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

Melissa

Gill

April Ursula

Fox

Najee

Jamerson

Chris

Mendoza

Lila

Brissette

Mordecai

Alba

Jeff

Grindley

Emily

Ajir

STTAR - Storytelling with Tarot

© Avantpop Publishing

and April Ursula Fox

2024 - all rights reserved.

Publication of any related material

without expressed approval is prohibited.

For inquiries contact:

avantpopbooks.com

aprilursulafox.com

Free download and distribution of this ebook is fully authorized.

Author photo credits:

Melissa Gill, photo by: Christopher Gutierrez

Andrew Romanelli, photo by: Emily Ajir

Jeff Grindley, photo by: Ryan Yoro

Mordecai Alba, photo by: Quetzal David Beltrán Barajas

This project is supported in part by the

Black Mountain Institute at UNLV

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.

2

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.

3

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.

4

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.

5

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

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.”

9

“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.

10

“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.

11

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!

12

“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!”

14

“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!”

15

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!

16

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.

17

“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.

19

“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…”

“But?”

20

“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.

22

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.

25

Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - April Ursula Fox

Originally, April used the Curious Creatures Tarot.

This is the 1st row.

26

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.

31

Harmoni Wallace

32

DreamWORLD

Search: apps to help with nightmares

Top Results: DreamWORLD , over 10m satisfied Reviews!

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Sweet dreams….

Good evening @temperancexiv… Welcome to

DreamWORLD…Created by renowned dream researcher and

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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.

34

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**


# 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

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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


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


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



creation mode


response



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….

42

….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.

43



.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



creation mode


44

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?

45

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????


# Initiate phase 3

# Transitioning from passive to creative


response

# Query - define “heartbreak”


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.

47

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.

48

<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

49

@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



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.


# Transitioning from passive to creation

# Adjusting parameters for target emotional

response



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?

51

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*


Pre_log_transcription_generating….

Subversive dream pattern detected: immediate

intervention required"


# 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.

52


Pre_log_transcription_generating…

Subversive dream pattern detected: immediate

intervention required"




# ERROR



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?

53

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…..

54


**Subversive dream pattern detected: immediate

intervention required**




# ERROR



# 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.






















56











































57























Thank you for joining DreamWORLD, never have a nightmare

again. Sweet dreams….

58

Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - Harmoni Wallace

59

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.

61

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.

62

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.

63

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.

65

Jennifer Battisti

66

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

67

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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

84

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

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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

90

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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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!

114

Stephi Blue

115

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

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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

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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

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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

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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.”

Fin.

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Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - Stephi Blue

Originally, Blue used the Avantpop Tarot by Seth Singer.


128

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

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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

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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,

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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

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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!

133

Melissa Gill

134

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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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!”

150

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

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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.”

154

“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.

155

Author Commentary & Tarot Spread - Melissa Gill

Originally, Melissa used the Wild Unknown Tarot.


156

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.

157

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!

159

Najee Jamerson

160

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.

161

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.

162

“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.”

163

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.”

164

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.

165

“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.

168

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

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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

179

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.

182

Andrew Romanelli

183

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,

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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,

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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

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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

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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:

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“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.

189

➢ 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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

203

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.

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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

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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,

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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.

209

(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.”

210

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?”

…

211

CIVASTRIA WEEKLY


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–”

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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

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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.”

220

CIVASTRIA WEEKLY


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

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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

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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

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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)

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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

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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

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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.”

230

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

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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.


233

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

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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

236

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.

237

“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

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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

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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

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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,

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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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 lo s circling a pristine pool with equally pristine

stainless steel outdoor kitchens, all mapped together with brilliant

blue-white sidewalks.

This cluster, known as Panorama Towers, was where Jay

Wheeler, the Pulitzer prize-winning journalist, would spend his

last days before disappearing without a trace. It would be in one of

these eerily homogenous condos where investigators would

discover his den of obsession and self-neglect, with the

centerpiece being a fragmented collection of interview footage,

notes, and personal diaries documenting the pursuit of his next,

ultimately final, feature.

Las Vegas was in its transition to mid-summer when I decided

to write about the events of Wheeler’s disappearance. For some

cities, a midsummer night means a relief from the day, but in Las

Vegas, especially at the center of the valley, summer nights are just

as hot as the summer days. The only relief is the fact that you don’t

have to suffer the oppressive rays of the sun, only their punishing

a ereffects as heat radiates up from the city’s uninterrupted beds

of concrete. As I approached the small ground-level townhouse, I

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supposed that to be the reason that those sidewalks, the grills and

picnic tables, even the pool, were eerily uninhabited at all hours of

the day, giving me the odd impression that I’d somehow stumbled

on a high-rise ghost town.

