Death stares on, past your face. A jester’s hat accessorizes a haunting figure. He is a simple creature and exists in a simple existence. The playfulness is captured in a silly Halloween decoration. Spokes and tendrils of stars animate and propel him forward to an ominous, and possibly ill, fate.

Laughter of a skeleton tossed upon you at a haunt. Overcoming fear by placing a hat on it, bringing it on your way, like a knapsack over your shoulder.

The golden infinity sign, normally appearing like a halo of divine knowledge and self-mastery, is overlaid like a hangman’s noose. Bound, ensorcelled by the quest for secrets to be unlocked. The mystic, the strega, weaves multiple fates with her box of charms, and talismans draped along her collar. The gift of knowledge is there with every visit to her. Let her read your palm, and draw out your magick. The gentle power coaxes up your wrist to the point where her fingertips drape the contours of your palm. Let her breathe life into you. 

You are capable of so much.

Inner radiance. Successfully drawing down the moon. Unafraid of blood and sacrifice. The body is the altar. Bruising along the hip presented to the Moon.  An acknowledgment of divine, sensual sacrifice.

Priestess of the Blood Moon. 

Overseer of an illicit, occult ritual, she beckons your gaze upward at The Mother’s rays. She is not with you now, she is in a trance, yelping out with the night creatures. The shrill echoes shake the nearby willow tendrils. 

On your knees in supplication, you crawl towards her. The moment you are close enough to kiss her navel, you are suckled into the loamy soil. Her white, reflective, lunatic gaze is the last boon you receive. 

Dust to dust.

We all enter the world from darkness, and to darkness we shall all return. There is nothing more to be done, you are welcomed once more into her embrace. Born again in her shrouds, the scent of incense ash coats your skin. The ache of fearful wonder, of unknowing is gone from you here, in this garnet-walled place. 

The Empress, The Great Mother, is the embodiment of words of prayer draped over you, the embodiment of hope, and comforting certainty. Trust her whispers as she places her cool, smooth hands over your eyes. Find your ease here in the echoes of the heartbeats.

The Almighty Emperor, The Culling Man, leaves a trail of mustard gas in his wake like an acrid aftershave.

He takes all by all means.

Everyone is a tool, even their corpses. Necromancer, calling upon false doctrine to raise more bodies to raze more land. He always wins, even when he loses. Calculations and recalculations are endless. He works tirelessly and expects the same of others. He is not haunted by his past, no. He is merely motivated by it. He leaves nothing to chance and seeks to have control over every thing and every body that enters his life.

Barring.

Jarring.

Barely contained, but contained for good reason. Our priest is an Unholy Father. Dominion in the vessel of a corrupted nun. Aching to ignite the flames and rebuild upon a nexus of Hell.

Ghoulish purple as a whole coats her face. Break free, release your divinity.

The Inversion does not mean for you to go within, for to live and Serve does not mean for you to be locked away, it means to set you free from the bondage of the vows said in your name. The Inversion offers you the Ultimate Truth.

It bolsters your will and offers you the freedom to live Your Own.

A sacred, shadowed kiss. The Lovers’ Love is a haunting, titanic overcoming of senses. Multiple crimes of passion are committed between the pair in the eyes of God, offered up in the name of Venus. Lipstick bullets and several pairs of pearl clip-on earrings scatter the floor as our subject takes his mistress on her vanity seat.

There are no expectations beyond here and now, only experiences to be had. Promises between others are unmade with their lovemaking. The loyalty between them is sealed with carmine smears over their mouths, hearts, and leagues below on the rest of their bodies.

The Chariot’s maiden voyage shrieking wheels and shrieking souls aboard. They feel powerless, but the power is in the journey. Look out the windows if you dare. Churning dust and the engine smoke make the spectral Horses gathering alongside appear in shadowy nimbus. You count 4, can barely make out the riders, if any could handle the rollicking steeds. She draws out the train along the tracks, reeling her head back to counter the strain on her mind. Faster and faster it goes, the cars threatening to dislocate from each other, the bolts and joints to come apart. The Journey is inescapable, but it will End.

You are stronger than you know. Give yourself credit. You can influence the beasts of the wild. Now it is time to tame the beast within. Your ministrations are viewed by the public with applause. You seek affirmation in your boldness, your resolve. You don’t need to endanger your body to show what you are capable of. Explore your potential through other means. Match the strength of your heart and mind with that of your body. You thought you had to be strong in the wrong ways with the wrong people. You wound up keeping your loved ones at length with as much ease as you do your lions.

Crimson beams cut through the dark, guiding you deeper through it. Be mindful you don’t stumble into becoming a Spirit while on your path to understanding Them. The black mask occludes The Hermit’s face as though they were peering into a scrying mirror. They are the mirror, now, broken. They hide their physical visage, but it is not an unfamiliar feeling. They have not shown their true face to others for far too long. They lost themselves to the world, and now enter the cavern to give themselves over to the dark for a season, to dredge up who they have put away.

Sonatra gives way to go-go as you make your way through the casino. You finger a handkerchief full of bits and bobs from the Hoodoo man. Roots, coins, bones, and other pokey things graze your fingertips. Hoping the mojo hand will give you a good hand or two tonight. You have had too many losses and you can’t afford any more. Brut and Old Leather sour on the bodies of men who have lost track of time, their savings, and their Lady Luck of the evening. You hope that this will be your last bout of Roulette for a while.

