Sarracenia Rosea From Seedling To Bloom

As I’ve mentioned on social media, I have a little bit of serendippity that I treasure. This pitcher plant seedling was found in a clump of moss, one of several seedlings I found (some see weedy moss, I see freebies). She was the hardiest, the only one of the “weeds” to survive several massive gardening setbacks in the last two years. She was the most colorful, the most interestingly shaped, the one that grew the fastest and largest. She started displaying the colors of a tequila sunrise in a smooth gradient with only a hint of veins, and she was a weed. So, I named her Celia after Celia Hodes on “Weeds”. Well, two years after I found her in that clump of moss, she has bloomed. Now I know what she is. The only pitcher plant species with pink petals, S. rosea. Her pink petaled flowers deserve the name, they are sweet, and have a hint of rose to their scent. This is fortunate. Some pitcher plant flowers smell like cat pee.

I identified her with the help of this page, and she ticked off more than just having pink petals. Shorter flower stalk, larger flowers, only a hint of veins at times, and sometimes seemingly no pigment at all. The scent is right, and I sure did think she was a purple pitcher plant hybrid at first. But nope. I’ll still see what comes up in her seeds, there could be a hint of another species hiding in her genes, but I bet I just see a natural range of variance for this species.

And here I am sporting an avatar with pink petals on a pitcher plant flower. When I made it, I was just playing with recolors of a carnivorous plant “pirate flag” while thinking “bubblegum bog witch”, and now my favorite plant in my collection is just perfect for me.

Anyway, I have pictures from shortly after I got the moss, up to yesterday, in chronological order :). The images get close enough to see where pollinators are encouraged to land, with the tip of the modified style ready to grab the outside pollen before they enter the flower. Oh, there’s a print of her already up in the shop, might be more by the time you read this.

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  Celia, in the center of her siblings.

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  The same leaves, but older, when I moved her outside. These leaves didn’t get any larger, but the ones coming up were huge, fed with all the insects and sun.

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  It got too hot to keep her outside, even before summer began. The furthest right pitcher, on the bottom, is the same as the pitcher on the left in the previous image.

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  When that pretty sunset leaf opened, it looked bronze.

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  The inside of the hood is lighter, especially around the entrance to a trap.

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  Once again, in sepia!

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  More sepia toned gel filters on my lights. I love them.

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  A little over a week later. The bronze looks more like a ripe peach (no filters again).

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  The range of colors in her at this point.

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  Some of the oldest leaves are starting to show veins. They look more like autumn colored leaves, compared to the vibrant hues of the younger leaves.

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  The back of a younger pitcher, showing a more peach toned range. Why do I smell fruit loops?

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  An older leaf that never grew very large, but is full of fungus gnats that didn’t get to breed in my home :).

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  What I got to enjoy watching slowly fade over the winter, turning more subtle as the light grew shorter, more of a watercolor as her greens brightened, as she began settling down for a winter’s nap in October.

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  The last of the autumn’s leaves, rising up in that pretty sunset tone, at the start of December.

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  Mid January, right around the time to divide her, I got a surprise.

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  Poof! Just in time for Spring, at the end of January :).

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  Time for your glamor shots, Celia :).

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  The back of sepals is like her sunset, but fire. So vivid over the petals. So unexpected against the green traps.

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  It’s going to be fun watching this flower ripen into a seed pod, and watching her children grow. So. Much. Fun.

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  Now I knew what she was, and I was delighted that she managed to make her faded leaves look just as beautiful as when they were brushed with color, only in a different palette. Eternally fashionable she is, my Celia.

P.S. – Some of my favorite favorites :), click for higher definition :).

Poof! Just in time for Spring, at the end of January :).

The back of sepals is like her sunset, but fire. So vivid over the petals. So unexpected against the green traps.

A little over a week later. The bronze looks more like a ripe peach (no filters again).

Some of the oldest leaves are starting to show veins. They look more like autumn colored leaves, compared to the vibrant hues of the younger leaves.

Self-Help Books: Avoiding the Toxic and Finding Healing

Talking with my peeps on CoSo led me to the video, “The Toxic World of Self-Help: Hustle Culture, Toxic Positivity, Addiction, and Fake Gurus”. I am inspired to speak my mind on this, because Mom’s addiction to self help gurus royally fucked up my life. At the same time, certain self-help books have saved me, being very therapeutic. Buckle up, we’re taking the scenic route.

Mom made me listen to Dale Carnegie and Zig Zigler on the way to school in the mornings. It was the 80s, age of pyramid schemes, she fell for every one, and wanted to make sure these “inspirational men” were part of my life. I think she wanted me to be rich. Instead I developed a finely tuned instinct to determine when someone’s facade was self-serving. Unfortunately for Mom, she never got rich either. She tried every one of those schemes, but her experience seemed very much to reflect the one in this video, except Mom never really seemed to accept that they were full of crap, and hurt her.

My experience with her was very damaged, and I am rather non-materialistic as a result. That’s okay, I’m cool with finding happiness within, but the woman did give me PTSD. In part because of how unpredictable she was, how she would tear into me over some unreasonable expectation she had of me, then the phone would ring, and she would pick it up, suddenly sugary sweet, because we must always maintain the facade. It repulsed me. She also seemed to expect me to be telepathic about what she needed, and expected me to remain silent, “Children should be seen, not heard.” If I asked politely how to do something, there was a 50% chance she would go off. She framed it as me being “out of control”.

Image was important to Mom, driven deep into her from childhood. Grandma was a model in the 50s, and what you might call a “covert narcissist” (not my term, it’s a thing). Think Donna Reed in public, jerk at home. By the time I was a teen, she had settled down, found the ability to control her temper, but she was cold with the illusion of warmth.

My visiting friends would be politely greeted, Grandma would be a perfect hostess, and make polite conversation centered on their classes, goals, family, interests, and where their family was from. Small talk is polite, after all. She smiled, and was obviously proud of her hostessing skills. Without fail, we would leave and my friend’s jaw would drop open as they exclaimed in relief that it was over, “Man, what a bitch.” I always felt so validated, but sad that they had to feel judged. Mom and Grandma both cultivated a vibe of upstanding citizen, someone who fit perfectly into society’s rules, but that wasn’t the vibe they gave off at all.

People throw around the word narcissism a lot lately, but it is a real personality disorder. Personality disorders are difficult to treat, because they have to deal with the world-view of the person in question. They think the problem is not them, that it is the world around them, and their justifications for hurting others run deep. I don’t call Mom a narcissist, only Grandma, because she’s the one that fits the profile. Mom carries all the damage from constantly trying to attain Grandma’s unreachable goals, and shares many of her traits, but it is more obvious that she feels deeply for her actions, and the mask she maintains exhausts her.

