ALEISTER CROWLEY THOTH TAROT: 6 of Cups – Pleasure

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Sunny Afternoon

 

The Kinks’ “Sunny Afternoon” played on the portable speaker and John, smiling, tilted his head back and shut his eyes. Today was his Sunny Afternoon; his day for rest and relaxation.

The sun sparkled on the calm lake and small waves rippled on the pebbles where John had set his chair and fishing equipment. He hummed along with the verse and bellowed out the chorus: “Save me from this squeeze!” His voice echoed over the water. John inhaled deep and let the sun warm his face.

“I’m free!” He yelled after a moment. Birds in the trees fluttered their wings as if applauding him. He reflected on the past years; not all so bad. And then the mother-in-law had moved in.

“I tell ya,” he said to the duck that waddled out of the water beside him, “there never was such a witch. Cleaned me out, both of ‘em, but I’m happy now. No amount of money is worth losing your freedom.”

The duck quacked and waddled on. John gazed at his watch and smiled.

“Three, two, one!” He counted down as the hands met at noon. As of now, Tiffany and her ‘Smother’ were no longer a problem; they were out of his life forever. This freedom had cost him a fortune, but it was well worth it.

“Both witches,” he murmured and cracked open a can of beer. It was cool on his tongue and slid down his throat like a salve over the acrid memories of the past few years. That life was over and done.

“Nevermore, nevermore!” He said to the ravens cawing on the branches above him.

The fishing line tugged and John reeled it in. Just like they reeled me in, he thought as a perch appeared on the surface. It wriggled and squirmed, hooked on the line. John unhooked it and threw it back, watching content as the water rippled with the fish’s escape. He was not a catch-and-release fisherman, but today was different. Tiffany and her mother had caught him, but today, a merciful soul released him back into the water. Someone was taking care of that problem. 

Geese waded past him, their honking added texture to the cacophony of cicadas and birds.

“Maybe I’ll fly away this winter, too,” he said to the geese and raised his beer in a toast to them.

John’s phone pinged, and he smiled at the text message.

“The deed is done,” it read, “freedom is yours.”

John laughed and clapped his hands, whooping like at a football game.

Another ping told him he’d received a video.

John beamed as Tiffany told the poor devil with a much fuller bank account that she’d “love and hold, in sickness and in health, till death do us part”. The priest smiled as the sucker slipped a ring on her talon. The mother-in-law sneered in the background.

TAROT DRACONIS: 7 of Swords

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Wishing

 

Lady Macbeth went mad from guilt, but I doubt I would. Beatrix set the book on the nightstand and blew out the candle, not smiling at the space beside her. He was late again, no doubt on one of his flings. At least he wouldn’t bother her tonight.

Beatrix closed her eyes and reminisced her childhood and how she’d dreamt of handsome knights and princes all vying for her love. She’d never imagined herself stuck in a loveless marriage.

Beatrix turned on her side and faced the space in the bed. Lady Macbeth lost her mind because she persuaded her husband to kill the king, but I wish…. She stopped before she finished the thought. It wasn’t the first time she’d stopped herself from wishing awful things on Horace, that disgusting husband her father had chosen for her.

“A daughter’s duty,” he’d said, “you have to fulfill it.”

“Why?”

The age-old reason: money. The haves and have-nots, and Beatrix was born into a family that used to have, until her father gambled it all away. To Horace. He’d gambled her away too; his daughter in a hand of poker.

Now Horace belonged to the haves and flaunted it. He gambled like her father and was a philanderer to boot.

Beatrix wiped away the angry tear that stained her pillow. She shut her eyes tight and waited for sleep…

Beatrix stood outside, the night dark around her and in complete silence. She peeked inside the lighted window.

Horace sat at a card table with a leggy redhead on his knee. Beatrix ran a hand through her raven hair, her breath formed a mist around her, but, to her surprise, it did not steam the pane.

A young man positioned himself at the window facing Beatrix, but seemed not to notice her. He looked straight at her, in her white nightgown, candlelight shining on her, yet he didn’t see. Beatrix locked eyes with him, but he stared ahead into the darkness…

Beatrix held a candle, the embers still warm and red in the chimney. The card table was empty, the room darkened, and the candles blown out save hers. Laughter and moans drifted from the rooms upstairs. The dying light of the fireplace cast her shadow on a wall. It was not her shadow. She stretched her hand out, soft and milky white, yet the shadow hand that mimicked her movement had twisted claws; the hand of a beast.