Justine has taken up Roulette herself. The Russian kind. She fears nothing else now. She lost herself in all of this ages ago. She lost herself in Him, and he lost himself in Her. Then, they all lost everything. He never knew when to accept a loss, especially when he was betting with someone else’s chips. Balance is to be wrought in a handbag. She eschewed what minimal accessories she had for a small arsenal, layered and barely concealed under her London Fog. It’s too late in the year, and far too hot and dry for the coat. She doesn’t care if she arouses suspicion.

Her world was turned upside down, as she toppled over the drained bottles left on the counter. A few bits of green and brown glass chips formed the beginning of a mosaic on the rug. The lamps in the next room buzzed dimly. She was trapped in her mind, craving the rev of engines. The party has been over for hours. Left with her thoughts for the first time in days, she makes a few aimless circles around the rug, she finds a cleanish spot, and sits like the yogi on the back cover of that book being passed around...

Seeking cities, hoping a change in environment would create some change in their being, the real need is for a change in spirit. 

Solve et coagula: the ultimate quest, to dissolve and coagulate, to be willing to begin again. 

Death asks for change, hopefully for the better. If not better, at least something different. To ask more of oneself, to be willing to banish your old self, to Fall and Spring once more, and let your past feed you rather than feed on you is the most welcoming aspect of Death. Cells, flesh, and spore – ever-changing, ever-being. Welcome Death.

To live is to perform. To dance is to give. Teetering around the cracked ground, puddles of wine are tipped over by the patrons as they clap and cheer for you. You know the beat, buoyed by the laughter and cheers, mopping the ruddy mirrors up with your swirling skirts. Enraptured like a dervish, arms out, swaying side to side you feel a knowing, a certainty that only comes from choreography. The Knowing is in your blood, your bones, steeped in you like the wine soaking into the hem of your dress. The raucous cries fill you. You have found completion.

Father of Lies. You are forced to face who you are meant to be. Let go of the being you held onto out of fear. Remove yourself from fear of loss. Grab life by the horns and embrace greatness. You have hidden away too much of yourself, and gotten comfortable with pretending. 

You know who you are, so show who you are.

You have tried burning yourself away, offering sacrifices of shame, fear, blood, and sweat and have gotten nothing. Now is the time to take what you deserve, even if you doubt that you deserve it. The worst lies you have told are the ones about yourself.

Bones wail in the catacombs below the watchtower. Their cries rival the winds of the storm above, the gusts rushing around the nearby pillars and archways. The earth rumbles and the roads crack and break open, stones popping up as the pavements breach. A deluge of sludge swept any onlookers left out of doors, sending them careening against the bricks. A man crashed face-first into the bricks of the tower, smearing his materia over the worn mason’s mark. Triumphant, frenzied shrieks reverberate from the catacombs as Zeus’ whip lashes against the monument, causing it to topple like its Babylonian kin.

Appraising the skyline as you are fed through the canals, you are cradled in sweet abandon. The gondolier hums a song you do not know, but immediately love. The sun begins to set on an easy, clear day. What you can make of the sky, you begin to see the occasional twinkle of constellations. This long-deserved respite comes after far too many losses. You feel the ache of time leave your body as you are tugged along the stream. The first tear escapes your eyes, then another. You wipe your face with the end of your scarf, an old twilly number, sprinkled with mauve stars.

The Celestial Bodies are aligned tonight. Everyone at The Manse is in a trance. Between the music and the sweet and noxious fumes of each hall, it’s as though everyone is between planes. They sweat, moving their feet sluggishly. The air is thick, the walls are dripping, as are several trembling thighs. 

People have various masks on: from glittery to ghoulish- the bold ones only wearing half masks like opera-haunting specters. The attendees are wearing armbands and body stickers in the shape of planets and stars denoting what they are willing to take in or on them tonight.

Roasted sunflower heads. Remembrances of childlike joy. The cracked, tear-shaped shells sprinkled over your lap remind you of the shape of her manicure. The way her hands felt when you held them last summer. The warm sunlight feels wonderful against your linen shirt. The strong breeze reminded you of the weight of her against your chest as you held her, kissing the curls along her hairline. You feel so much older now in the year that has passed. As you get up from the bench, you hear a bell… from a bicycle. You look up, and there on her white bicycle: your Lucia.

Consecrated in a bath of pomegranate, you give your flesh over to the Final Feast. The blade is sharp and precise in its wielding, the crown of you cracked and drained first. You have witnessed the others on their return to the Great Belly. Giving up what’s left of sensibility, to just give oneself up as pure energy is the greatest gift. There is no pain. No numbness either. There is just the eagerness of the Return. There is no taste to the souls, just different properties… Aspects. You wonder what properties your existence will have to offer in the Feast.

Begin again. The portals ebb and flow, warbling and rippling. The whorls of scales on the python offer comforting, familiar undulations as it passes over her arms. The cool, coiling weight settles in for a moment, tasting the space. Sit up, attempting to tune into what she is saying, but the snake wrapping circles around her distracts you. You wonder how old it is, how long it is, and have your doubts she can offer those answers to you. She promises something else, something familiar. The oldest, promised gift, wrapped in a serpentine wreath, like the Good Book and frescos warned about.