Narcissistic parents pick a favorite child, then make them live up to unreasonable expectations to “toughen them up”, always moving the goal post and with holding their affection until it is “earned”. This does indeed produce a child capable of “success”, but they are crippled emotionally. Self-esteem is only achieved through external validation, anything to “win”. Meanwhile, those that don’t “play the game” report higher levels of satisfaction with life.

Part of why narcissism is such a common word lately is because so many narcissists are rewarded in this society, their methods are seen as the way to succeed. People who are “too weak” to manipulate and exploit others are shamed by those who “win” (there is no weakness found in the decision to not play the game). When one of these people starts to earn praise for something, they might hook onto that thing so hard it becomes their identity, and they rise to the status of guru, something their ego craves. Their methods may feel good, very soothing, but it pairs with the ability to turn off the switches that prevent us from exploiting others.

Not everyone who writes self-help books is a narcissist, but they really love to write self-help books. They want to be the expert, the one being praised. They are self soothing, and they know how to soothe us, and it spreads. They might not even be capable of understanding what they are doing, they can even be genuinely trying to do the right thing, and they have worked so hard to convince themselves that convincing others comes naturally. And we can relate to them, because guess what? We all have the same traits. Disorders happen when traits that are normal become magnified to the point that help is needed.

So, anyway… The self help genre also holds a lot of healing. I survived my childhood with resiliency that I gained from both therapy and self-help books. In fact, I have a couple that I’ve been clinging to lately. The toxic side of self-help is a thing, and healthy people who want to help others feel better is also a thing. You can even get a narcissist who genuinely wants to help others, and be a good person. We want the world to be simple, but unfortunately people are seriously complicated.

So, how can you tell the ones that are helpful from the ones that will twist you into a monster, leading you to deal with massive regret and denial when you look back on your carnage?

I was in a group recently and the group facilitator encouraged us to seek out self-help books, but warned us against the predatory ones that can mislead you. I asked him how to tell the difference. He said the toxic or predatory ones imply they are only one with the answer, the only one you can trust to guide you. That’s gaslighting 101, a narcissist’s favorite because they often really believe it, and can be charming and convincing, due to focusing on their “persuasion” skills, and studying how to manipulate people in their spare time.

Okay, look. I do too, technically. I study persuasion on purpose now, despite the fact that I find the area of expertise to be distasteful. I spot it too often when someone wants something out of me and it gets irritating. But, I do it to figure out how to get through to people who are resisting feedback, and even see it as threatening. I do it when I see their perspective is causing them pain, and I know they are causing pain to others. That is persuasion. Manipulation is when you take the exact same skill set, and use it to fill your personal needs, out of greed. Intent matters.

So, how do you figure out the motivation of the book in your hand? What does it look like when trauma has twisted someone into using their ego as a blankie? Well, you check for the gaslighting, the “I’m the only one who can get you through this, I have the single answer you need. If it doesn’t work, try harder. I’m proof it works even when your friends and family tell you otherwise.” You can check for justs. “They’re just jealous”, “You’re just weak”, “They just hate tradition”, “You just love chaos”. You know, justification.

It also helps to know how to tell a real expert from someone who needs to be seen as one. Think of your interests, hobbies, passions. It has sources of information, people you can turn to when you have a question. Two types of experts arise. One type will admit they don’t have all the answers, that the answer is complicated and several factors need to be considered. They run through them for you so you can make your own decision. The other kind says they have the one answer. The latter kind often makes dramatic statements that stir up controversy and attention. Run from the second. They might make statements that motivate you and sound logical, but they’ve had years to refine their justifications to themselves. Take a close look at what the interest group says about the experts in question, you’ll find the first tends to be more respected, and the second seen as unreliable, sometimes even a dangerous source of misinformation.

There. Now feel free to browse books that promise you peace and healing, don’t just judge their contents by what makes you feel good, but what will help you face your problems in a healing manner. True healing is not pushing your emotions down and locking them off so you can function, the locks take effort to maintain. True healing provides you with a relaxing and safe structure to face your trauma in a way that will not overwhelm you, so you can learn, forgive yourself and others, and feel connected with those around you. We are social creatures, that’s why persuasion in any form works.

And never forget, if reading something makes you angry, it was designed to do so, and may be clouding your judgment on purpose because the person you are dealing with is more predatory than a simple self-soothing but misguided narcissist just trying to survive.

P.S. – That addictive thing with the dopamine mentioned in the video linked to waaaay up there can also be achieved when researching things, it’s seeking behavior that gets the dopamine flowing, similar to the hit you get when finding a hard to find item in a video game. Only you are rewarded with knowledge as well, so that’s cool, as long as you are learning from trustworthy sources. Knowledge is a true accomplishment, one that gives you real progress rather than the illusion of it, as long as you are interested in what you are studying, and you apply it :). Also, the discussion that linked to the video discussed above, had this video in the replies, and it’s cool too. All about dopamine.

That Black Devil

I just thought about how sad it was that ghost stories around the fire were no longer a thing for Christmas, and thought of a kind of spooky fairy tale that I wrote once that is very wintery, so here’s a holiday story. It was inspired by a dream of a pony as I walked alone through the snow, leading to the revelation at the end.

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The freezing wind shot through my rage. It might have also helped that struggling through the snow was exhausting me. I had no idea that walking through snow was a skill, or that it would make me sweat. I hoped I could reach the dorms before dawn.

I was a real fool to fall for Jimmy’s charm. What kind of person tries to get someone to steal and sabotage on the first date? It was bad enough that he didn’t even take me anywhere, making his grandma cook for me instead, but then making me walk home alone in the snow at night just because I thought maybe we shouldn’t have torn that cow shelter down?

After what felt like miles, I reached the black paved road with relief. The pavement was wet, but salt had been put down to keep the surface free of ice. It seemed much more peaceful once the crunching of snow beneath my feet stopped, the serenity of the snow drifting in quiet flutters while I walked in absolute isolation.

I loosened my grip on Nan’s cloak somewhat, letting more of the cold air in around my coat. I felt a pang of guilt. She was such a sweet woman to loan me this, and she was right that it would keep the wind from blowing right through my layers of clothing. Even if I did feel a little like a character in a fairy tale, walking through barren woods in a cloak with the hood up. I hated that I had lied to Nan.

I heard a branch snap in the woods and jumped. I tried to see what was moving in the dark, but couldn’t see through the shadows. I tried to take shallow breaths to make no noise, but in my panic my body was fighting for more air. Were there wolves in this woods? My throat tightened as I remembered Nan’s comment, “Child, please be careful or that black devil will sling you on his back and you’ll ride him near to your death.”

I knew her “black devil” was nothing more than Jimmy tearing up Abbott’s property, then blaming it on fairies to his Nan, but she kept talking about other things she had seen or heard. Voices on the wind that she said were the fairies calling you to the woods where they could play tricks on you, shadows of things moving in the trees that broke no branches and scuffled no leaves. There may not have been any fairies involved, but what would the howl of a wolf sound like out here, muffled by the snow and twisted in the wind cutting through the trees? Were there wolves in this area? Probably not. Probably I should calm down.