The shadow climbed the stairs, teeth and horns outlined on the wall. Beatrix followed; her mind and soul still and silent as the darkness. The shadow beast crept into the room where Horace “entertained” the leggy redhead. Beatrix stood at the door, ghostly in her long white nightgown. 

The redhead knelt on the bed, her naked back to the door. The shadow beast handed the woman a knife. She raised it; the blade gleamed in the moonlight streaming through the window.

Beatrix counted seven stabs, one for each year of her hellish marriage. Horace groaned and gurgled, caught between pleasure and surprise. His blood stained the crisp white sheets.

The beast gazed at Beatrix, its eyes a cold, gleaming green. She gasped…

Beatrix sat up in her bed, the space still empty beside her. She held her head in her hands, trembling. What a frightful dream!

Dawn cast shadows on her wall, and for a moment, she thought she saw the beast, but it was only a fleeting image, an illusion caused by the silhouette of the bare tree outside her window.

Beatrix laid down and slept again. She awoke to the thunder of insistent knocking. The sun shone bright through the window. Beatrix tied her robe and opened the door. 

“Mrs. Snyde,” a young man held his hat in his hands; Beatrix blanched, it was the young man from the window!

“I’m very sorry to say this, but Mr. Snyde passed away.” 

Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears; her dream was all too real!
“How?”
The young man blushed,
“In his sleep.”   

TAROCCHI DELL’OLIMPO: King of Swords

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Hercules

 

Andy glanced in the mirror and smiled; his brand new winter hat on his head. His grandmother had gifted it and it would be his first day wearing it. The hat woven into the head of a lion, complete with a mane that covered his ears; the mittens knitted claws.

“Ready for the first snowball fight, Hercules?” Daddy leaned under the door smiling,  “He wore headgear like that.”

“Really?” Andy gazed wide-eyed at Daddy, who knew everything.

“Yep, you know why he was famous?”

Andy shook his head.

“His supernatural strength; he killed a mean lion and used his hide as a cloak because it was impenetrable. Nothing could pierce it.”

“Wow! Do you think I’ll have supernatural strength now?”

“Oh, yeah!”

Andy growled and swiped at Daddy, who picked him up and kissed his forehead. Andy rushed outside into the new fluffy snow and ran down the sidewalk to his friends.

They played in Ollie’s yard, throwing snowballs and racing one another. Soon, snow angels covered the yard and left room for none. Ollie suggested sledding, and the boys spent the next half hour asking permission and collecting the sleds.

“Be careful,” Daddy called after Andy as he pulled the sled behind him.

During winter, the kids slid down the slopes of the public golf course nearby. It was hard work pulling the sled up the hill, but Andy didn’t feel it today because with the lion hat on he was strong like Hercules.

Up and down they slid until the sun dipped low in the horizon and the cold bit their cheeks. One by one they went home, save for Andy and Ollie, who lived closest and didn’t need to hurry. They climbed the hill as snowflakes fell.

“One more time!” Ollie said and climbed on behind Andy.

They flew down the hill in cheerful giggles. Andy tried to steer away from a snow bank, but grazed it and, with a bump, Ollie fell off the sled. Andy lost control and slammed into a snow-covered bush; white ice showered the lion mane. He shook himself off and scanned the snowy hill. Flakes danced around him. Evening had fallen, and the world was turning black. Andy wiped the flakes from his face and spotted Ollie’s red jacket in the snow.

“Ollie!” He trudged to his friend.

“Are you okay?” Andy panted. Ollie was crying and his foot sat at a strange angle.

“I think my ankle’s broken!” He sniffed and wiped tears and snow from his eyes.

“Can you stand?”

Ollie shook his head.

Andy looked around, hoping someone had seen them, but there was no one, only snow and the encroaching blue light of evening. Andy feared they would lose their way in the darkness and the bitter cold chilled him.

“I’ll give you a piggyback ride home,” Andy positioned himself in front of Ollie, and with great effort, hoisted Ollie onto his back.

