels like to get in trouble. I still think about it in those terms, like I’m a kid who’s made a tiny mistake and not someone who can be charged as an adult.

I can’t bring myself to search for Ian or Shannon these days. I used to, back when we still spoke. Used to crawl along their Facebook walls, examining every letter typed there, every picture posted. But typing the names in at this point would be too real.

I stretch out my legs along the floor of the closet. They’re too long, and my sneakers push up against the wall like I’m a kid playing hide-and-seek behind a couch again. One of Cassie’s younger siblings has stuck a packet of glow-in-the-dark stars all around the upper walls, as far high as their little arms could reach. They swim in my dizzy eyes, and I have to resist the urge to hurl into the carpeting. I try to focus on one at a time, letting my sleepy eyes catch on one star after the other, following them down a road map, letting my lonely mind be guided by each star as it passes.

I’m like that when I remember Mom asked me to pick up some Tylenol for Hayden before I left. She says his pain seems to have plateaued, but these days all his focus seems to be on staying awake, on riding the waves out.

“Don’t get the name brand, hon,” she said, like she always does.

I don’t think anyone notices when I leave.

September 2005 I deleted the blog post a few weeks later, embarrassed at the thought of him finding it, but a few days after I saw Ian at the library for the first time, I posted that I’d met “maybe the only cool person in this freaking suburb,” accompanied by the usual hoard of GIFs I’d found that week.

It obviously wasn’t that I’d meant to become some kind of stalker.

It was just that in the weeks following that first encounter, the closer look I’d gotten at the tour bracelets he kept slung through a carabiner 256

on his bag was too enticing to pass up. So I suggested to Ella that she might like to take a trip to the library far more than I usually did, which was never.

On the day I finally convinced her with the promise of my Eggos for a week, Ian waved brightly at me the minute I walked in. “I see you around here a lot, don’t I?” he said, stuffing a receipt into my fifth borrow of the month with a smile.

I nodded, and was suddenly self-conscious about the acne dotting my forehead. “My sister goes to Baron Prep.”

Ian made a face at the mention.

I grinned. “I know. But she’s fine, really. She’s a good kid.”

He nodded, snapping a rubber band around my stack of books.

“Listen, if you’re ever stuck waiting, there’s no one in the staff room most of the time. There is a CD player, though.”

For those first couple weeks, we mostly spoke to each other through a series of hastily scribbled notes left under the broken coffee maker on the counter, offering star-scaled reviews of the offerings of each of our CD collections and movie recommendations. Ian always drew weird faces in his reviews, and I couldn’t help but smile every time I saw them.

I started, irresponsibly, sending Ella home alone on the bus when the library closed. Then I got worried about Mom finding out, so I started begging her to hang around the park a couple blocks from our house until I was home. This was so Ian could drive me around town after his shift was over.

It was mostly just listening to music at first, or drinking Mountain Dews at half-abandoned suburban parks. I felt cool for the first time. I felt like I finally knew someone, like all the dreams you’d had of being a bad teen had come true at last. I tried not to, but I gushed about it a little on my blog when I had the chance until the regulars started commenting about my “crush.”

It was on the day I first broke the law—like really, physically, broke the law, not jaywalking or downloading music off LimeWire or taking a 257

sip of bad beer—that we were listening to Ian’s newest CD, and had both decided, with some disappointment, that it was decisively terrible.

I was twisted around at a red light with the volume down, rummaging around in the backseat.

“Seriously, dude, there’s nothing back here we haven’t already listened to,” I said, my hands scrabbling across his community college textbooks and splintered CD cases. The light changed, and I jolted forward, grabbing the back of the driver’s seat. “It’s just whatever stuff you keep around for your classes and the same seven albums I’ve seen back here every time I’ve been in your car.”

“Yeah, that’s fine, whatever,” Ian said, sounding vaguely worried.

“Sit up, won’t you? I’m not in the mood to get arrested today.”

“Hang on, there’s something back here.” I grabbed a handful of acrylic paint pens from a plastic bin in the back and lifted myself back into the front seat, laughing. “Why are you vandalizing shit?”

He glanced over at me. “Vandalizing… that’s library stuff. Arts and crafts. Come on, put it back.”