He wanted his Rib, he said. He took that and more. You did your best to be honest, forthcoming, giving, and open completely. He left you gaping and raw. You thought he wanted you to be His Rib, his woman, his Wife. No, he sought to take your flesh rather than become One with it. Hobbling gives way to convulsing, and the brief black rings scraping over your vision. You knew his tastes, yet you pushed your mind aside. You wonder if some of your gray matter went with him, too. You curl up on the floor in a pool of sweat and bactine.

Drawing your hands up in abject despair, the cloth over your face hinders your breath, smearing what’s left of your lipgloss over your chin as you move your head around. You try to gain your bearings. The entire right side of your body is bruised, and you start to remember being dragged over some tree trunks, registering the sting of the bark scraping your midriff. The bag on your head is damp with sweat, and decidedly not blood. Suddenly, you feel rough, gloved fingers at the base of your neck. They yank the bag off, taking a bit of your hair in the process. “Hello, Rose…”

Freedom in limitation. It forces you to be more imaginative, and your mind is running wild.The bass on the sound system reverberates in your trembling chest. Your anchor in the waves of pleasure is the kiss. Latched on, slurping each other’s tongues, you rock into each other. You lose rhythm now and again, then regain root. Chest to chest, you feel more than could be felt with loose hands. You unconsciously alternate circular breaths and stifled moans tasting each other, and the others from just before. You don’t know their names or faces, just their voices – and each other.

She looked back at you on occasion, offering nothing but laughter to your queries. This is one of the few occasions where fear didn’t overtake you. She would reach back to playfully ruffle your hair before turning back to take in the view of the road. Eventually, you gave up on questions and shuffled in your seat, acutely aware of the chastity device you have had on for the past week. It certainly offered more security than the seatbelt in the back of this old car, but nothing beat the look in her eyes when you agreed to her experiments.

An afternoon of decadence bled into the beginnings of an evening of debauchery. There were shining platters and goblets arranged in a multicultural cornucopia of aphrodisiacs. People sipped and supped, and sucked off each other. Dried and fresh fruit mingled with honeys and spiced jams. As the first stars began to show, liquors were poured, and spirits lifted spirits. Remnants of melted chocolate truffles and salted truffle oil were sampled from partners’ fingertips. The buzzing of garage rock guitars complemented the Sybian symphonies in the main Display Room. Eventually, the stars succumbed to the sun and the mess of bodies gave way to sleep, scattered like breadcrumbs and seeds.

The Skulls often deal with themes of love, emotion, desire, and how they affect those around you. It is thoughts, it is flowing. It is powerful but adaptive. Generally, your body and mind are the vessels portrayed in the cards.

You’ll find these to be a translation of the traditional suit of Cups.

The Hand crawls down out of the Blight, bringing thunder and lightning as it passes down a, decidedly human, skull. No jaw to be seen. Probably for the best. You don’t know if it would chitter or shriek or what if it was complete. Then again, who knows what this thing that came from the goddamn sky is capable of. The Hand tosses it unceremoniously towards you, like a croquet ball or something. It lands on its side and you catch some flicks of silver in the teeth. Shit. This belonged to someone. Crouching down to take a closer look, it almost appears that the incisors are… growing.

Danse Macabre. Couples come together in the haze of twilight mist. For the first time in a long time, they are able to make contact beyond etheric whispers, making missed connections between planes. This is their Night of Nights, facilitated with sweet, sparking incense smoldering over charcoal. The smell of jasmine, rosemary, and oakmoss mingle with the muggy petrichor of the cemetery. Seeking sweet, holy, little deaths before dawn. Desires are made flesh for a brief dalliance, granted only under the most finite of circumstances, bestowed by the most gifted hands. Spectral weavers connecting energetic gridlines to harvest the undying devotion of pairs parted too soon.

Morbid, maudlin collective. Lighthearted conspiring over sangre-tinged sangria. Unassuming, the trio sits on the sands of time, overseeing the Lake of Souls. Appearing like your average gaggle of girls, their shroud is lifted for the select few. Those few generally turn tail at their ghastly countenance. Even un-glamoured, they are often left alone to their corners. Every couple of world-turns, the women gather and take in the scenery at various bodies of water, remembering times past alongside the Lady Styx and her stream. Today, they drink, sampling joys and fears of the blood, and the essence of conquered lands in the soil of the harvest.

Fresh-cut lilies in an old glass vessel. Deep conversations with close friends. These are things that bring joy in the “meantime.” Waiting, hoping for change. There are so many things you can’t control – especially him. You flip through the album, full of photos, and a few collages containing clippings of dreams. Your eyes land on the bracelet that you were convinced was out of your price range, and certainly out of his. You were convinced that he looked at the clippings, but he claimed no such thing, and thought the trinket was something you deserved for being such a “good woman.” He was about to learn just how good you were…

Trapped inside yourself. Like a fossil swathed in amber. One tears themselves apart like a buzzard does roadkill. Rattling, aching joints. You wake up after having fallen asleep by the window. The amber coating was in actuality a gold curtain you yanked off the rail in a manic fit. Speaking of rails… It certainly has been a minute. You shuffle off the itchy armchair and make the short distance to the hanging bedside drawer. Suddenly, there is that familiar sense of being watched. You brush it off. “At least someone is paying attention,” you mutter with a hopeful discomfort pulling out the familiar, near-empty bottle before assuming the position on your sunken-in mattress.