“There they are!” Daddy called when he spotted the slow-moving mass in the snow. He recognized Andy’s lion head bent under Ollie’s red jacket. He rushed to them and lifted Ollie off Andy’s back. Ollie’s parents caught up and amidst kisses and hugs carried Ollie home. They would take Ollie straight to the hospital, they said.

“It gave me superpowers,” Andy touched his hat, his claw mitten holding Daddy’s hand.

“Yes, you were very strong and brave. I’m very proud of you.”

* * *

“Just like twenty years ago, buddy,” Andy’s thick low voice rumbled, “hold on, we’ll make it.”

Andy struggled through the mud, bent under Ollie’s weight. He wished for his lion hat, loved and now worn to rags. Bombs exploded around him. He remembered the snow fell hard that day. Andy gazed down at his combat boots and toiled on, Ollie on his back.

BRUEGEL TAROT: 4 of Cups

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Snow Day

 

Thundersnow pounded against the window; lightning struck and shone on Rusty’s forlorn face. He wanted to play outside, but even the sun felt it was too cold to shine. The clouds, the snow, the wind, the thunder and lightning came out to play instead.

“Rusty!” Mom called, “Come down, the window’s too cold, you’ll catch your death!”

Rusty sighed and stepped off the window seat. He dragged his feet downstairs. What a wasted Saturday; they wouldn’t even have a snow day off.

The howling wind spattered snowflakes on the window, laughing at Rusty’s ruined weekend.

“I’m bored,” Rusty complained and plopped into his usual chair at the kitchen table next to his little brother. Mickey the Booger always had snot running down his nose.

“Oh, c’mon, it’s not so bad,” Mom wiped Mickey’s nose, “we can still have fun.”

“Where’s Dad?” Rusty smushed his cheek against the palm of his hand, his elbow on the table, as if keeping his face from melting of boredom.

“He’s outside, trying to shovel as much snow as possible, though I think it’s a boondoggle.”

“A what?” Rusty smiled and Mickey giggled at Mommy’s funny word.

“A boondoggle.”

“What’s that, Mommy?” Mickey’s tiny voice rang out, the candle of mucus shiny on his philtrum.

“A boondoggle is an exercise in futility, something you do but won’t amount to anything. It’s a waste of energy.”

“Then why is Daddy doing it?”

“Because he thinks if he shovels now, there will be less snow to shovel tomorrow, and because it won’t harden so much.”

“And because I’m bored out of my mind!” Dad’s thunderous voice resembled the pounding tempest behind his silhouette under the back door. Lightning struck behind him and the house plunged into the semi-darkness of the stormy day. Mom helped him with his boots and coat. He sniffed and checked the fusebox.

“Power’s out,” Dad sat down, his cheeks still red from the cold, “can’t even watch TV now.”

“No!” Rusty and Mickey cried in unison.

“Calm down, it’s not the end of the world. It’s only been a hundred years since people had electricity in their homes, and before that, people didn’t get bored.” Dad placed his cheek on his hand, mimicking Rusty.

“How? By sitting and staring at each other?”

“And farting while at it,” Dad said, sending Rusty and Mickey into a fit of laughter.

“Fart!” Mickey’s gleeful voice sang out over the hubbub. Even Mom giggled as she nudged Dad.

“What? Most people lived with parasites and amoebas in their tummies, so I bet there was tons of farting going on!”

The thunder joined in the gales of laughter.

“Okay, okay,” Mom said when the hilarity died down, “what do you want to do? We could play a game?”

“What game? Monopoly? The Booger can’t add yet.”

“Oh, we’ll find something.” 

Mom brought out a big box that claimed to contain a hundred board games. Dad brought out the kerosene camping lantern, and the room filled with cozy candlelight.

Rusty stole a glance at the snowstorm; it didn’t rage anymore but howled with mirth. Snowflakes crowded the windows wanting to join the fun.

UNIVERSAL WAITE TAROT: X of Cups

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Bootstraps

 

“It’s strange knowing your ship has come home. After all the work and hardship, the sacrifice, everything, you relax, you can breathe. The world is at your feet. I hope that one day you’ll feel that way too.”

I sat across the old man listening to his spiel about how he’d been poor and desperate and how, through hard work and sacrifice he’d pulled himself up by the bootstraps. I tried hard not to roll my eyes nor to avert his gaze. He’d conveniently forgotten to mention something we all knew to be true, that someone had given him a chance and opened the doors of opportunity for him to strut through.