I squinted at the barrel of the pen. “What are the kids even using this for? I’m keeping it.”

“Hold on,” he said, and made a U-turn.

“What are you doing?”

“You really wanna start tagging shit?”

Yes. “I guess so.”

“Listen, I don’t know about that stuff.” He pushed up his glasses.

“But my girlfriend Shannon is cool. Works at the mall. She’ll know a thing or two.”

The edges of my wrists jittered with excitement, the same way they did when I figured out a particularly good strategy for whatever Doom WAD I was playing. It was sad, if I thought about it too hard, just how eager I was that day.

But he took me to the mall, which was one of those glimmering things that I’d carefully avoided for years. I wasn’t quite edgy enough to get in with the kids who dressed in black and listened to whiny music. I’d never had enough pocket change anyway.

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Ian didn’t drag me along by the arm, but it was a near thing; he walked fast, bouncing on his toes through the mall, arms swinging, barreling past mall security towards the Claire’s.

He liiiikes her, I thought, childishly. And then I saw her, and immediately, so did I. My left leg, never quite healed from that break as a kid, was twinging when I met Shannon, when she taught me just how to hold that brand-new chisel-tip. She and Ian slurped identical smoothies while I scrawled my favorite lyrics onto the side of a dumpster out back.

The infinity symbol tattooed onto the side of her hip was visible as they watched me with something akin to parental pride.

I saw her a few times more before she brought up the idea. She spent her paychecks on food court snacks for us whenever we met her at the mall. We’d blast music on the way over and laugh at each others’ stupid jokes until my stomach hurt.

The two of them had met in a marketing class—as it turned out, Ian was a tentatively committed econ major, and Shannon was focusing on psychology. He seemed lukewarm about his field of choice, but she could go on about all the weird books she was reading in her courses for days, tapping her manicured nails against her pale arms.

I could have listened to her talk about them for ages. I think that’s how we got into the whole ordeal. It wasn’t that her “psychology of gambling applied to a website” shit didn’t work. It worked far too well.

June 2006 It doesn’t take longer than a few days of me practically rotting in my bedroom—flooded with cheerful summer Arizona light—to make the decision to find Ian and Shannon and fight for that extra source of income.

It was something I fantasized about a lot while I was still in school.

I would review traffic signs, doodling them in the margins of my 259

notebook. I’d dream of dragging myself to the DMV, going straight from there to the open highway.

It was just a fantasy then. But being home all day, actually hearing Hayden’s quiet little cries from his room, seeing his small joints swollen and red every time I check in on him, I can’t stand putting it off any longer.

The minute my license comes in the mail in that little DMV envelope, I’m ready. I have a bag packed with a few days of clothes, plus pepper spray and a Swiss Army knife I hope to God—even though I don’t believe in God—that I won’t need. I don’t bring my phone. I can’t risk being found.

Getting their location is easy once I look—I find Ian tagged in a friend’s picture on Facebook, all the way out near Santa Fe, and I assume Shannon’s with him.

I don’t want any evidence on our home computer, but going to a library to make the search is hard. It’s not the same library—this one is visibly more broken-down than the one where Ian worked—but I have to steel my nerves before I go in, admitting to myself that they’ve left me behind is the final nail in the coffin. It’s hard for my body to let itself cry these days. All the same, I find myself pressed against the side of a bathroom stall with the MapQuest printout held against my face, trying not to cry too loudly.

I take the long way home to let my face dry in the sun. I write a note for Mom and Dad and Ella and another for Hayden, and I put the packed bag by the door of my room—it’s my old bag from middle school, so hey, I feel like a kid again—and I wait for sundown.

October 2005 All three of us huddled in a corner of the basement of the abandoned church on Cactus Run. The tiles were painted with little sheep and rainbows, and there were a few mats in the corner from when they used to hold Sunday School lessons in here.

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“We are gathered here today,” intoned Ian, closing his eyes and holding out both hands in front of him. Shannon made her fingers into a claw and stabbed them into the soft flesh of his upper arm. He yelped and grabbed our hands, pulling Shannon’s close to his side.

I giggled. I loved watching them. I’d gotten a little bit obsessive about it, to be honest, but it was nice to feel like a part of a group.