I heard no more noises coming from the woods. Maybe it was just the sound of ice cracking on branches, or maybe just a raccoon or other small, harmless thing. Cautiously, I started back down the road, letting the trees drift lazily past me as I dreamed of hot cocoa by the common room’s fireplace.

The wind picked up again, catching some of the snow by the road and making a tiny little tornado dance at my feet. I watched it in amusement. Closer it would drift, and then further away, to move back again like the rise and fall of sea foam on the tides. The tiny ice crystals caught the moonlight and twinkled. It was a hypnotic effect, glittering, and it almost seemed as if far away I could barely hear tinkling bells and children’s laughter. It took a minute before I realized I was almost actually hearing this, and I saw that the dancing lights were reminding me of the sunlight reflecting on a rippling lake, of summer time when I was young and playing with my sisters.

I realized my little reverie had made my hands glow with a warm tingle, or perhaps that was the cold numbing them. I released my hands from the edges of the cloak, shaking them a bit to get my blood flowing. I realized that I was feeling the urge to skip, just like I had done on those warm summer lakeside days. Actually, that could really help to get my blood flowing, so I went ahead and gave in to the temptation. My little whirlwind friend followed me for a while before shattering in a particularly strong gust, riding away on a flurry of dry leaves with a dusty, skittering breath.

I stopped my skipping and walked along for a few minutes, relieved that my bad mood had passed. I sighed in contentment, then started. Was that the hint of honeysuckle on the wind? Dumbstruck, I looked at the woods around me. Barren vines and brambles wove their way through and around the shrubby trees that separated the road from the older growth where the woods deepened. Other than the occasional evergreen, all life seemed to be sleeping peacefully. How could there be the scent of flowers? I sniffed the cloak suspiciously. I could only detect the warm scent of mildly damp wool, but maybe Nan’s laundry soap wasn’t as apparent when your face was buried in the clothing.

I admired the cloak again. It seemed to be handspun from a black wool, heathered with white. It reminded me of the snow falling at midnight, or the stars if you looked up at them when you spin in a circle. I smiled. This seemed to be the perfect time to test that theory. I put my arms up to the sky and faced the moon, full and surrounded in a prismatic mist. I laughed and spun, delighted when the cloak caught the wind and billowed out around me. The snow lengthened and painted looping circles in the sky for me, swaying from one side to another as my feet made their small stepped dance. I stopped, and the cloak kept swirling until it embraced me, and then swung gently back to my feet. Yes, swirling snow. That’s what this cloak was.

I glanced at the woods, and realized that everything felt a little surreal. It must be the exhaustion of the walk, and the strangeness of the evening seeping in. Really, my “date” with Jimmy had been one of the oddest experiences I’ve had. I mean, I know that people are out there that get up to worse, but personally I keep myself around people who like the same quiet life that I do, and they don’t tend to get up to much.

We had been walking to Abbott’s farm. Nan had explained that the old farmer gave them some food at times, out of guilt for kicking them off of their own land. I was looking forward to having time alone with Jimmy so we could get to know each other. He wanted to leave the truck and walk, saying the drive up to Abbott’s farm was too slick and icy anyway.

He looked out over the field next to us, eyeing a lean-to put up to give the cows some shelter from sun and bad weather. He stopped walking and turned to face me, his face breaking out into a mischievous smile. “Hold up.”

He pointed out to a tree sitting close to the front of the lean to. “That apple tree is great in the summer. It’s got this big boulder under it I like to sit on, eating apples in the evening. Big ol’ fireflies gather around there and it’s cool to watch them.” He started walking towards the fence, lifting the barbed wire and motioning me to slip under it.

“Isn’t this the wrong direction?” I wasn’t sure what he was doing, but hanging out under a sleeping tree in the cold winter wind didn’t seem like as much fun as hanging out there in the summer.

“Don’t worry, I just got something to do.” He followed me through the barbed wire and onto the field, walking purposefully toward the tree.

“Jimmy, what are you up to?”

“Well, actually, don’t tell Nan this, but I got something to admit. I never saw that red eyed billy goat. That one that Nan thinks I saw tearing down Abbott’s fence and letting his cows loose. That was me who tore down that fence.”

Shocker, that. I wondered if he actually thought I had believed Nan’s story about angry “good folk” avenging the loss of their land. It took me a second to process what he said though, that he was purposefully tearing up Abbott’s property.

“Wait, that fairy stuff you were talking about? You let her think it was fairies and it was you?” Okay so letting someone believe in fairies seems fine, but it sounded like he was also admitting to vandalism and I was already feeling unsettled. Was he looking to do something else here? What was he trying to get me into?

“Yeah, well she’s always gone on about them, even back when things were going well before Pa started getting worn out and stuff. She grew all our food in the garden and would leave out offerings to keep things growing well. Then after he passed when our cows started drying up and our chickens weren’t laying near enough she started saying spooks were getting to them and scaring them so they weren’t making so much. I just let her believe it.”

“How did that turn into torn down fences?” I stumbled trying to keep up with him, slowed down by the snow, and wondered if trying to step into the footprints of his long strides would make me look dorky.

“That land we’re on ain’t our land. We’re renting from that man Abbott, he’s up on our family’s land down the road, that big house you passed on your way up here. That’s where we’re going now to get the eggs and some milk.” He pointed at the comfortable looking home on the top of the hill, though he kept walking in the direction of the tree and shelter.

“Well, that man Abbott he came up to the farm once right after Pa died and offered to buy it. Said he knew that even before Pa passed we were just barely able to keep on top of the mortgage, and he could see we seemed to not be doing so well. Said he could take the land off of our hands and put us up in his place, which he did eventually but I said no.” He spat.

“I know how to take care of a farm. Grew up on that land, didn’t I? There was no reason for things to not turn back around for us so I told him no.” He glared up at the house.

“I sold him some of my land though. Just some acres we didn’t really need. Pa held them for rotating the cows from one field to the other, but the one field we had them in was big enough. I used the money to go and start making things better on the farm. I got some new machines and fixed up the barn real nice, let Nan redecorate a little, patched up a few things that had started getting old. I also put some of the money to the mortgage, got us caught up at least. You see, all that stuff is investments, if you cut a few corners, like some of the money Pa was throwing away on high dollar feed and useless supplements, then use some of that money to do things like hire people for extra hands to be helping and better equipment to get things done right, production goes up. Only ours didn’t for some reason.” We reached the tree, and he headed to the little cow shelter.