I knew there was physically no trace of Jay Wheeler, but I

resolved to stay at least one night in the rental condo in spite of

the unsettling emptiness for a reason. There was an unskeptical

part of me that wondered if there wasn’t some part of his soul le ,

a part that would guide me to the truth of his circumstances. Then

again, maybe I was coping with the extreme disadvantage I had —

even with a mountain of evidence, investigators found nothing

that would lead them to find the journalist.

On January 2nd, 2022, the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police

Department received a request for a welfare check on Jonah

Harold “Jay” Wheeler, a reporter for the Las Vegas Globe. The

request was submitted by Globe editor Audrey Lowe when her

repeated calls and messages went unanswered. Doorbell camera

footage showed that Wheeler had not le the apartment since

coming back the previous day. A er receiving no response,

officers determined that a forced entry was required. They entered

to find a shocking display — though the outside was untouched,

the inside was completely transformed. Disturbing writing,

clusters of receipts, and odd stains covered the walls. The floor

was littered with rotting food and strange objects, not least of

which was a ring of shattered mirrors surrounded by ripped

journal pages. There was, however, nobody inside of the

apartment. When the police confirmed that none of Wheeler’s

other friends and family had heard from him, they opened a

missing persons case.

A er recovering Wheeler’s devices, investigators found that

Wheeler had been staying in the short-term rental since August of

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2021. Though the official reason for him being there was that he

was on assignment researching a major exclusive, his personal

journals revealed that he was also suffering from a split with his

fiancée of six years, Helena Pond. His early journals consisted of

nothing but long laments of confusion and grief about their

separation. However, a er a chance encounter with a mysterious

figure in his second week staying at the Towers, he seems to forget

all about Helena. In one of the diaries recovered from the condo,

Wheeler recounts this fateful meeting:

I walked down to the Stirp [sic] today and met someone I can only

describe as the next pursuit in my life that will give me purpose. Of

course it’s only a er Helena that I finally meet him, the solution to every

problem, a er years of searching, the new source of my chemical

work-life balance. I found it in the exact place I thought I would: the

tower that eludes me like a mysterious dame on my long walks across the

thin ribbon cable that hugs the five lane wide blackness, transmuting the

suburbs into the steel facade of the transplant quarter. Modern and blue

and tall, nearly invisible against the absent midnight, there is a club

inside that’s unlike any other, though I couldn’t explain to you what

exactly it had that no other club did, or what other clubs had that it

didn’t. It was like any old club, and yet it wasn’t; anyway, it was in that

oddly-same club where a mysterious man made his throne. If it weren’t

for fate, I wonder if I would have spotted him. He met my eyes across the

dance floor, and I got that feeling again — a er years of wondering

when it would return as if it had never le me, that feeling that taps me

on my shoulder and says hey, there’s a story here.

Wheeler doesn’t name his quarry anywhere in this entry, but it

becomes clear from future writings that it was written on the

night that he met the well-known, yet impressively private club

promoter named Cyrus Caster.

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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 a er featuring in

a social media series created in February 2021 by Las Vegas-based

influencer Taylor Tucket, known as @tay4aday on TikTok and

@taytucket on Instagram. The series featured the couple, who

were an item at the time, ordering “secret menu” cocktails and

reviewing them while seated in luxurious VIP lounges at various

clubs. Caster’s charming and conspiratorial affect when

addressing his girlfriend’s followers quickly made him a fan

favorite, leading every episode of the series to go viral.

The series would end in March of that year, shortly a er

Caster broke up with Tucket, but loyal fans of Caster’s managed to

follow him through his appearances in stories and Reels posted by

his other friends. A er some months of social media popularity,

he was hired as a promoter for STTARLING, a newly-opened

occult-themed nightclub in the Circus Circus Hotel and Casino.

According to Las Vegas Weekly’s interview with the owner, the

club’s opening night numbers were “abysmal,” and the club was at

risk of closing a er only a week — but a er a moody and

mysterious promotional reel featuring Caster, attendance

skyrocketed. The club would briefly become Las Vegas’ hottest

destination — and the name “Cyrus Caster” would become

synonymous with record turnout.

Though his meteoric rise as the Strip’s top dog is well

documented online, who he was before starring in Taylor Tucket’s

videos is a mystery. As Wheeler notes a number of times in his

diaries, it is frustratingly difficult to pin down exactly where

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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

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don’t know how to put it exactly. He hypnotized me or something. I was

just getting some details straight and he came up and he did something

to me. He saw me trying to find out about him, and he came and talked

to me, and I could feel my brain trying to give up on it. Something he did

or said had me totally convinced that there was nothing there worth

knowing, and I didn’t even need to know if there were. I felt it working

on me [...] I fought it and lost.