Shannon grabbed my hand, too. I wasn’t used to being touched, but I thought I hid the shiver that ran its way up my spine from both points of contact well enough.

“We are gathered here today,” Ian continued, closing his eyes once more, “to commemorate the beginning of a triumvirate for the ages, one which will grant us founts of wealth, founts that will allow us to feed our children, and our children’s children, and their children’s children after us.”

Shannon slid her eyes over, visibly trying to suppress laughter. I squeezed her hand, a cue for her to keep going.

“It is time for the gift of…the promise,” she said, half a smile quirked on her glossy lips. She brought out the necklaces she’d stolen from work, shimmery stars from the newest catalog of girls’ jewelry, and passed them to each of us in turn, letting her overgrown nails scrape along my wrist.

I couldn’t hide the shiver that time, but she looked away carefully.

I held the pendant out between the three of us, right over a tile emblazoned with a child’s messy handprint, and watched as the other two held their stars out as well. Their points touched for just a moment before Ian let his shoulders slump and removed his hands from the circle with a sigh.

It was stupid, but a part of me felt like a spell really had been broken when we all scooted away, sprawling back onto the floor to stare up at the crumbling ceiling.

“So.” Ian crossed one leg over the other, and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I’ll handle the finances, Shannon will help with the psychology stuff, and Mar can set up the site?”

I nodded. “It’ll be up as soon as I have a final draft.”

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Shannon rolled over, the bottom of one of her layered tanks riding up over her hip, and pouted at us both, putting on a baby voice. “And this is all totally legal, right?”

I laughed, and tried to feel young, and staved off the bile roiling in my stomach with another quip.

June 2006 It’s almost 4 when I pull into Santa Fe. I don’t want to stop too often—I’ve taken the old car that’s so unreliable that Dad refuses to even sell it. So besides a short stop for a Mountain Dew in a too-bright gas station out where they think aliens land, it’s been nothing but desert road stretching out in front of me all night.

Cerrillos is bigger still when I drive into the city, the buildings on either side of the road feeling impossibly large and impossibly distant. I find the first motel with a lit VACANCY sign and pull in, scraping the side of the car against a large cement column as I do.

I wake up the guy at the front desk and book a few nights, crashing as soon as I get into the room.

I used to hate motel rooms. The bedding always felt grimy and slightly greasy to me, and I couldn’t get over the smell of mildew that filled every corner of the room. Today, I can’t bring myself to care. I turn the air conditioning as high as it goes and cover myself in the blankets I was always afraid to touch. I’m asleep almost instantly.

I had strange dreams that night. I always have strange dreams this time of year. I’m naked in this one, or I’m covered in shining armor. I can’t make sense of my own body. It changes with every step I take.

Shannon is leering at me over a mountain range of scraggly rock, her too-straight hair spilling over her shoulders, box-blonde and fried. I am walking towards her like it’s a pilgrimage, like I can’t help myself wanting to find her. I’m holding a stick, broad and gnarled, and I know I have to fight her, but I don’t want to fight her, and I feel both too-bare and like I need to rip these layers off.

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She looks down at me with a pair of overlined and unseeing eyes. I run towards her, towards that familiar curl of her lips and those snarky comments, and I’m gasping when I wake up in a freezing and sunny room.

October 2005 I sketched out the website on the back of a medical bill from Hayden’s latest trip to the ER. He’d had asthma since he was a little kid, but since his most recent round with the flu, it seemed like he was having attacks every other week. He always had that solemn, old-soul look in his eyes, even juiced up on steroids, even with that clear mask blowing meds into his face every few hours. I tried to make him hot chocolate as much as I could, handing him a new cup every morning just to see if that day was the one he’d crack a smile. I poured as much love and hope into every cup as I could, praying it would make him feel better.

I mapped out the website exactly how Shannon told me to, but when I emailed those first HTML files to the group, she replied that something was missing. “It’s good,” she’d sent, “but it needs more character.”