He picked up a coil of rope that hung from the wall of the lean-to. “We stopped getting as many eggs, cows started drying up, and things didn’t seem to be growing as much as it was. Then that man Abbott starts coming around again, acting like he’s offering help. Starts knocking on my cows, saying they look shaggy and pale in the lip, and they were too skinny. Started saying if I wanted him to, he could lease some of my own fields back to me for more grazing, and maybe I should start feeding that high end food that they sell to folks that like to waste their money. Looked to me like he was trying to make me spend more than I should, and him offering to lease me them fields, it’s like he wanted to put my money directly from my pocket to his.”

“What are you doing, Jimmy?”

“Hush.”

His lip curled up. “He even said something about having ferns in our field. Like they was bad for the cows. Pa knew about those ferns and told me about them. Said he liked to pull them up. But he also said that the cows don’t really like how they taste, you keep their bellies full and they leave the ferns alone. Those ferns aren’t bad. Hell, we eat the fiddleheads ourselves in the spring.”

He walked over to a mostly barren tree and tied the rope around it, tying the end with some kind of knot that looked complicated and strong. “Then some of my cows started dying off, straight up out of the blue. So we ended up further behind in our mortgage than we were before.” He walked over to one of the support posts on the lean to, pulled a chain out of his pocket, then looped it around the post and locked it with a padlock. Then he pulled out some kind of wheel with a hook on the end and attached the hook to the chain. I watched, curious and dumbfounded, until he took the end of the rope and looped it around the wheel, and I realized it was a pulley.

“Jimmy, what are you doing?” This time he just turned and glared at me before turning back around.

He paused a minute before walking back to the tree. “Bank ended up taking everything, then here comes Abbott buying up the whole lot of it, just like he wanted to do in the first place. There he goes, getting what he wants and acts like him giving us his old tiny house is some kind of favor, saying he’s charging us less rent than most would. It’s a damn insult, giving us his leftovers and acting like we need charity when we never did before he started getting all greedy eyed looking at our land.”

He grabbed another pulley, and wove the rope through. I started to wonder exactly how many things he had been hiding in his bulky coat until he seemed finished with a third and final pulley under the first one at the post, weaving the rope back and forth between the tree and the post.

“I’ll tell you what was happening. That man was putting something in our feed, looking for us to fail so he could take our stuff now Pa was out of the way. Some of them cows had bloody noses and stools at the end, looked like some kind of poison to me.” He looked directly at me with his mouth pressed tight, his knuckles clenched tightly around the length of rope.

“So yeah. Yeah I go and tear up his stuff, and I’ll tell you what, he don’t give us no geese or eggs either. I’m not sneaking around so he don’t wake up out of neighborly politeness, I’m taking some from him like he took plenty from my family. Nan don’t talk to him, so she won’t find out ‘cause he thinks it’s predators getting in from his broken fences, and I don’t know what he thinks about the milk and eggs. Don’t care either.”

I stood there, letting this all sink in as he put the rope over his shoulder, leaned forward, and used the pulleys to pull the post and a bit of the rickety wall out of from under the lean to, causing that side of the building to collapse with a creaking thump. I looked at the ruined building, stunned. I looked up at the big house nervously, watching for lights to come on and hoped Abbott slept deeply.

He laughed and moved the chain to the other post, bringing the pulley system with it. “Tried to do this the other day but I’m not strong enough. Had to figure this out. Tell you what, I like using his own rope to do this.” Amazed, I watched him collapse the other post then gather his tools, coiling the rope back up and laying it under the side of the fallen wall that once held up the coil on its hook.

“Okay, let’s go.” He started towards the big house.

“Wait, what are you doing now?” I stood where I was.

“Getting some eggs and milk. Maybe another goose. Maybe something else if I can find it and it’s easy enough to grab.”

“Jimmy, I don’t know if I want to go with you. I don’t want to be caught stealing.” I was nervous enough as it was, and even if Abbott had hurt this family, I felt unsettled about the entire thing. It didn’t feel quite right.

“Dang Shannon, I’m just trying to get what’s owed me. Not even close to what’s owed me really, ‘cause there’s no way I could manage to get back all he’s managed to take from me. Just making me and Nan a little more comfortable and pulling a few pranks.”

“Jimmy, I don’t want to do this. I wish you would have told me what you were planning on doing when you asked me up this evening. I’m not comfortable with this at all.”

“You aren’t going to tell Nan, are you?”

“Don’t you think you shouldn’t be lying to her?”

“Mind your own business.”

“Jimmy, you just involved me in destroying someone’s property, even if I did just stand there. This is my business now. You’re making me lie to Nan too.” I crossed my arms uncomfortably.

He pointed at me. “Look, all I’m saying is that it seems to me that maybe, you being from the city, you might not ought to go thinking you know about how a farm is run. Maybe you should realize that I grew up on a farm and I know what I’m doing, and some greedy fucker took my land out from under me and he was against me, and maybe you shouldn’t be siding with him.”

I stepped back and raised my hands. “Look, I know you have reason to be upset with him. I’m not going to tell Nan, I just don’t know if you should be doing this.”

He balled up his fists and narrowed his eyes. “What, would you rather I let Nan starve? That sweet old lady? That man Abbott damn near threw her out on the street! Let him pay to feed her!”

I put my hand on my hip and glared at him. “If you’re doing this for Nan’s sake, why are you so afraid to tell her the truth? You know she wouldn’t like you stealing and destroying things.”

He groaned and threw his head back at the stars, slapping his hips with his hands. “Oh for the love of God.” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked down, moving his hand to his nose and pinched the bridge of it. “You know what? Look, if you want to feel like you’re miss high and mightier than I, then go ahead. Get out of here. Glad this came up before we wasted time getting to know each other more.”

I stood there a bit longer, watching him head toward the house his grandparents raised him in. I felt bad about the entire situation, and I kept thinking there was something about his story that wasn’t quite making sense. I wasn’t sure if Abbott was responsible for his downfall or not, and I wasn’t likely to get any clear cut answers on the subject.

“Wait, Jimmy.” I followed after him, resigned to holding up his deception and ventured forth into the world of petty thieves and vandals.

Another snap in the woods caused me to jump out of my reverie. I heard the harsh snap of ice cracking, and the scream of a horse in distress. Worried, I jogged to the edge of the road toward where the sound came from and look down, finding a mostly frozen small creek by the road, and a dappled grey horse, small enough to be a tall pony, struggling to free itself from the mud where the salt from the road melted the snow. His hind legs hadn’t sunk too far in, and the only thing keeping him from freedom was the inability to find a foothold on the slippery ice. Sharp hooves hit the ice on the side of the road and slipped off in confusion as he wrestled with the sucking mud. I worked my way down to the steep slope to the creek, grabbing on to small saplings to keep me from sliding down to join him. Where had this horse come from? No wild herds roamed in this area, I think, so he had to have a home. He had gashes on his legs bright with blood from broken ice that I could see even at this distance needed cleaning and tending. Thinking of the freezing cold waters the poor thing found himself stuck in, I tried to move faster. Sharp rocks banged my ankles, and brambles sought to break my footing.