Preciousness. Echoing steps. The crackling of vinyl records. The scent of orange blossoms and talc mingle with pine tar soap. His calloused fingertips stroke your cheek as he passes by you to flip the disc. On the loveseat, you scan the album liner mindlessly. No one you recognize, but Jimmy’s always had eclectic taste. From music to clothes, he was a weird, silly guy. They would call him a cracked egg. “That’s my guy,” you would sigh with a playful eye-roll whenever someone would comment about his antics, surprised at the pair of you. You balanced each other out in the most unexpected ways.

Your spirit left your body to rot. Your will has been siphoned out of you as you made your way down the hall. Every torch you have passed illuminates the deepening wrinkles. Each step down the staircase leads you to a pool of tar-black ether.

You cannot go back; you question each inch, each breath, as you move forward. Your toes reach the line of glittering tile, a line of them marked in lettering you cannot make out. The tide caresses your ankle and you sigh with… resignation. The top of your skull is all that is left as the rest of your body is subsumed, fueling the invisible flame of the nether pool.

La Stagnum Ignis ( lacuna ignis? a variation of the phrase called to me, please check me on my Latin…).

You have given your all to the reliquary temple. You have become a relic yourself, a vessel for bones to observe, to collect. You are not your own. These bones are heavy.

You stare into the concaves of broken casts of death masks.

Death masks.

You hold your face close.

Breathe in the plaster. None of them quite fit, but you are used to that. You are used to not fitting in. You feel as small as your bones look.

You sit and wonder if your life would be worth the preparation, the ceremony, the honor that the house of corpses seem to have.

She craved the audience. She was invited to the manse. Others on the Blocks were go-go dancing, festooned with flecks of deep red paint, foil, and glitter. The walls of the venue were all screens, with trippy, layered videos of lava lamps, mostly in shades of acid green. She wasn't told much, just to wear something that showed off her body. She put her hair in pigtails. She knew you were always treated better – and tipped better – with pigtails.

Sick fucks.

“Who are you?”

“I am… Sweet.” She was given the tag for the two wrapped hard candies decorating her back dimples. She didn’t know the other girls’ names. She knew she had an audience, hungry for her.

Though, they were hungrier than she knew.

Shrieking whistles passed through the spaces in between the teeth as the creature supped. The sacrifice was good, willingly given – at least in the end. The human had suffered enough and was gifted to her by the Foresters. It stank of pitiful wretchedness, like a fermentation of sorts. When the human beheld the Creature, it was overcome with dread. The human was, unknowingly corralled here by the cloaked Foresters, thought to be a plagued man. His mind was too heavy and full of thoughts. The Foresters have had too many big thinkers, attempting to change things. The Foresters fed the Creature, to keep things simple, survivable. They had all they needed and couldn’t afford any more big thoughts destroying their land.

Every session is like being reborn. No one knows her there. They only know the curves of her body. The shape fluctuates every few weeks, as is the nature of the feminine form. Her face is never quite right when she scans the final figure drawings. That is fine with her. She never really cared much for her face, so she would always pose in a way that it was slightly obscured, and drew all fascination to the rest of her. Leaning over a desk, gazing just past the fledgling artists seated in front of her, she shadows the lower half of her face with her hand, to add interest.

He’s received enough roses to bless the local cemetery for the next two years. In fact, he often passes them along to those that have passed, particularly the less tended to, unnamed plots. That’s where he saw her. She always wore her hair back, severe, yet with a softness to her. When she wore earrings, they were usually simple, small pearls. He tried to get a glimpse of her hands for a ring, but she usually had them clasped in her lap as she knelt before her person, her skirts too full to make out anything of certainty. He prays he doesn’t turn into a ghost himself before he can make his way to her.

She always seemed to know what one was thinking. It seemed as though she always knew just what to say. She was a sister to all, and a mother to more than she would even know, even to her elders – one gentleman often calling her Little Mama. She was always eager to share and teach anything old or new that she found useful. Rather than being lost in her own world, she was an active participant in the world around her, and the world was all the brighter for it. She appreciated all creatures, big and small, bug and bird, living and dead.

The blood trickled down the curb. Fragments of human ivory glittered around the nearby gutter. He gave his leg a good shake. It had been a while since he had stomped anyone out personally. His knee was still throbbing from the shock. He turned away and let his boys handle the scavenging and cleanup. He made his way to the rear seat of the glossy, yellow muscle car. Normally, for this kind of outing, one would try to be less conspicuous. However, by the sizeable hardwear on the car and his knuckles, it was pretty apparent being low-profile was the least of his concerns.

Generally defined by themes of passion, divination, and magical countenance with the natural and unnatural worlds. The Suit of Candles is the true home of fire, power, and metaphysics. 

In a traditional Rider-Waite Smith tarot deck, the Candles would have the counterpart of the suit of Wands.