No one else recalls there being any further tension between

the two men. In fact, most seem to remember them becoming

closer than ever a er this. Wheeler began attending Caster’s

off-Strip parties, and can even be seen in the background of a

number of social media posts by other partygoers. The two men

would talk at length, o en monopolizing table conversation at

dinner or during a erparties on topics ranging from local politics,

to esoteric histories, to obscure travel destinations. Wake recalls

that Caster, typically the center of attention at these smaller

functions, even started going missing from the party for hours at a

time, only to be found in a back room deeply engrossed in

conversation with Wheeler.

These conversations are never successfully put on the record

by Wheeler, but he writes prolifically about them in his private

journals. He extols Caster as the catalyst for him experiencing a

dramatic return to self:

With each moment I spend in his presence, I feel that I become more

myself again. I feel the journalist that lives inside me coming out to greet

him, and I think he can tell, too [...] I know that he sees me, sees the

version of myself I am constantly seeking to return to.

In some entries, he even addresses his muse directly. He

praises Caster’s complexity and depth so passionately that it

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nearly comes off as sarcastic, as if he were a court jester teasing

his king.

Cyrus, how could I ever put you to paper? I fear that I’d be

cheapening you with any attempt to immortalize you, but I simply can’t

help it. Finally, I meet another creature that makes me feel the

shortcomings of the English language — ironically, it only makes me

want to capture you more, to have even a chance of showing the world a

fraction of your depth and beauty.

Each of these entries are contrasted with disoriented scribbles

written the next day, in which Wheeler would attempt to piece

together the conversations from the previous evening without

much luck. He would o en attempt to create thought maps

connecting various concepts or feelings — for example, one page

features the concepts of “war,” “homage to ancient practice,” “fine

motor skills,” “sustainable food supply chain” and “phone

radiation,” all with arrows pointing to the center of the page

where a number of words appear to have been attempted before

being scribbled out completely. In some passages, he questions

what it is about Caster that has this effect on him.

Being lost for words is excusable, but being unable to recall the thing

I’m specifically writing about is absolutely not. I’m losing my f***ing

mind trying to come up with a reasonable explanation, and I’m running

out of time. Will I become some fanatic believer in the supernatural? Just

for a story? What is he doing to me? Why don’t his f***ing friends ever

seem to have any answers either? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

He never suffers from a full lapse in memory, as he recalls the

rest of the evening between those conversations without issue. He

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just couldn’t seem to pin down anything of substance, and he was

still struggling to get Caster to agree to speak on the record.

This would be far from discouraging to the reporter. In fact,

the challenge of documenting anything concrete about Caster’s

life kicked Wheeler into overdrive. His conversations with Caster

would remain clouded, but his interviews with members of their

group would illuminate a figure whose existence as a social

media-abstinent influencer seemed impossible. With these

interviews in hand, Wheeler prepared to approach the Globe with

his story of the surreal bachelor and his enchantment of Las

Vegas’ nightclub scene. On October 28th, he pitched the concept

in an email that his editor, Audrey Lowe, described as “familiarly

manic.”

“When he starts writing that way, it used to concern me, but at

some point I understood that that’s just how he walks his beat,”

Lowe remarks. “Jay’s an incredible writer, but he describes his

journalism as if it isn’t up to him, it’s up to whatever forces in his

mind control his interests. When he loves something, he’s totally

consumed by it, he has to write about it — but the opposite is also

true. If there’s nothing, he can’t just force it out.”

Lowe states that before his stay at Panorama Towers, the Las

Vegas Globe had been struggling to work with Wheeler because of

poor performance. In May of 2021, Wheeler was awarded the

Pulitzer Prize in Local Reporting for “Solidarity Without a Roof,”

the crown jewel in his series of articles illuminating the unique

community bonds between members of Las Vegas’ unhoused

population. The series ended in June, and The Globe began work

to publish the articles in a collection of the same name. According

to Lowe, Wheeler completed the supplementary essays and

introduction to the book weeks ahead of schedule, but a er the

book was sent for review, his work stagnated.

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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 a er weeks of telling his colleagues

that he was working on a massive story, he never seemed to have

any evidence of it: “It was all just trust me, this is going to be great,

I’ve got this source at the water district, I’ve got this source at

Greenspun, I’ve got a guy in Carson City’ and it’d all be a complete

lie,” says Lowe. Wheeler’s stay at the Panorama Towers was a last

olive branch from the paper, according to emails provided to

investigators, with the only requirements being that he send a

pitch by October 28th, and then provide proof of his work each

day a er if it was accepted.