The pony’s odd amber eyes were wild with fear, and the flashing whites were bloodshot from the harsh winter wind. His hooves struck the air, coming dangerously close to my legs and threatening to break them as I reached him. He wore no harness or bridle, and I had nothing on me to help guide him to safety. I took off Nan’s cloak and laid it out over the ice, hoping he could find a foothold and pull himself to freedom.

It worked. The struggling pony quickly figured out that the cloak gave him traction on the ice, and he was strong enough to free his hind legs. He trotted a few feet away and then lowered his head breathing heavily, exhausted. I walked over to him murmuring some soothing words while I looked at his legs. I picked up some handfuls of snow and used them to scrub off the mud and blood. The wounds didn’t look as bad as I thought they were. With his legs cleaned up, I took Nan’s cloak and used it to dry him off as best I could, wishing I had something better because I know his damp legs had to be freezing. I could dry clean Nan’s cloak for her before I returned it.

I folded the cloak and held it against me, looking at my unexpected new friend. He quietly snorted and sniffed at me, nibbling my zipper. I pulled out my cell phone to call Nan and ask if she knew who might own a grey pony with amber eyes, but the pony grabbed my cell phone with his teeth and tossed his head back, sending it flying through the air to where the ice over the creek was thin enough for the phone to break through and fall into the water, ruined.

“What did you do that for, dummy?” Wow, some gratitude. I get him out of the mud and he goes and destroys my ties to society. I swear he looked like he was laughing at me, with his eyes all twinkly and his mouth twitching a little at the corners.

Well, I know from my horse crazed preteen years that horses head home when given the chance. Usually that chance is the second you don’t seem to be paying attention to the reins. “Nice to meet you sir, but I have really got to get home.” I turned to head back up the road. As I started to make my way back up the steep slope, the pony grabbed on to the seat of my pants with his teeth and pulled, knocking me off of my feet and straight onto my butt.

I sat there staring at him. This horse was just straight up rude. He walked over to the cloak that had fallen from my arms when I fell and picked it up, shaking his head a little to unfold it and watch it flap in the wind.

“Put that down! It’s Nan’s!” He did a tiny rear, waving the cloak higher in the air, and stomped his back feet in glee. He trotted around me in circles for a little bit, then tossed the cloak over my head as I sat there, not knowing whether to be amused, shocked, or angry.

The cloak on my head though, that pushed me a little more toward irritated. That thing was dirty now, and it got mud on my face. I pulled it off and stood up, glaring at the pony as I shook it out and folded it up again.

“Look, mister. I’m glad you’re happy to be out of the mud, but do you think you can go and find someone else to take your good mood out on?” I stomped back up the slope. My butt was actually a little sore where he grabbed my jeans.

The pony followed me onto the road. I eyed him suspiciously, but he hung his head quietly and seemed to have settled down. His tail swung back and forth quietly while I eyed him. Satisfied, I turned back toward home, walking past the creek on my left.

Suddenly the pony banged his head on the back of my knees, his nose just between my legs. With a surprised shout, I grabbed on to a sapling by the road, catching my fall before I tumbled into the sad, frigid grave of my beloved cell phone. The pony yanked on the end of my scarf and lifted it from around my neck, trotting around on the pavement and waving it like a flag.

I put my hands on my hip and glared at him again. “Oh, we got a smart circus pony here, do we? I’m not giving you sugar for your tricks, mister. Knock it off!” I tried to jog after him and grab my scarf, but he kept it just out of my reach, slowing down so I could get closer and then speeding up when it was just near my fingers.

I bent over and put my hands on my knees to catch my breath. Good Lord, why did you foist this pony on me? I gave up on the scarf. I was now down a scarf and a cloak, but thankfully this jerk’s antics were keeping my blood pumping enough to keep me from being too cold. I rose and turned my back on the pony, headed to home again.

He watched me go for a few minutes, seeming to be confused that I didn’t enjoy the game as much as he did. He trotted alongside me, then waved the scarf in front of me to try to entice me to grab it. Oh no, I’m so not falling for that trick. He lowered his head and either felt bad for his behavior or tried to look pathetic so I might pity him and reach for the scarf. I suspected a trap and kept walking. This horse was smart, but it was way too cold and late to appreciate his bubbly, quirky personality.

After a few minutes, the pony lifted his head back and trotted up and down the pavement again, waving the scarf in the air for a while. Then he came in front of me, tossed his head back and actually flung the scarf around his own neck so that it draped evenly over both sides. He then dropped to one knee, seeming to invite me to mount him. I actually did laugh aloud at that one, but mostly because there was no way I’d trust this horse for a pleasant bareback experience. Scarf looked cute on him though.

“What, do you want to take me home and then maybe come live with me?” The horse looked at me happily. “No. What do you think, that you can stay in the dorm showers while I feed you ramen instead of hay? Look horse, on a warmer day I might like you because you’re certainly playful. But right now I need to go home, and you need to go home. You obviously belong to someone, and I’m no horse thief.”

With that, the horse rose, looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, and reared up into the air, throwing his head up and opening is mouth to release a sound that was nothing at all like a whinny. The sound of the wind came out, the wind roaring through dusty dry leaves in winter, the wind with that odd eerie background sound like howling in the distance.
I froze. The beast kept making that eerie noise, and I realized that I could almost heard the faint tinkling of bells. Like that little snow tornado, but more clear now. It was laughter, spooky laughter full of magic, and the sound seemed to echo in my soul. I couldn’t seem to make myself move. I stood as still as the icicles hanging from the branches nearby as the beast’s coat darkened to pitch black and his mane and tail grew longer. A flickering light shone from his eyes, somehow managing to look gold and red at the same time.

Fire, I thought. He’s full of fire. His mane and tail seemed to lighten and move in the wind like water currents, or how an artist paints wind. Smoke, I realized. He trails smoke behind him as he runs, it only looks like a mane and tail. His body lengthened and grew to the size of a much larger horse as he finished his ghastly whinny and opened his mouth again, this time the rush of dry leaves sounded like my own name, drawn out as if someone were calling for me from far away. Then the sound of tinkling fairy laughter in the wind came again, as he turned to the woods and started to canter.

I remembered Nan saying she heard voices in the woods calling her name in a slow type of panic, and my mouth went dry and my limbs went numb.

Wait, “that black devil?” Nan described a goat, but that thing she wouldn’t name, wasn’t there a fairy that can be a goat but take other forms too? A goat or a bull or a rabbit but usually a horse? What was that called? Pooka?

I made connections instantly. That was what Nan meant when she doddered on about the riding near to your death, wasn’t there a wild ride that left the victim driven senseless for a while? Pooka, that was it, mischievous and wild.