A hand reaching out, offering what? The flame promises illuminating knowledge – from sources infernal or divine? A lone candlestick with a suspiciously high flame awaits you. The candlestick appears to grow closer as you approach it. The flame beckons, promising change. Grasp the hand, be drawn into the flame. Change is good and much needed. Let the light guide you. It is the only way you will survive the night.

Stand in the pooling wax of a melting world gone mad. Tracing the latitudes and longitudes of the globe, you and your conspirators divvy up the ideas of resources available, partaking in domination as a spectator sport. Pins and flags on maps and in atlases strewn about the study mark the prizes won by intrepid swathes of adventurers, trading goods and good people for Good Books. You chase a path for growth and conquest. What you seek to conquer may soon take over you. Are you the rock or the hard place? Allyship and aligned action is crucial. Tread carefully.

Three gathering in His name. Running low on matches, one candle is lit with the others’ flames. Sleepover secrets over treats drizzled in chocolate and sprinkles. The warmth and building energy as you come together in ritual. It is different this time, This Moon. It means something. Maybe because there was something to cast for tonight. Yes, something more than casting for crushes, and looking for the slightest hints that your glamor spells have actually made you more glamorous. You all feel that you can truly make something happen, anything! There is power in numbers. There is power in three.

A culmination of passion in every sense. Joy and completion. A hope chest fulfilled. The hearth, a welcoming mantleplace. Coalescence of a shared home. The last of the handmade candlesticks wafted the light scent of beeswax in the air as you unwrapped them from the tissue paper. One was a bit oddly curved, and you set it to the side. It is your fourth anniversary, and your love gifted you a flower arrangement similar to the wedding bouquet. Not all of them were local or in season for you, but what was available were lovely. You sigh, thankful for nearly half a decade of love.

The epitome of a firefight. Who, what gets to be, what gets to be the best, and what dissolves away? What is to be broken down? What will siphon the oxygen of the other to fuel their flame? Tearing away at yourself, you see the results of acting out of accord with Them. You thought your Will was strong enough to overtake theirs, not that you didn’t try working alongside them. You tear away, trying to free yourself of the Remnants of Them, Their flaming rage. Slumping to the floor, you feel as though you are melting, the waves of heat broil you from inside, turning you into a husk.

Triumph at all costs. You feel no shame, no fear. You look up at the statue imagining the possibilities that could lead to one being memorialized, that could lead to you being memorialized. You wonder, “Most of these are posthumous, aren’t they?” Whether or not they are, you know that you are destined for greatness, and could be worthy of immortality. Granite, copper, charcoal, you deserve to have an image crafted, so others can bear witness and theorize about your truths and visions. Circling the statue one last time, you continue on your path, rucksack in hand, shuffling determinedly in your worn down shoes.

Raw. The only way is through. Writhing against the chaos. The internal call to action. Extinction burst. The hands creep along the gyrus, scraping yet again. You scream, silently, the neck up locked in place, while the rest of your body convulses. You know you see no blood, no bile, but it feels as though your muscles are boiling. The hands are visible in your mind’s eye, as they always appear. You struggle to flutter your eyelids closed again, focusing on the inner flame. It begins small like a birthday candle, before you feel the light pulse out of you, burning away the phantom hands. The scream leaves you audibly as you black out, disappearing back into The Void.

The night creatures give way to the birdsong of daybreak. You hope that you aren’t discovered too soon. Catching your breath in the cover of a tree, you feel the familiar scuffs and ripples on the cover of your well-worn commonplace book. Feeling for a too-thick sheet of paper, you open up the codex and align it with the skyline. The cracked, wax seal had the imprint of a compass rose, and you have been doing your damnedest to navigate with it. The sole of your boot cracked several steps ago. Ankles worn from running, you pull what’s left of your blanket around you and sleep.

Spectral flame showers. Openness. Full preparation for the ceremony. Your upturned gaze holds the flames where they stand. The wax is harder to control at this point in your development. You can only slow it as it races towards your face, while making sure the candles themselves are not extinguished. The elements of the Forge are easier to manage, but the reworked wax has been pressed and handled by so many Hands and Minds, it is difficult to erase the memories of previous wieldings – at least, for now. Gripping the rungs of the armchair, you do your best to recenter, compartmentalize, and hold the flames.

Overwhelm and exhaustion. You were told you would be carrying around your own corpse if it’s too late for you. Burn. Out. Snuffed out. Either way, a potential painful fate. You feel as though you are being pulled to the pyre. You were warned of the fumes. You were warned of the thorns. You inhaled, you gripped tight nonetheless. You thought you were proving your perseverance, but really, you merely were engaging in self-flagellation. The rustling of the gravelly dust coating your ears helps to mute the voices as you are being dragged along the broken path haphazardly lain by your own hands.

A young, aspiring, anthropologist cups a small slimy amphibian in their palms. They have finally found a little friend that resembles a pin that a dear friend gifted to them ages ago. The simple little trinket led them to all sorts of books, documentaries, and many a wonderful, mucky wade. Returning the creature to skitter away to safety, the Pagemaster, as they are called by their colleagues, continues to photograph up high, down below, and record a note or two. They got the name for being very thorough about documenting their adventures – a habit retained from a (thankfully) brief secretarial job.