Anger rose and my cheeks flushed. I gritted my teeth and swallowed back the ire about to burst through my clenched fist. The arrogant bastard was laying me off (“the company’s downsizing, the economy” blah, blah, blah), after six years of working for him…

I took a deep breath to keep the almighty fury at bay and Dirk, always misinterpreting, thought his self-aggrandizement bored me.

“Well, I suppose you’ve heard this story before,” he said, oozing snark. He turned grave and shuffled papers on his desk.

“I have,” I said, my voice strong despite the oncoming tears of rage, “and I know it’s bullshit.”

Dirk opened his eyes wide, I held his gaze and continued,

“Everyone knows Mortimer took you under his wing and made you who you are. It was his generosity that helped you up, not your hard work.

“You’ve shown me you care nothing about hard work, but about what others can do for you. My Ivy League scholarship-funded education means nothing to you because my daddy isn’t a Fortune 500 CEO. He was a plumber, and a damn good one. My consistent quality performance is useless because I don’t have uncles in the government.

“But who do you think you are? I know you’re just like me! Your father was a house painter and now you dare look down on us, the common people like yourself, who’ve studied hard for an education and who come here every day and put up with your shit because we are pulling ourselves up by our own bootstraps with no help from you. You’ve shut the door on us because you know we’re better than you!”

The old man huffed and a devious smirk crawled across his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but I interrupted him,

“I know why you’ve called me in here, don’t think I’m surprised, but next time, don’t waste your breath on that bullshit story.”

“Fired,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“Thank you.”

I walked out of his office, out of the building and into the warm sunlight. He was right, though my ship hasn’t come in, I know what he meant about being able to breathe.

GOLDEN BOTTICELLI TAROT: 7 of Chalices

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Winter

Lara opened her eyes. Something woke her. Moonlight shone through the window in a strange silver-and-gold light. She padded to it in bare feet and flushed cheeks despite the glacial cold; it was winter.

The frost on the window framed the glass, and she gazed out into the snowy meadow. Lara loved the silent snowfalls when they muted all nature’s noises. Through the falling snow she glimpsed a light on the field, just before the copse of trees that lined the edge of the woods, their bare branches now affording a strange, transparent visibility not available the rest of the year.

“Skeletons,” she whispered, “memories of summer.”

The meadow shone gold and, bathed in moon rays, it gave off the silver-and-gold light that entered the window. She beheld a small orb of gold light moving towards the house. The nearer it came, the more it grew and, when it reached the gate, Lara recognized the figure of a man emitting such light. He glanced at the window where Lara stood in her white nightgown and burning cheeks, a ghostly figure in the crisp midwinter’s night. The stranger smiled and unfurled golden wings.

He flew and tapped on the window. Lara shook her head.

“If you are a vampire, I do not invite you.” She said, her throat hoarse.

“Not a vampire,” the winged figure smiled, “and I need no invitation.”

The window flew open with a gesture of his hand and he floated inside, alighting before her.

“Who are you?” She whispered.

“You know who I am.”

“Why are you here?” Her voice quavered, and she held back a cough.

“I’ve come for you,” he extended his hand.

“So soon?”

“Yes.”

“May I say goodbye first?”

He nodded.

Lara didn’t need to wake me, I’d awoken when the silver-and-gold light glistened through the window. As she stood over me, I knew I was gazing into my sister’s lovely eyes for the last time.

“Must you go?” I bleated, my voice meek and muted by the blanket.

“Yes, he says so, and he knows.”

“I love you,” I said, tears brimming and stinging my eyes, a knot in my throat.

“I love you too, I will always be with you.” She bent and kissed my forehead.

Lara turned to the stranger and held his hand; they flew out the window. I jumped out of bed and ran after them. I leaned out calling her name into the silent night, but they’d vanished. My knees buckled, and I slid against the wall sobbing such tears of sorrow they constricted my chest. My heart broke when The Angel of Death took my sister.

MINCHIATE: Six of Cups

Soup's On

 

Soup’s On!

Janice waited nervous by the door. When the bell rang, she took a quick scrutinizing look about her and determined everything was in order. She stood up, smoothed her dress and opened the door.