In its original form, the project appeared, at first, to be a simple card game—I’d grabbed a pack of playing card jpegs off of a free site, adding in my most sparkly GIFs. The monetization aspect wouldn’t appear at first, but would gradually become more insistent throughout rounds of a card game, the pulls seemingly randomized but carefully laid out to hook players on the feel of winning every few rounds. With Ian’s help, Shannon had worked out the math on a page ripped from one of her composition notebooks, and I kept it next to me as I worked.

A half hour after Shannon’s reply, she’d sent back pictures of sketches for a new design. Looming over the site at all times would be the figure of a queen, grasping a goblet in both hands, fountains of 263

wealth spilling over its sides, a serene smile dancing on her lips. The player would be greeted as the brave little knight who sought the queen’s goblet, who would do anything to make her happy.

I digitized her sketches and traced over them in Paint. Drawing the queen was the easy part—in that final GIF I made, the one which would appear at the top of the site, she almost looked like Shannon when her head tilted to the side, that same smile flickering across her lips. It was the knight that caused trouble.

I must have drawn fifteen in one evening, squinting at the computer screen with tired eyes as the clock ticked past 1. Eventually, I came up with some bullshit argument about why it was actually better to not have a visual for the knight character, that the site visitor would feel more connected to the idea of being a knight if they didn’t have to do any mental gymnastics to envision themselves as him, and sent it out.

Apparently this meshed with whatever psychology tricks Shannon had learned, and she approved it.

It wasn’t a great day for Hayden when the site went live, truth be told. He’d started having muscle spasms by that point, and Mom had moved him into the computer room so I could keep an eye on him while doing homework. It helped, being able to see that he was breathing. He was so fucking sleepy, nothing like the cheerful seven-year-old of just a few months ago, begging for piggyback rides and punching me if I didn’t let him have extra Oreos.

I focused on what I could and tested the site a billion times, ensuring everything was set up to go through to the right bank account, the one Ian had set up. Shannon wanted a “mysterious” marketing campaign, so I made weird, jerky GIFs advertising the site and spread them across every forum I could find. “Do you want to go to Queensland?” read the one that would end up attracting the most attention in whirling Comic Sans.

It was against the sound of Hayden’s lungs dragging against his nebulizer that I uploaded the final files. I swore to myself in that moment that I could be a savior, that I would be his.

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The nightlight he’d had since he was a kid was popping and fizzing like it was about to rupture.

June 2006 I camp out at the motel for several weeks, taking full advantage of their soggy continental breakfasts, their broken shower. At first, I drag myself to all the tourist spots like I’m a doomed man facing my last few days of freedom. Maybe I am, I think at a roadside shop, crystal necklaces spilling through my hands.

I giggle until the horror sets in, and then I grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white on the drive back to the hotel. The fast food I’d nestled in the passenger seat earlier tastes like stomach acid when I try to choke it down. I stand over the mini-fridge and look myself in the eyes through the mirror. My face has started to lose some of its baby fat, but I look so much like myself in that moment that it’s difficult to keep from crying.

I stop going out after that. I order pizzas to the room, handing over the last of my money to acne-laden kids as my stomach churns with guilt. I try not to think about Hayden. I think about Hayden. I think about how stress always triggers his symptoms, how just the thought of a math test the next day would have him vomiting into the popcorn bowl, beads of sweat running down his pale forehead. I think about how he’s doing now. I think about how on Earth we’re paying for it.

It doesn’t take too long before the room starts to feel too hot no matter what I do, no matter how high I crank the air conditioning. I strip down naked and close the blinds. I spread myself out in the bathtub, trying to feel cold again, trying to ignore the hot flashes roiling through my abdomen. My hands are slippery as I grip the side of the tub, prop open the toilet seat, and vomit into its bowl.

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December 2005 The money took some time to arrive, but eventually, it started trickling in. The online banking site was laggy as it was, and even laggier on my computer, but I refreshed it constantly. I rubbed at the side of my thumb so hard it turned raw.

Ian had been busy with finals, but at the end of November, he picked me up from the library and drove me to the mall. The three of us split soft pretzels in the food court and divvied up the funds, Shannon giggling as she applied her makeup pre-shift.

It was just like that for the first couple months, really, good yet unextraordinary. I snuck twenties into my parents’ wallets when they weren’t looking. Hayden’s hospital visits were weekly by that point, but I guiltily upped my own allowance from two soft drinks a week at lunch to four.