Then I knew. Just all at once I knew. All at the same time I saw that the horse, bull, and goat that it liked to shape were all livestock, and to farmers livestock is money, food, their livelihood and security. Livestock thieves may as well be stealing food from someone’s table, and that horse had tried to get me to ride it, perhaps to see if I would try to steal it, or perhaps because it knew that I had already stolen by letting Jimmy get away with it. I had been played with, but gently, and warned. I wondered how far the pooka would have gone if it knew I had done worse.

Echoing my thoughts, the horse in entered the trees and threw and back his head, his eerie, gusty voice drawled out Jimmy’s name in that dry gusty breath, and more tiny bells seemed to almost chime in the distance as the pooka vanished into the forest.

My Recovery Garden is Persephone’s Garden

My indoor garden is my recovery garden, for we are both in recovery. We have had a rough couple of years, including hospital visits for various reasons, along with other setbacks. My plants were recently left in the dark with no water for two weeks, including some delicate bog plants. So, this is where I sit to do my mindfulness practices, alongside my little family of survivors, tending to them as carefully as I do myself while we heal and grow.

This is also where I sit when I contemplate tarot cards as fiction prompts, and where I’m doing elemental exploration of only the court cards for a collection of flash fiction. One part of the garden sits at my back, not always visible, but connected to all of the plants there. This week, the presence of my little predator was felt almost immediately. This week, I pulled the Princess of Pentacles.

In the Druidcraft deck, the pages are princesses.

As a page, she is earth of earth, the child of the court of pentacles. She studies the element they represent deeply, and contains all of the metaphors found within. Earth is the element of growth, prosperity, and the physical world. It is represented as coins in the tarot because that is what we exchange for goods and services. We earn our coin with our earthly skill, it is the element of both worldly pleasures and hard work. It is health and the physical body, and it is also death. Earth is the element of winter, when the living world goes to sleep by pulling itself within, to rise again in spring. It is associated with midnight, the time of day before the next day begins. The element of earth reminds us that life feeds on death, which feeds on life.

If the Greek goddess Demeter were seen as Mother Earth, the Queen of Pentacles, her daughter Persephone would be the page. This young maiden of spring, bright and full of love and life, is the Queen of the Underworld, the kidnapped and unwilling wife of Hades, lord of the realm of death. She may not like it, it is horribly unpleasant, that is certainly reflected in the myth, but life is married to death. It is so horrible that her mother grieves the world into a barren field of frozen white every winter. But, they are goddesses of nurturing and growth, their story is a cycle, every year she returns, and they recover.

When I sit in my recovery garden, at my back is a little corner of Persephone’s garden, my frog’s terrarium. Within it sits the apex predator of my little food web. I feed cuttings of my plants (and other things) to fancy looking pillbugs (Montenegro isopods), mealworms, and earthworms. Leftover plant trimmings are used as mulch, along with orchid bark and live moss.

Then my pretty little princess, my mock tomato frog Morty, gets to eat my well fed worms and bugs. Some escape into her terrarium, where they tend to the mosses and soil within. When I freshen her bedding, the soiled coir gets mixed with old pillbug and earthworm coir, and old potting soil (a little vermiculite is occasionally mixed in there). I run it through the oven to kill pathogens, and mix it all together with a bit of fertilizer safe for microbial health for future use. When it is used, it will be mulched with a pinch of the mulch in other pots. All of the plants have diverse communities of springtails, microbes, and other critters keeping the food web healthy and strong. It’s like permaculture, in miniature.

Morty’s tank is where it ends, and where it begins again. She lives in a cave, her garden is the entrance to the underworld. A while ago, I snuck into the yard of a murder house in Staten Island and pilfered a few landscaping stones. Those stones decorate the entrance to her cave, and I often joke that her cave is now haunted, it’s a terrorarium. I can’t help it. I’m drawn to memento mori, little reminders that life is not infinite, to make the time we are here all that much sweeter, and she is the perfect metaphor.

So, this week, when I sat down to contemplate the story for this card, I ended up inspired into finally doing something I’ve wanted to do for a long time; collect more spooky terrarium decorations. I started with moss from Cherry Street.

Cherry Street, a shopping district and hip place to be, is named after the ladies of the saloons that flourished there in the heydays of Oklahoma’s Wild West. We revere our outlaws here, naming our sports teams after people who broke the law in the land runs, turning caves where outlaws hid out into tourist traps. Naturally Cherry Street is haunted. We need a reason to keep the beloved legends alive. I gathered moss from church parking lots (probably a likely spot for hauntings) and behind the occult book shop (definitely rumored to be haunted) for extra spookiness. It is stunningly green, and it makes Morty’s colors just pop.

All hail Morty, my golden eyed, autumn colored frog of death. I’ll be spending some time soon wandering through graveyards and other spooky places to decorate my little haunted garden. It seems a lovely way to spend the upcoming Halloween season. She certainly needs some fall colored leaves to blend into, though she never seemed to like the leaves as much as the coir. I’ll work something out.

By the way, if you also like the look of my little territorial crankypants sweetie, I went ahead and put some pics of her in my store, you can get prints :).

P.S. – Morty was named by a four year old trapped in a hotel room when Covid shut down all the playgrounds, and the only thing on TV she would watch was Rick and Morty (sigh). But I like to secretly pretend it’s short for Morticia.

Page of Swords

My fiction needs to lighten up, it’s not good when your writing stresses you out. I need to lean less into horror and more into urban fantasy. What I’ve been doing lately is exploring mindfulness exercises for myself for a few days, then with a story in mind. I’m also going through the court cards and exploring elements and their metaphors, then combining and recombining them in freewriting exercises. The tarot interpretation and meditations within are described after the story. This is a revised version of The Student, with some coping skills thrown in to walk the young girl through a difficult mission.

The Student

The love songs of the night gave way to the chatter of birds as the girl moved across the meadow to the old cabin, mosses and ferns sprouting from layers of pine needles on the roof. The morning mist reflected the overcast sky, the field a glowing silver, cut through with a winding green brush stroke trailing behind her as she knocked dew from the overgrown path.

Wind rippled across the blooming meadow, the rising sun stirring a breeze that pushed the mist further into the shadowy pines behind her. Lush young leaves fluttered in the gentle sunlight, shaking off their dew. Dandelion seeds rose in the breeze and drifted, golden and glowing. Maple seeds whirled lazily as they drifted downward, flashing in the sun like a dancer’s twirling skirt. She wouldn’t be surprised to see fairies tending to such a garden. The narrow trail was barely visible, but she knew it by heart. Her bare feet sank gently into the earth under the rising clover.

The sound of bees in the air was usually relaxing, but now it sounded ominous, irritating. She checked her body for tension, and found her fists were clenched, her heart racing. She remembered her mother’s advice for soothing herself, so she could think clearly.

She breathed in, observing the effects of the breath on her body, studying it as closely as if she had never taken a breath before. She felt her spine grow straighter, let the tension of her shoulders fall away as the air cleared her head. She took another breath, this time noticing the tickle in her nostrils, the chill of morning air stinging pleasantly, a little like chewing mint.