“Hello darling!” Caroline, her mom, gave her a kiss and a hug and stepped into the hall. Bruce, her dad, followed in with a kiss on the forehead. Janice welcomed them and closed the door. Martin, Janice’s husband, greeted his in-laws in the living room. 

As she turned the doorbell rang again, and Janice fixed her concerned expression before opening the door. Martin’s parents, Fred and Mamie, greeted her warmly. They were more effusive towards Martin, but Janice did not miss the cool greeting of the parents.

“So it begins,” muttered Janice.

This was the first dinner party she and Martin, recently married, were hosting in their new home. They invited both sets of parents to avoid rumors and misunderstandings; the in-laws had not gotten along since their introduction. In fact, the couples had avoided one another at the wedding. It was also a last resort to bring, if not friendship, then cordiality to the two united families.

“Caroline, darling, how well you look, and what plump cheeks, how I envy you!” Mamie smirked.

“Yes, Mamie, you look wonderful yourself, I love that blouse, it brings out the lovely yellow in your teeth.”

Caroline smiled while Mamie scrunched her face. Janice shook her head and sought to smooth things over while Martin offered drinks.

The jabbing, tongue-lashing and criticism continued as Janice brought out the hors d’oeuvre. The fathers said nothing to one another; they sat and looked up from their drinks occasionally. Janice tried to keep the women’s insults to a minimum, while Martin tried to converse with the men but received only grunts, ahems and one-word answers.

Janice excused her self and fled to the kitchen. She leaned against the counter and took three deep breaths. She lifted the lid off the big boiling pot and stirred the contents. The soup was ready. It was her grandmother’s tomato, leek and potato soup recipe and her favorite. The aroma brought her memories of frosty winter days in the warm kitchen while she sat and listened to Grandma tell stories about the Old Country. The soup was not the star of the night—Martin’s grandmother’s pork ribs were—but it was a dish made with love. She hoped to bring together the two most important sides of her family.

“Ahem,” Janice, standing by the kitchen door, said over the bitter gabble of the two older ladies, “let’s all have dinner now.”

They moved to the dining room; Martin winked, smiled and gave her hand a slight squeeze as they sat at the table. Despite the name cards, the couples faced one another at either side; two factions across a battlefield. Martin shrugged and offered to help with the soup. Janice shook her head and disappeared into the kitchen, cheeks burning. She turned off the stove and lifted the big pot with both hands, fighting back tears. Martin had joked it would feed an army, and how right he was.

She approached the door to the dining room like a queen presenting her crown jewels, her walk slow, her head held high and her gaze above the lid. The queen forgot that Mischief the cat lurked around hoping for another feeding. He rubbed himself against the wall and mewled, but Janice, unaware, stepped on his tail. Mischief yowled and sprang a foot in the air. Janice, surprised at the squishiness underfoot, jerked, lost her balance and pitched forward, tripping over her feet.

The pot flew out of her hands and the dinner party watched as the pot tumbled in the air and spilled all its contents on the white tiled floor. Mischief scampered off to the living room.

“No!” Martin yelled, unsure whether to help Janice who’d regained her footing, or try to save the soup, managing neither.

The soup lay on the floor, like the bloody remains of the hero soldier; the pot rolled on its side, empty and round as a dark cave. Mischief had vanished.

Janice covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes brimmed with tears and met her dad’s gaze. He snorted, chuckled then burst into roaring laughter.

“We’re in the soup now!” Fred chortled and soon all four elders were hooting and howling with hilarity. Bruce held his sides and Fred slapped his knee. Tears rolled down Mamie’s cheeks and Caroline forwent her usual close-lipped giggle and guffawed, her mouth open wide and her head thrown back. Martin and Janice watched aghast.

When the laughter subsided, Mamie turned to Caroline and said,

“Come, Caroline, let’s clean this.”

Caroline smiled. They fussed over Janice and brought out the mop and bucket.

“Don’t you worry dear, let us handle this,” Mamie smiled at the stunned Janice.

“Yes, it’s easy as duck soup!” Caroline joked and both ladies dissolved in a fit of giggles over the spillage.

Bruce and Fred patted each other’s backs and went in search of Mischief.

“Too bad about the soup,” Martin smiled at Janice, “but at least it lightened the mood and brought us all together.”