The Cyrus Caster pitch was not met with enthusiasm from his

team. Caster had been reported on at length by other papers, but

Wheeler was convinced he’d be able to get something that none of

the other publications had: an interview on the record with the

impenetrable superstar.

A er some back and forth, the Globe accepted his proposal.

The next day, Wheeler ecstatically reports that he had succeeded

for the first time in remembering part of a midnight conversation

between himself and Caster. It was a simple snippet, a story Caster

told about the relationships between the clubs he works for, but to

Wheeler, it meant his world had changed. Following this small

victory, Wheeler’s diary entries take an immediate dramatic turn.

On October 30th, Wheeler begins making entries describing a

new perception of Caster. A er another long night cajoling with

Caster’s crew, Wheeler decides to take a swim in the early

morning light, but stops at what he sees in the pool’s reflection.

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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

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largely the same: he meets Caster wherever Caster decides to make

his evening, and returns home in the early morning hours. But

a er the incident at the pool, he abandons his

morning-homecoming routine of attempting to document the

previous night’s conversations, and instead begins describing daily

encounters with the man in the mirror.

He observes a number of rules that this hallucination seems to

follow, the first being that he’s only able to see it in the daytime.

When they’re out for the evening, Caster’s reflection “behaves,” as

he puts it; but at daybreak, the man in the mirror appears just

outside Wheeler’s doorstep on the surface of the pool. Due to the

excessive level of detail he now employs in his diary entries, I will

summarize the main events that occur a er their first encounter,

for brevity.

Wheeler speaks with the man in the mirror almost daily. On

November 5th, he says that he invites the man into his rental so

that they can talk longer. The man appears for the first time in

Wheeler’s bathroom mirror, and Wheeler offers to bring in more

mirrors to allow them to speak in other areas of the house. The

man in the mirror agrees. They talk every day about Caster and his

strange hold on his friends, and the man in the mirror tells

Wheeler that Caster has a deep secret which allows him to have

this effect on people. He can’t directly tell what it is, only that it’s

shocking, and absolutely true. Wheeler takes this as an indication

that the Caster he knows in real life must be an impostor of some

kind. This fact doesn’t prevent him from continuing to join Caster

for his nighttime adventures.

Forensic analysts theorize that this is the point when Wheeler

begins to vandalize his accommodations. He begins keeping paper

receipts of every purchase, organizing them into loose categories

by pinning and eventually gluing them to the wall. Lines, drawn in

Sharpie, connected each receipt to ATM statements documenting

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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. A er some turbulence, they fall into phase as they

discuss their shared feelings about Caster. Judging by his body

language, Wheeler feels comfortable expressing a number of

things that had lived only in his journals until that point,

sometimes even reciting passages almost word for word. He goes

so far as to mention seeing Caster’s reflection in the pool, and his

desire to free the “real” Caster from his “shadow self,” as he puts

it. This is when the interview takes a final turn towards the

violent.

TT: Wow. [laughter] You know, I f***ing heard about you from

Justin, right? He said -

JW: Wake?

TT: - some hack was sniffing around Cyrus, and I didn’t really give a

s**t because I thought that he’d be able to shake you off like everyone

else, but you’re really something else. In fact, I think you have whatever

those other s**theads had worse than anyone I’ve ever seen, and you

think you can just take a seat next to Cyrus and soak him all up for

yourself? You think -

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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 a erwards: “Why was she like that?” Taylor

Tucket could not be reached for comment.

A er this interview, Wheeler continues to collect various

occult objects, attempting different arrangements of them,

documenting his failures and rare successes. On January 30th, he

writes excitedly that he finally had all of the pieces he needed, but

he seems to have some reservations:

I’ve been looking forward to this so much that I haven’t really had a

chance to process it all. I’ll be honest, I’m not even really sure how to

document it — I have to turn off all of the electronics in the house, I

can’t have a tape recorder on, I’m blocking out all the light possible from

the outside so I’ll hardly be able to see. But I trust Cyrus.

The next day, he attends Caster’s New Years’ Eve party at

Marquee, where he interviews Justin Wake.

The recording of his interview with Wake starts with nervous

laughter, followed by the slamming of a bathroom stall. Wake

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starts to speak, but Wheeler hushes him into whispering. This

interview would be the shortest in Wheeler’s materials, as well as

the last.