And then it was December, and I was lying awake at night listening to my baby brother cry from the next room over, stumbling through his blankets after toppling out of bed again, his little lighthouse night light unplugged and sparking and lying on the floor beside him.

His body started rejecting food. Mom made her best efforts with gluten free flour and almond milk and sunflower butter and served him on paper plates with fun animals on them, but he threw everything up anyway. His thin skin mottled a bright red. He was asphyxiating more than he ever had before.

I gave up soft drinks and visited him in the emergency room every time he was in, bringing him erasers shaped like dinosaurs and cups of powdered cocoa from the nurses’ room. Ella dealt with it in her own way, throwing herself so deeply into her schoolwork that I barely saw her.

You have to understand. It was under all of this stress that I took the money.

It wasn’t something I spent a lot of time thinking about. These things never are. It was so quick. It was so easy. It took nothing at all for it to feel okay. Distantly, that worried me.

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It wasn’t meant to be as much money as it ended up being—hundreds of dollars, nearly a thousand, on top of the previously agreed-upon total Ian had set for each member of the group—but it was the number I had to list anyway when I told them, snotting all over my Wetzel’s in the middle of the food court the week after Christmas.

I didn’t expect forgiveness. I refused to explain why I took the money, but I made myself look Ian in the eyes as the trust he’d had in me slumped away. He was the first to break eye contact, to put his head in his hands. He was like that when I stood up and left, my pretzel still half-eaten on the table, my share of the month’s payment spread across the table in two neat piles.

I could handle that, barely. What I couldn’t handle was Shannon’s look of pity, her eyes piercingly soft over the bridge of her nose as she leaned against her forearms.

July 2006 It’s July by the time I’m able to drag myself to the library. A few nights before, I have a dream of the missing poster. I haven’t seen signs of one, not even on the TV, the one I have to fiddle with the bunny ears of a billion times before anything comes through.

In the dream, I imagine that there is one, at this point, that someone’s cared enough to tip off the police. I see it, and it’s my school picture from eighth grade, the one I tried to hide when I got home.

Mom hung it up anyway, stroking my hair. and telling me how pretty I was.

She loves me, I think when I wake up. I hate thinking about it. I hate thinking I’ve done something to them, something worse than having left them without that extra source of income.

I give myself a couple days in bed like I’m a Victorian heroine, drinking water from the bathroom sink and sleeping the days away dreamlessly. I make myself get up that morning, and I hide my hair 267

under a hoodie I stole from Dad, dyed red and black in parts as it is, worrying Ian will be at the library itself.

He isn’t, but when I find the address, it’s all I can do to keep from growling at myself. They’ve been less than a mile away, all these weeks.

When I get back to the car, it feels like I’m dreaming. I can barely feel my hands as they pack the pepper spray into my pockets, as they prepare the Swiss Army knife. They’re numb by the time I’m driving.

There’s no car in the driveway. I shake the screen door at the front of their stupid friend’s house, letting it bang up against the outermost door. The metal is blazing against the summer sun. Ian answers, and he tries to shut the door on me, but I’m too fast—older sister instincts—and I squeeze in after him.

I hold the pepper spray out like a shield in front of me. The carpeting of the hallway is thick with smoke and pet hair, and I feel myself sinking into it like it’s mud. “Listen.”

“Marlowe, what the actual fuck?” His hands are up, and he’s backed all the way into the kitchen.

“Give me the money.”

His eyebrows rise on his face. “The money you stole from me?”

I don’t feel like I’m powerful anymore. I feel like a kid who’s stolen her dad’s matches, who’s wielding them on the lawn while everyone screams at her to stop. It’s hard to stop myself from crying by this point, but I keep going. “Where is it?”

Shannon is here now, somehow, bracing my face with both hands, touching my arm, lowering the pepper spray. She doesn’t know about the knife, I think, wildly, as if that knife would do a thing. I shove her off, but she closes in again.

“Baby, we don’t have any money,” she says, like she’s talking to a child, stroking the side of my head. None of that bravado she had in the spring, when she was leaning in close and kissing my cheeks and putting on too much perfume. I was so fucking easy when I couldn’t stand being alone.