Creaking pylons of the Wrong Gods set ablaze. The familiar scent of destruction and frenzy. Better to be a Knight than a Pawn. Either way, you receive the Bishops’ pity masquerading as Grace. At least, you have agency, some sort of say in the way you navigate the world. The world is limitless to you now. You have reign, under the King’s eye, over nearly all you can see. You take a moment to look at the night sky. The stars are being increasingly obscured by the smoke. Your eyes tear up, and you make way to gallop off into the night.

It all started with the handmade rose candles. They were cute, red tealights that sat in the palm of her hand. Gradually, the wax melted and streamed through her fingers. The satisfying, cooling wax hardened as it dripped down past her elbow. She craved that sensation. She craved sensation all over. Inviting some Lovers over, she set a table of Red. Red wine, and matching goblets, red rope, and various shapes and sizes of red wax candles decorated the tabletop and surrounding floor space. Tarps, robes, and romantic lighting completed the scene – soon to bring all attendees to completion, as well.

The head of the King hangs heavy, except when in prayer. He lifts his head high in gratitude, acknowledging the risks taken so far. He counts the prizes won… and the mounting sorrows. He has done so much to get to where he stands. He has done much for others… to others. He cannot say that he had no choice. He was the one determined to make all the choices. He was the one trusted to do so. He had no qualifications aside from his bloodline, and felt the stones on the circlet – some blessed for confidence, for wisdom, for prosperity – and prayed once more that they granted him as much.

In a traditional Rider-Waite Smith tarot deck, the Pentacles would be equivalent to the Eyes of this deck.

The themes of the Eyes regularly revolve around hard work and the rewards of professional, physical, and analytical settings.

The Crimson Blight opens again, offering another object to ponder: a rogue eyeball. Human, it seems, or humanesque, the orb, unable to express anything without a lid or brow to frame it, somehow appears… expectant. The nerves still attached, it seems to be sending a signal back to… wherever it came. Though from the heavens, it certainly is not a thing of Heaven. The Hand somehow wafts this tangible, yet spectral, thing to you before slithering back up into the Blight. A subtle hum like a radiator is coming from the Eye as it rolls, taking you in with its flicking nerves sending its impression of you up to the Blight.

A dynamic duo survived the night through determination and ingenuity. The Final Girl and her limp Boy imbibe the last tobacco stick between them, barely registering the ash singeing their congealed denim. The haze of the smoke pushes out the haze of fear in the light of the halfway sun.

Their minds and spirits are cleansed of the horrors they witnessed and had to inflict upon their party. Protagonists or antagonists, it all depends on who looked the least bloody at the end of it all.

Their fate escaped, they hope to make their riches last ‘til the next Moon.

Locked in. The Deal is sealed in an ink that smells suspiciously iron-rich. Your fingertips itch and tingle a bit as you shake hands. The pact is made clear and damn-near inescapable. Bravo. The stained-glass window of opportunity showed you mercy and peace. The sunlight that passed through, though occluded, seemed to burn a bit more as you made your way back from the altar. The frankincense seemed to have gone stale, if not dissipated completely. Walking down the aisle, the pair of heavy wood doors suddenly triple. Six doors swirl before you as your knees buckle. The taste of blood overtakes you as your vision fades.

Metropolitan Mary offering her hands to receive humbly the providence promised. She has made offerings of her flesh time and time over. She has given herself to corporations, to copulation; she asks for the freedom to do with herself what she wants. She asks to be free of guilt and second-guessing.  Supplicate, she hopes for grace and favor. She did what she had to until she couldn’t take it anymore, be taken anymore. She kneels, waiting for the Hand of God to place its comforting weight on her shoulder. Mary bows her head, sighing at the familiar sensation carpet on her forehead.

Run, Rabbit, Run! The farmhouse is ablaze. It didn’t take much. The property made good kindling in this dry season. Rabbit was lucky to make it out. It was hard enough to see through the smoke with two eyes, let alone one decent one. After catching her breath, she made her way around to the animals, letting them loose. All but one. She made her way to the stallion, bucking and neighing in distress. He gradually stilled, recognizing Rabbit. “Come on, Gingerbread!” She secured herself on his back and made her way out into the night, away from this – from Them.

The promise of equivalent exchange. Devotion and the ultimate sacrifice. What do you have to give to show your gratitude, your faith in something bigger? Your faith, almost big enough to swallow you whole? Reciting the words, linked hands, each figure drops an item into the “collection plate.” It is more the size of a fruit bowl, with arcane symbols painted on it, in various colors. Some are worn and flaking, some repainted time and again.  The rim is anointed with some spiced unguent and further consecrated with a smoke so heavy and pungent, you question if it is caustic. The plate is left at the priest’s feet. “And it begins.”

Venus of Earth, shattering expectations of your hard work, your magnum opus has led to your rebirth.  Pinching clay and pinching pennies, you have waited for the signal that your tides will turn. Honing your craft, rubbing elbows when you’re not rubbing life into form. A Mona Lisa Smile with a teasing gaze looks back at you with a, “See, you’ve always had it, darling!” The broken vase base showing the past, the warm, fertile torso showing the endless potential of the present, and the face of Death offering a familiar comfort. All beautiful, all parts of life worth it.