Wheeler: Hey man, can I get some advice?

Wake: I mean [pause] sure man, what’s up?

Wheeler: I just don’t really know what to do. With Cyrus.

Wake: What, like, with your friendship or something?

Wheeler: Yeah. Kinda. It’s a long story. I think he’s in trouble. Or

something. It’s weird.

Wake: [pause] Uh, okay, man.

Wheeler: I just don’t know, like [pause] I don’t know. I’m just second

guessing myself. [pause]

Wake: I mean. Don’t feel bad if it’s over, dude. Sometimes things just

happen, people grow apart, I wouldn’t take it personally.

Wheeler: What?

Wake: I don’t know, man, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I

haven’t been around. I just kinda figured that maybe you were feeling

kinda f***ed up about your friendship or something, or like he was acting

weird towards you or something.

Wheeler: No, dude, I mean [pause] Well, he’s acting kind of weird,

but like, that’s not what I mean. I feel like I can finally do something to

help him and I’m just not sure if I should or not. That’s all.

Wake: [pause] Go with your heart, man. I don’t know what else to

say.

The interview ends shortly a er some rustling, which Wake

says is when Wheeler gave him a tense hug. When I asked him to

clarify his comment about their friendship, Wake says that Caster

had an elegant way of icing out the people who no longer served

him. “I remember when he broke up with Taylor, he didn’t

badmouth her or anything. But it was like one day she came

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around and everybody had just decided to stop talking to her, and

eventually she just stopped showing up.”

He saw this happen with one or two other people before

deciding to distance himself from the scene for personal reasons.

In fact, Caster’s NYE party was the last one he attended as one of

the “in crowd.” Wheeler hadn’t seemed to notice that Wake had

been distancing himself. “He just came up and talked to me like

I’d been there every night,” he told me. “Kind of weird. I feel bad

saying what I did to him, because maybe he took it as some sign to

do whatever it is that he did.”

A er arriving home early on January 1st, Wheeler writes his

final words in his diary.

I don’t know what will happen a er I start. I’m sitting in the mirrors

right now, about to blow the candle out, and I feel oddly freed from the

world. I hope I can write about it a er.

That morning, Wheeler powers off all of his devices in his last

known act before vanishing, leaving only his apartment, his

journals, and his absence as evidence. All of Wheeler’s possessions

are recovered from the apartment following the report made on

January 2nd, but none generated any meaningful leads, nor new

information. A er a year of no new discoveries, the missing

persons case was transferred to the FBI, where it remains open.

I checked in expecting to stay just for the weekend, but found

that when my time there was about to end, I didn’t want to leave.

At the time, I couldn’t explain why. I rationalized that it made

sense for me to stay while I was still conducting interviews, and

a er that I reasoned that as long as I was writing, it couldn’t hurt

to stay in the place that got me into the groove. During my second

week there, however, I found the piece of Wheeler that the

believer in me was searching for.

295

It was in the furthest back corner of a dusty supply drawer. A

folded-up note, handwritten on the back of a concert ticket,

printed just before the printer ran out of ink. Brand-new evidence,

discovered a er two years of nothing: a letter addressed to Jay

Wheeler, from his ex-fiancée Helena Pond.

Compared to his early journals, Helena’s letter paints a starkly

different picture of the end of their relationship. She sounds

defeated as she describes the exhausting effect that his workstyle

was having on their shared life. In this letter, we learn that

Wheeler would disappear for days at a time during which she

would fear for his safety. She talks about the extreme bouts of

depression that would strike him a er finishing any project, only

to throw himself back into a frenzy as soon as his next subject

presented itself. She implores Wheeler to seek help with this

erratic lifestyle. At the end of the letter, she even tells him that she

would consider giving their relationship a second chance — but

only a er Wheeler accepts the need for change.

This letter describes a side of Wheeler that was prone to a

productive madness. I had almost found myself caught up in the

whirlwind of his hallucinations as I studied his case here, but a er

reading her letter, I had a moment of clarity. There is no

supernatural element to Wheeler’s case, simply a psychological

one. There may be no evidence as to where he went, but this is not

unheard of in missing persons cases. “Though his case is tragic,

Wheeler is not an outlier,” says Officer Harry Arbor, who serves in

LVMPD’s Missing Persons Detail. “We get lots of reports that,

unfortunately, don’t always get very far.”

When I asked her for an interview, Helena refused to answer

any questions. She simply stated that she wishes for nothing more

than her former life partner’s passion and talent to be returned to

the world unharmed.

296

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

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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

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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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STTAR Storytelling with Tarot Anthology Edited by April Ursula Fox

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