She explored her senses, looked around her for treasures. She admired the shine of an emerald sweat bee, and took a moment to be grateful her studies had taught her there were more than honeybees to find in the blooming meadows.

She breathed in the scent of pine on the air, mingling with flowers, and the scent of damp earth. She put her right hand over hear heart and felt grateful for this moment of beauty, letting the warmth and pressure of her hand bring her peace.

Her heart dropped. Her hand followed. She was too happy for the day ahead. Shame made her cheeks tingle. She stood straight, focused on her breath, and counted wildflower species as she walked steadily to the cabin, feeling her weight shift with each step, willing her shoulders to relax in the sun. She reached the stepping stones.

Her father had stopped howling. She took the mask out of her pocket and put it on. The door was silent as it opened. Cobwebs grew dusty in the windows. Something rustled in the corner, in an old pile of burlap sacks where a sunbeam warmed the pile. It wasn’t him. He sat in the shadows, away from the narrow shaft of light that struck the floor.

The smell had quieted down, grown more earthen. She had expected sour. Like when fruit turns to wine. This smelled more like mushrooms. Was this a fungus, not a virus? She felt her core begin to tremble, and clasped her hands behind her back, calming herself by walking slowly. She pushed her shoulders down.

He sat quietly, observing her in return. He wasn’t breathing. His eyes had fogged over, a cloudy white, but his head still tracked her smoothly. Was he using sound? Could he see with those eyes? Had he developed a new sense, like a cave dwelling species?

His skin looked damp, but his cheeks were sinking in, starting to look like a mummy under its wrappings, but the flesh seemed flexible. Just darkening in color a little. Like a bog body she saw in an encyclopedia. His flesh was tanning. She breathed deeply. Her breath was stifled by the mask. She pictured the bee, remembering the peace of the moment.

She looked at the earth to steady herself before she began speaking. “I promised Mother I wouldn’t kill you. Do you remember Mother?” She watched him from the corner of her eye, pretended to be disinterested, watching for the slightest sign of movement, her eyes on the path to the door.

The chain rustled on the floor, and she sharply turned toward him. He appeared to relax, rather than coiled to spring. She did not trust it. There was no telling what he had been up to while she was gone. She breathed, slowly through the mask. She shifted her weight to help her relax, moving slowly and casually, as one would a wild animal, or a stray cat. She made sure her body was turned to the door, noting that the kitchen chair was nearby, out of the range of the chain if she needed a weapon, if the chain was still fastened tightly.

He was still enough to be made of stone. He sat at the edge of the shaft of light, close to shelving. He must have moved a barrel to get there. Yes, the dust showed were something had been moved. Some boxes were on top of the barrel. He had made room for himself to sit, in the shadows.

Did the disease make his eyes sensitive to the light? Maybe his skin? That would explain why the monster had stuck to the shadows of the caves, before the attack.

She opened the curtains, letting the rising sun fall over the thing that used to be her father. The chains rattled as he shifted his weight, but there was no other reaction. Interesting. That implies physical distress, but not at a critical level.

“We never did spend a lot of time together, Father. I think I will remedy that. I propose a partnership. You shall teach me exactly how to defeat the plague. I pray I don’t cause you too much discomfort in the process.”

This story explores how the elements of air and earth combine in the Page of Swords. The pages are children, representations of the earth element and the planting of seeds, nurturing them to grow. Earth represents life in all forms, including the life that feeds on death. So, I threw in both the green and fertile world and a transition to the darker aspects of earth. Caverns contain their own diversity, their own life, as well as things that thrive on decay, turning death into nutrients for the surrounding life to share.

Earth is also present in the grounding of anxiety, letting our nervous energy settle. The exercise of sorting things by categories (by species, color, taste, etc.) is designed to distract our frantic minds, rather than get lost in a storm of thoughts and emotion.

The children study the element they represent. Here, she is a student from the family of swords, a family that embodies the element of air, and intellect. The court of swords, known for their sharp wit and strategy, would certainly raise a child to master her emotions, so she can do what needs to be done. They love to be rational, even if it means they become a bit cold. This is revised to have more air through breath and mental clarity, using a meditation that approaches the world as if for the first time, cultivating gratitude and hope.

I wrote this story a while ago, then recently revised it and posted it here. Then I explored the elements with a different purpose and perspective. I like how it deepens her as a person. More on the court cards here.

P.S. – I decided to put the bee pic in my store.

Regret

This one is based on the King of Pentacles, reversed. (The Zombie Tarot uses hazards.) I felt like this reversal referred to being overthrown, and the King of Pentacles is often compared to Santa Claus. He rules prosperity, is a generous man, and a legendary party host. Pentacles, the suit of prosperity, is ruled by earth, which also rules winter, and death. It would be unwise to try to overthrow Santa Claus. (More on the court cards here, and the elements here.)

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We never would have taken him for a witch. He seemed so steady, a reliable type, paying his bills on time, and mowing his lawn. He never had any kids, his wife died young. He was real generous with the neighbor kids, helping out some to get their kids nice stuff.

He seemed old enough to retire, and like he only worked to keep from getting bored. We figured with all that hard work and no family to support, he probably had a stash of money somewhere. A guy like that probably reads books on making his money grow. He came home early when we were looking for a safe.

He came home right after we found some kind of altar in the basement, and he kind of came home by popping right into place, in this little circle on the floor right behind us. Scared the fuck out of us, but Kim, she never was one to freeze in fear, and she just started moving and got her knife right in his eye socket before I knew what was going on.

He didn’t die right away, he started twitching and all the lights flickered. Fucking electricity or fire or some kind of light started pouring from his fingers and his eyes glowed with it. I couldn’t move. I don’t mean I froze in fear, I tried to run but my feet were stuck to the floor, and Kim’s too.

He spoke, and it wasn’t loud but everything around us kind of rang with his voice anyway, I did too, I felt like a guitar string plucked deep inside me. And he says, right before he dies, he says, “Die from regret.”

Then he died, and we could move. I thought it was some kind of freak electrical event, and I didn’t think too hard about what he said. But then it started to itch at me, but I figured it was power of suggestion or somethin’ and blew it off. Kim, I was worried about her though, she was so eaten up by it, and that ain’t the first man she’s done like that, but I never saw her so torn up. She ended up eating a bottle of pills.

I figured maybe it was a curse, but I was in the clear, ‘cause she did him, not me. But as soon as she went, the nightmares started. Every time I eat, I feel bad that man can’t taste anything anymore. Every time I get tired and cranky at work, ‘cause I can’t sleep, right? I get all tired and cranky and sore, but as soon as I think about how good it would be to go home and sit in my chair, I remember that dude was a hard worker, and he probably liked that feeling of relief too.