Whether in the (Killing) Field or the cleanup crew, you have earned your blade and can be trusted to carry out beautiful carnage. Stiletto, bread knife, or bone saw, your weapon of choice is eager to serve, as are you. You slip your custom fit “driving” gloves on. Thin gold stitches line the seams between the fingers. There is nothing more satisfying than a (hack) job well-done.

You are nourished by the bloodied teat. Satisfaction, you have been made complete after the horrors you have suffered and inflicted on others. You pray this gift costs you nothing more. Your work is done. You are free from her body, but never her gaze, in any plane. Aeons swirl in her iris, looking backwards and forwards in the Nonlinear. Blood vessels whorl into her inky hairline. Jovian wrath cloaks her ominously still figure as she takes in your restlessness, dismay, and fatigue. She is pleased with your labors and leaves you with your boon – a nonagon swirling with dark matter.

Riches fall upon your head. Coins stick to your skin like a blessed wafer on your tongue. Your body and blood has borne freedom for you and those that have survived the lunacy. Your slaked gaze is empty of completion. You have earned another day through the sacrifices made of… by your colleagues. There is more to be Seen. Eyes closed, you enter the Vision, feeling the Ritmos clattering up your spine. Seeing truly, your lids twitch as your eyes scan through, finding the next Handle to grab onto. Reaching upwards, you feel the shoulder and rip it back so your target faces you.

Youth and beauty fade, they say. I prefer to think that it metamorphoses. I welcome the various gazes. The gaze of men. I provide some kind of nourishment to them, I think. The women, their gaze varies depending on the age difference. Women my age are generally standoffish. The older women and little girls are thrilled. People are hungry for anything aesthetically stimulating. The more modern the world gets, the more removed from nature it is, the shift of seasons. I am paid for my Eye – my looks and how I look at the world. I sow seeds of beauty.

Facsimile hoofed beasts circle in time to crank organ music. Burnt sugar and grease mingle with the smell of sand and brown patches of grass desperately drinking up what’s left of the recent rain. Childrens’ screams harmonize with the keening of cicadas. What a reminder of fertility the spring fair brings. A young man in a cap and coveralls ate some stale kettle corn that was left in his pocket to wake him up a little bit before his shift as he passed by, making his way to the wobbling Wonder Wheel. He is thankful for his engineering career to kick off soon, so that no other children have to fall prey to these shifty, luminescent hovels.

They say gossip is in bad taste. I call it keeping up with the local news. I make the best of everything, because that is all I know how to do. I establish security by establishing comfort, and I do that by being comforting. I check my little black recipe book for brunch, double-checking everyone’s preferences, allergies. Thankfully, we haven’t had an incident in a few years. Well, I haven’t. There’s a reason they all avoid Careless Carol. I swear I had nothing to do with it, I’m just more… watchful with my crockpot. Poor Brown Betty. She still has burn marks from that kettle, too. Thankfully Bob seems to really like that salve I’ve been bringing over…

He started out as a humble goat herder. People respected that about him, that he really knew and tended to the land. That he was a true man of the soil. They stood with him when it was time to overthrow the previous monarchs. Now, the goats roam freely, grazing intermittently while sunbathing on their headstones. Lord Hoof brought education and industry to the prairies, and for that the townspeople were more than grateful. However… The growing mass of goats brought a sense of disquiet. With each billy born, it almost seemed as though there were less boy children. The mewling, human cries were replaced with a chorus of bleats…

The Suit of Swords often describes a conflict between action and inaction. You’ll see themes of death and violence, but also controversy, communication, and the duality of the double-sided blade.

In Tarocchi Gialli, the Swords have been replaced with Knives, to better represent the secretive and sinister nature of the films from which it gathers its imagery.

The Crimson Blight offers up another omen: a giant hunting knife. It approaches you, giving the  impression of a shark fin circling you in the water. It glints through the yellow dust storm kicked up by the churning Blight. The Hand gestures the knife towards you with a flourish. It tremors, blade flicking up and down, as though sizing you up. The hand slithers up, seemingly waving its fingers as it makes its way back into the thundering, blood-colored puffs. The blade suddenly shoots up a few feet above, like a spear, before forcefully sheathing itself in the dust at your feet.

Waves of psychic energy overcome you in the circle. You are transfixed, held fast in the etheric web. Blindfolded, you are called to be the Channel, to discern the messages the Dei have for the Sisterhood. You have come close, felt the threads of them, but this is your first time hosting the Entities. Their plasma crackles up and down your outstretched hand and planted feet, faster and faster, up and down and up! The images blur through you, threatening to whip you into the encircling arms. The chanting ends. The Choice is here. The Dei exit and the Circle collapses.

The blood feels sluggish as it empties. The essential mass carved out of him streams the sticky ochre of his chest onto the ground. The three blades glitter. This was the right choice. He was the right choice, you tell yourself. The whispers are now murmuring growls. They seem to be noises of approval. At the very least, They seem to be satisfied.

You hope this is enough, that this will be the last of it.

You hope that in his consumption, that he felt free.

You wonder when you will know freedom.

You wonder when it will be enough.

All is still in the expanse. The hue of the lights here reminds you of the last time you had absinthe. A different kind of dread washes over you, but then a laugh.