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March 2006 Ian ran off a couple weeks after New Year’s. He changed the passwords to all the accounts—the one for site hosting, the bank account, even the email account that the three of us had attached to the entire scheme.

Shannon was still working at the mall in those days, and it wasn’t hard to find her at Claire’s, to corner her in a moment when she couldn’t step away. I stood by her while she was restocking earrings, bundled up in my dinky little coat, leaning on my good leg.

I asked her where Ian was, and she said she didn’t know. You asked her if she had the passwords. She looked you in the eyes that time, and said no in the smallest voice, and invited you out back for her break while she smoked.

In her defense, she played the abandoned girlfriend thing incredibly well—smudged her mascara in the process, let it run down one-half of her face without an ounce of shame. She let me put on her lipgloss that day, after she’d finished crying.

It must have been clear to her how much I would have done for her, by that point. I’m not sure I realized it myself. I’m not sure I would have done anything different if I had.

When she swung by my house the week after that and asked for help resolving a coding issue for some blog she claimed to run, I think I knew she was lying. I helped anyway, though, didn’t I—just for a chance to sit in her beat-up minivan smelling her perfume, just to be crowded together with her at that desk in her room, the one overflowing with half-finished psychology papers and statistics assignments.

She knew she could use me, then.

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July 2006 I push Shannon away from me, grab a folding chair from the living room, and lift it above my head. My ears are ringing, and my stomach is burning with shame.

“You lied to me. You lied to us. I was trying to pay my fucking tuition, Mar,” Ian is saying. “I would never have done this to you. I would never do what you’re doing now. Put that down.”

I hit him with the chair. I hit him with the chair again. Shannon shrieks.

He screams that he has a gun, and my veins fill with a mix of fear and perverse excitement. I shove the seat of the chair into his stomach so hard he spits up. It’s then that he grabs a fistful of tens out of his pocket, backing away to grab more from the upstairs of the house.

I elbow my way past Shannon and into the room where they’re keeping their shitty PC. I grab every paper I can find, shoving it into my hoodie pockets.

Ian is standing stock-still when I get back into the main room, his arms out, full of cash, Shannon perched above him on that stupid breakfast counter. I kick her on my way out, and I swear to God that I will be home before sunset.

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Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - Mordecai Alba

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Commentary Prior to becoming involved with the STTAR project and attending the amazing workshops April offered to help us get on equal footing with each other and the tarot, I had been deeply curious about tarot for most of my life. My first real introduction to the practice was through watching Tillie Walden post about the tarot deck she had been commissioned to design when I was in middle school. Around a year ago, that ended up being the first tarot deck I ever received when my best friend Xalli bought it for me. Although I loved the illustrations, I had a hard time connecting to the meanings of the cards and how they connected to each other. Going back to basics with April and diving into each tarot card as its own individual character through this project has not only been great for me in terms of developing my skills as a writer, but also in developing my understanding of tarot as a practice overall. The cards are no longer a jumble of symbols to me, but a group of people I can find patterns throughout more easily and instantly react to when I do readings.

Besides the more personal benefits of the STTAR workshop, I also loved having the opportunity to connect with other artists and embark on a journey of open-minded exploration with each other. As a senior at an online high school, it can sometimes be difficult for me to find opportunities to share creative processes with those around me, especially in my area. Something that was so unique about the STTAR project was the idea of handing over the decision-making to the cards and just letting ourselves be curious. Instead of nitpicking at exactly what I was writing about, why I felt compelled to write about it, and where exactly the story would go, I was able to let go and simply let myself enjoy the process of writing. Having the bones of a story already in place and having the opportunity to build its tone around a solid 272

structure was super comforting. April also did an amazing job at making me feel like the workshop was a safe and judgment-free environment, encouraging everyone’s ideas and dotting all her emails with happy sparkles. I am endlessly grateful for her patience and kindness. I’m super glad that I was able to find the STTAR project and feel so genuinely welcomed by it and all its members, and that our literary explorations together really felt like a fun adventure, not a chore to get through.

With that said, I would love to dive deeper into the particular cards I pulled! On the day we drew cards, I took a few shots at it. It always felt like the story the cards were trying to tell me was a darker one, and certain cards kept appearing. On my third pull of cards, everything was aligned in an order that I felt was most honest to a story I would be able to tell, so that’s the set of cards I ended up with.