Today I got a headache, and I felt bad because that guy would never get a headache again, even though it was pain. All those rough moments just make the smooth moments sweeter, and he can’t have either. I don’t think I’ll last out much longer.

Vigilante

One of the things I like to do is layer a tarot card prompt with a bit of information I want to learn. This older story is one I wrote while reading books written by FBI profilers. I wanted to creatively explore a list of traits for organized v. disorganized serial killers. I’ve also done this with point of view exercises, and “The Student” started off with the results of an active setting exercise.

I used the beautiful Archeon deck for this one. The King of Pentacles, reversed. The King of Pentacles is one who has mastery over his domain, prosperous and strong, widely revered. The reversal could indicate falling or corruption. Given that I paired it with organized vs. disorganized serial killer, I interpreted it as one king triumphing over another, both of them corrupt to their core. I’ll let you guess who is who. (My apologies for the heavy handed metaphors, I was having fun.) 423 words.

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In the shadows he paused, listening. He took a steady, silent breath, scenting her out. He tasted the air with his tongue, confirming, seeking direction. He walked into a room full of polished wood, and the scent from old books. The well-oiled leather chair barely whispered when she turned to face him, a look of surprise not yet upon her face.

He smiled. “You are vile, corrupt, heartless, and doomed. You stand on your shiny money and claim credit for work that is not yours; you lie to the people. You are a stain. You have convinced the city that your generosity and community outreach are responsible for the safety of our children but it is ME. I am the reason these streets are safe, ME. You lie and use your wealth to hide your true nature, your crimes, and you will be destroyed for the good of all.”

She tilted her head before she replied. “A monologue? Are you serious?” She sighed and stood up, brushing the wrinkles from her slacks. She took a step toward him, slinking as her heels traced the winding vines along the carpet. “You are motivated by instinct, a drive you barely understand yourself. An attempt to right wrongs done to you that can not be corrected, over and over and always with fail. You are little more than an animal. You deserve no credit.”

He did not anticipate this. She didn’t seem the least bit frightened, and it was beginning to chill him. She seemed to notice, and the way she moved her head as she looked him up and down seemed predatory. “Did you really think if you sought out those with few ethics, that you would not find one with a darkness to match your own? Sweetheart, I am no mere white-collar criminal, nor one of the thugs you’ve been whetting your bloody appetite on. I’m just as much of a monster as you are, only more intelligent.”

“I am not a monster! I am a hero!”

“Tell that to McClary’s widow. Or the Johnston kids. They don’t have anyone left.”

He had no response, growing more pale as he noticed the silencer on the gun she had apparently been holding all along. “Did you think you were the one hunting me when you saw my press release? It was easy to draw you here. You are blatant, predictable, and drawing too much attention to my neighborhood.” He stood, waiting for her next words, as her gun hissed and the wall behind him splintered.

The Student

This one is from the Zombie Tarot, one of my favorites to use as a creative prompt. The page of swords represents a studious child. They may be perceived as clever, or aloof. 332 words. (A revised version can be found here.)

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The love songs of the night gave way to the chatter of birds as the girl wandered over the meadow to the hut. Dew drops reflected the overcast sky, turning the field into a dreamlike silver, cut through with a green brush stroke winding behind her as her toes tickled dew to the ground.

She watched a butterfly testing its wings in the rising sun, fluttering lazily, enjoying a few more minutes in its silky floral bed. She was tempted to tease it on to her finger, but catching butterflies was a child’s game and she was too old for such things now.

Father had stopped howling. He was likely either dead or sleeping. The virus didn’t grant him much peace, she wasn’t sure which one she preferred.

Inside the hut, the smell had quieted down, grown more earthen. She would have expected something sour. Like when fruit turns to wine. This smelled more like mushrooms. He sat quietly, observing her as she observed him. He wasn’t breathing.

“I promised Mother I wouldn’t kill you. Do you remember Mother?” He was still enough to be made of stone. Except for those eyes, sharply focused on her. They seemed darker. She peered more closely. The irises were so large, they were almost black. Were they too large for that level of light? Did the virus make his eyes sensitive to the light? That would explain why the monster had stuck to the shadows.

She opened the curtains, letting the dawn creep closer to the thing that used to be her father. The chains rattled as he shifted his weight away from the light, but there was no other reaction. Interesting. That implies physical distress, but not at a critical level.

“We never did spend a lot of time together, Father. I think I will remedy that. I propose a partnership. You shall teach me exactly how to defeat the plague. I pray I don’t cause you too much discomfort in the process.”

Broken Queen

So, I was working on a picture to upload to Redbubble while listening to Fleetwood Mac (Rumors), and wondered what would happen if I pulled a tarot card as a story prompt. I pulled the Queen of Swords (an intelligent strategist who can also be described as a cold-hearted bitch) and this happened:

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She sang the spell to him, encircled by symbols he would never recognize as a trap. She sang of her heartache at his hands, she sang of her innocence ripped out, of running barefoot through the night, thorns ripping at her feet as she fled into the mist.

She poured her heart into her control, her emotions the source of raw power, she hit notes better than ever before, her vocal chords as raw as her fingers once were when learning to master chords on guitar. The focus on the notes one at a time swept over her, each one glimmering like a dangling prism in the setting sun. She stood straight, feeling the colors of rainbows spread through her chakras, visualizing roots tapping into the power of the core of the earth, the element of passion, fire igniting her. She let the passion wave through the waters of her heart, simmering as her heart matched the fiery power of Gaia’s heartbeat, the gravity of her feet as she danced thundered with power as she twirled around in a clockwise manner, pulling up rising energy, sweating and frantic, until she could contain no more.

She turned to the crowd, opening her arms to welcome their thundering energy, shimmering to her as brightly as lightning flashing through the air.

She spun, imagining a sword rising from her fingertips, steely in the spotlights under the moon, visualizing it as solid and true. The blade pointed at her lover, her curse slicing through the air, his eyes startled when he heard the changes she made in secret to the lyrics of the song. His microphone crackled, snapped, exploded in his hand, as she transfered her heat to him, burning him alive in what would later be called an accident, faulty wiring, as she let true tears of grief fall from her eyes, venting the traumas in her heart to the moonless night. Grief for herself. Grief for a love that turned so dark. Grief that she had found revenge lived in her heart, after all.

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P.S. – If the baby amuses you, it’s over here, along with several photos that I’ve uploaded and not announced yet.

P.P.S. – I also dusted off my old guide to using tarot as a fiction, journaling, or art prompt, and made it into pages here. The guide is from a more psychological interpretation of the tarot, rather than a guide to fortune telling.

Tarot for Creative Prompts: A Secular and Psychological Approach

In case you are a creative person who likes the aesthetic of the tarot without the desire for the woo-woo, I assure you, tarot is not just used for fortune telling. Go ahead and grab that cool deck you saw, you can use it for creative prompts for art or writing, or for journaling and introspection.