Not an audible laugh, though. You wouldn’t, couldn’t dare.

You hope to find them before that thing, that inhuman yet, somehow man-formed thing, does. You take a breath. Armed with what you could find. You were always good in the kitchen. Let’s hope the knife is sharp enough to take it out in one slice.

You savor this last respite, take in the art on either side, ready to paint the walls red.

One hand on your neck, the other on your forearm. Shk-shk-shk-shk goes the knife each time it is released from the tabletop. You do your best not to flinch. He does his best to make you flinch. Too afraid to keep your eyes closed, you focus on the childlike chant he husks off his tongue into your ear. He seems to barely be keeping time, but it is likely intentional, the sadist. Your current captor swiftly pulls up the blade, grazing the minor webbing between your fingers. A weak sob escapes as the shavings from the table mingle with the slice where your wedding band used to be.

Looking up to the sky is no different than looking into a mirror. You look to find traces of her in yourself, traces of the good and bad. She left Here at the start of your formative years, and all you know, you have gleaned from photos, from letters, and from dreams. You aren’t sure whether or not she would be proud. You aren’t sure whether or not you should care, or if she did. You look down at your bitten, broken nails and sigh, then get back to digging. The cold clay feels nice on the palms of your hands.

The cracked hilt almost lined up perfectly with the “veins” of the linoleum masquerading as marble. The knife finally stopped its compass needle spin, the tip of the blade facing Justine accusingly. Jimmy actually looked surprised for the first time in his – shortening – life. He always managed to pretend that he knew everything, wanting to seem cool until he lost his cool. Justine got tired of the lies, having to cover his ass. He sputtered, arm failing to arch back enough to cover the wound – not that it would have done anything. It was far too late. Justine was good for far too long.

Hand games and finger knitting keeps you busy. A small, repetitive, focused task keeps the mind away from the lack of fear you feel towards the concept of death. Living scares you more. Hurts you more. This allows you to still the mind just enough, to be present just enough. The yarn provides controlled complications. The scarlet thread pinches just so to wake up the mind and ground it. Most hobbies demand others, and others demand more of you, leading to disappointment. Then – alone again. These patterns are easier to follow. The weaving provides comfort, no more weaving lies to hide from others’ judgment.

You nearly catapult yourself onto the ground as you awake for the fourth time that night. Your throat aches. Was the shrieking out loud this time? You cover your face, using your cold hands to ground you to your forcefully awakened state. The trees scrape their branches along your window, the breeze making them tap an interesting rhythm as the wind rushes through the leaves. More tears come from your sore eyes. What can you do about it? Nothing. It’s all in your mind. Nothing else can be done. These haunting fragments stay with you for weeks at a time.

The gloves are torn in a few fingertips and soaked through the seams. The blood starts to congeal, crusting in the lines of your palms. You do your best to work fast, but the cold air is causing your joints to lock up. You flex your hands before punching your thighs to get them going again. You grab the corners of the mat, a metallic, turpentine-scented wonton. You let out a groan at the sound of the rumbling thunder in the closing distance. You wish you didn’t have to do this alone. You wish you didn’t have to do this at all.

The ash from the farmhouse and the scorched ranchland coated his boots. He scanned the newly open horizon for anything of worth that may have survived the fire. Walking down the hill, and into the former threshold, the youth spots a vanity mirror that came loose from a dresser. He tilts it to a satisfactory angle and whips out a switchblade. With a light wiggle, the metal slips off to reveal a comb. Taking a few decisive swipes at his hair, he “sheaths” his comb. Letting out a crowing code noise, he calls his band of hooligans from the nearby boulders to come scavenge some spoils.

A shrill humming noise buzzes right behind his eyes. It wanes but never seems to fully subside. He grinds what’s left of his molars, weaving from side to side with heavy steps. He pauses, looking in a shop window, his nubby nails scraping rhythmically down his temples to his chin. He scrapes and scratches his face, chittering his teeth, looking at his reddening countenance. Someone approaches tentatively with concern, says something, but he can’t make it out between the humming, buzzing eyes, and the scrapescrapescrape of his nails, and the cracking of his grinding molars. The person grips their shoulder, catches his reflection and shrieks into the night for the last time.

Love and trust, love and trust. The ritual is new, yet familiar, dangerous yet comforting. All of this and more was promised in this new rite. Skyclad, dressed in nothing but flying ointment and candlelight, every breath drawn seemed to echo. The evocations belted out to the gods of old in all their aspects seemed to raise the flames with each repetition. The Night Queen’s arms around you, she draws the knife closer to your heart. She asks, “Do you love Us? Do you trust Us?” You respond. She continues, “Do you love yourself? Do you trust yourself?” You pause…

Nine spokes reach out, like the rays of the sun. The Impetus King, bathed with the blood of doves, the blood of dragons, and the blood of a firstborn son. With each step, the jaws of the skulls festooning their crown chatter ominously. The Walls seem “dry.” It had been too long since there was a good Trial. They review the scrolls aimlessly, waiting for the latest grievance to come spilling through the door. They were quick, direct, ruthless, but just above all. They circled the scratched wood grain with a jeweled letter opener until a cacophony of boots barged in the Center.