In the past category, Marlowe has the 10 of Swords as her main card. This card indicates painful endings and betrayal—she’s been deeply wounded by the events that happen in the story’s flashback.

There are also happier memories in the past, though, particularly in the cups suit. Her 6 of Cups and 10 of Cups were screaming “family” to me. Marlowe is someone who’s previously had a fairly good relationship with everyone in her family, especially her little brother Hayden, and is operating based on what she feels is best for them. She wants to return to the ideas of nostalgia and familial harmony the best way she can. Lastly, the Queen of Cups in her past indicates her relationship with Shannon, who views herself as a nurturing mentor to Marlowe, but who ultimately leads her astray. The reversed Queen of Cups can also indicate emotional over-dependency, which absolutely fits with Marlowe’s previous perceptions of Shannon. Throughout the reading, the cups suit came up a lot for her. She’s definitely a person with a lot of inner emotions, even if she’s not fully aware of them.

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In the present category, Marlowe’s main card is the Hermit. In short, it’s very clear that she’s retreated from the world. The Hermit also indicates that she’s lost her way in some senses, and is trying to get back to herself. The other cards that influence her present are the 7 of Wands, which centers around feeling both overwhelmed and overly protective, and the Wheel of Fortune, indicating that anything could happen. Together, these three cards indicated the attitude of someone who has been forced to pave their own way, but is so lost that they begin to think anything truly is possible. Holding her emotions and intentions close, Marlowe is spinning the wheel of fortune and attempting to win big.

In the category of hidden influences, the main card is the Two of Cups. With Shannon’s presence as the Queen of Cups earlier and the Knight of Cups in this section as well, I started to view Ian and Shannon as the Two of Cups. Usually, this card represents a happy pairing, but can also indicate a lack of healthy communication, jealousy, and imbalance. Based on this, I opted to make Marlowe’s feelings for Shannon (and to a certain extent her platonic feelings for Ian as well) a major part of the story. She’s not merely wounded by the loss of a lucrative business venture, but by the loss of people she looked up to in a warped, insecure way. The Knight of Cups, like previously mentioned, also appears in this section, which I started to view as Ian. This card tends to represent a creative and charismatic character, but one who can also be moody—someone an angsty teen without much opportunities for social interaction might have strongly looked up to.

Additionally, the knight/queen imagery was one I incorporated into the game the three of them came up with. Marlowe would love to be a knight with hope in his heart, and does her best to see herself as one, but ultimately, she’s something different entirely. The Magician also appears in this section, which I chose to associate with Shannon and 274

her infinity-symbol tattoo. This card is twofold—she genuinely does have the most influence over both Ian and Marlowe, but also views herself as a magician in some ways. She’s tricksy and obsessed with psychological manipulation, and although she might view it as “just for fun,” just like we might easily brush away the idea of magic, her hold over people has dire consequences. Additionally, the Ten of Pentacles in this section indicated the expectation of providing wealth to a family unit to me (essentially, an expectation that Marlowe forces on herself), as well as the possibility of financial ruin. Essentially, although Marlowe doesn’t communicate this to the rest of the group, her family’s financial issues are a major drive behind her actions as well.

In the problem section, I drew the main issue as the Three of Pentacles. This was particularly interesting to me—this card tends to represent healthy collaboration, but could also indicate something more flawed. I was also drawn in by the secretive illustration on the card, and chose to incorporate the idea of three people meeting in the eaves of a church into my story, with Ian, Shannon, and Marlowe setting up their scheme in the basement of an old church. The other “problem” is the Devil card. Although we usually think of the devil figure as a singular individual, the presence of the warped lovers on the card was also important to me. To me, they represented destructive behavior and co-dependency, which further enhanced the idea of unhealthy relationships.

In terms of the influence of others, I drew the Nine of Wands, which tends to represent someone putting up walls, being on edge, and essentially taking a last stand. Marlowe is only driven to her limits because Ian chooses to risk it all and run off; although his last stand comes first, it influences her to take hers as well. In this section, the Ace of Cups represents new relationships and the excitement and love they can bring. I view Marlowe as someone who hasn’t had a lot of positive 275

relationships throughout her life, and is thus amazed and delighted to find herself in league with Ian and Shannon…and therefore heavily influenced by them. The Four of Wands (which in its reversed form can indicate a lack of home support and conflicts on a domestic front), Tower (indicating sudden change and destruction), and Sun (which can indicate happiness, especially associated with a child) all represented the turmoil surrounding Hayden’s sudden chronic illness.

As someone who became suddenly disabled during my time in high school myself in a way that drastically altered my life, my choice of this particular avenue for Marlowe’s at-home issues was both a way of ensuring I was writing realistically and a way of coping with my own illnesses. Associating the destruction that can be wreaked upon a chronically ill body with a body that brings brightness to others was a way to remind myself that I have value beyond my creative and academic output—a way of treating myself gently in a way I usually don’t by supplanting myself into the figure of the sun.

In the course of action section, the main card I drew was the Three of Cups. I was a little unsure about how to interpret this card, but it can have the associations of going absolutely hogwild, spreading gossip, and trying to find happiness in the most reckless way possible.

Essentially, I knew that I needed Marlowe to do something inadvisable—and do it in the messiest way she could. The other card I drew in this section was Strength, which I think she certainly embodies in her confrontation of Ian and Shannon.

In terms of outcome, I drew the Eight of Wands as the main card, which tends to represent quick decisions and hasty movement. I chose to interpret this both literally, in the form of an ill-planned road trip, and metaphorically—she acts pretty quickly once she determines what she’s going to do, and doesn’t think too hard. In the end, her decisions only grow more hasty. The other card, the Six of Pentacles, which can 276

indicate reclaiming unpaid debts and caring for yourself beyond its more “face value” meaning of charity, certainly takes place. Although it’s unclear what she’s going to do with the power and money she now has, she at least has it.

Lastly, the primary card I drew for Marlowe as the main character was Judgment. This was a pretty interesting card to get as the main character, and to me, it very quickly formed the impression of someone who is quick to cut others off if necessary, take desperate measures, and to reckon with the world as it is through whatever means possible. The Five of Wands also indicated someone who doesn’t generally “play well with others,” meaning that when she did find the relationships she did, they meant far more to her than they might have to another individual.

The Eight of Pentacles, especially in its reversed interpretation, further painted a picture of someone who’s looking for an easy way out (which she does), and who lacks work ethic. Finally, the King of Cups represented a character who is cold, manipulating, and emotionally closed off; Marlowe views herself as someone who the world has already passed by, or in other words, whose queen has already been stolen by a knight. In her mind, there is no longer any hope for her, and she is who she is.

I hope you enjoyed the commentary on the various tarot cards that show up throughout my story! Thank you for reading.

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Lila Brissette

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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 lofts 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

aftereffects as heat radiates up from the city’s uninterrupted beds of concrete. As I approached the small ground-level townhouse, I 279

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 left,

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 left the apartment since coming back the previous day. After 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.

After recovering Wheeler’s devices, investigators found that

Wheeler had been staying in the short-term rental since August of 280

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, after 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 after Helena that I finally meet him, the solution to every problem, after 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 — after years of wondering

when it would return as if it had never left 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.

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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 after 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 after

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. After 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 after only a week — but after 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 282

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 283

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 after 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, often monopolizing table conversation at

dinner or during afterparties 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 284

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 often 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 285

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 after the book was sent for review, his work stagnated.

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“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 after 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 after 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.

After 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. After 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.

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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.

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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 289

largely the same: he meets Caster wherever Caster decides to make his evening, and returns home in the early morning hours. But after 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 after 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 290

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:

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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. After 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 -

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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 afterwards: “Why was she like that?” Taylor

Tucket could not be reached for comment.

After 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 293

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 after 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 294

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.”

After arriving home early on January 1st, Wheeler writes his

final words in his diary.

I don’t know what will happen after 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 after.

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. After 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 after 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.

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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 after 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 after 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 after 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 after 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.

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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.

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Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - Lila Brissette Originally, Lila used the Pulp Tarot. This is the 1st row.

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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 299

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 300

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.”

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