Fickle.
I live behind the most beautiful girl in the world. It sounds cliché, I know, like the overworked, tired plot of some romance story, but it’s true. When she was born, all the stars crowded into her nursery and decided to give her a gift.
Her father had done them a good turn, you see. When a particularly violent meteor storm shower crashed through their ranks, he bandaged their wounds, helped them repair their manor houses. He even carved Draco a new tail out of driftwood after the first was sheared off by a comet’s tail and smashed into stardust.
The stars, forever grateful, had offered him riches, fame, a place among them. He declined, replying that he was happy with the life he led. When his daughter was born, however, they insisted on granting her some boon.
They arrived en masse, star after shooting star zooming through her open window until such a glow shone from her windows that to stare at it was to stare at the sun. They spent hours there, debating and discussing and deciding on the perfect gift. But the stars are old beings with antiquated ideas and outdated practices. More than that, the stars are vain, and so they gave her the gift of beauty, the kind that can’t be found on Earth, only among the heavens.
I was there that day, standing on the grass looking at her window. I don’t remember much—I was but a handful of years old—but the glow, the beautiful, fearsome glow is something I can never forget.
My father was their stable keeper, but when they got a fancy new horseless carriage he retired. I was to take over his job, but without horses—they sold the last of them to transform the stable into a garage—I took on the gardening duties instead. My mother, while not their gardener, was an avid one with the greenest thumb you can imagine. She had taught me much over the years, and I was glad to put the skills to use.
With the job came a cottage, a small house with a single bedroom and a closet-sized kitchen. It sat on the fringes of their lawn—a large green carpet that was both my pride and joy and their makeshift croquet court. It was their space to sit, wander, and enjoy a bit of green. From the small window in my matchbox-kitchen, I had a view that most young men would offer up an arm, a leg, and their month’s wages for. From my window, I could see straight up to her room.
The years had passed, and the cradle was replaced with a regally-robed pillow of a bed, the mobiles had been exchanged for embroidered tapestries, and the baby for a beautiful young woman. With each year, her beauty grew and grew. The good looks the stars had bestowed upon her ripened into fruition, and there could be no doubt that such beauty came from somewhere other than this world, but the charm and wit and cleverness was entirely her own.
Each night she would sit on her windowsill and unfold a delicate leather book: her diary. All the while she would steal a glance out of her window, perhaps at the stars, perhaps at the lights of the nearby village. It wasn’t long after her seventeenth birthday that she confided in me that my name appeared in her book. Not long after, I learned that the stolen glances from her window found their way to my cottage, hoping to catch sight of my face.
The hints did not go misunderstood. I had, entirely unwittingly, won the favor of the most beautiful girl in the world. But whether she wanted me to toss rocks at her window, arrange secret midnight meetings to serenade her, set off to seek my fortune, or propose to her immediately, I didn’t quite know. It didn’t much matter to me.
While all the young men of the village—the farmer’s son, the cobbler’s apprentice, the stable boy at the mayor’s mansion, and everybody in between—crept onto the property to try to catch glimpses of her window, or tired to greet her as she strolled along the river, or tired to help her home when she went into the village for groceries, while they all sought her favor, I had won it. All the while, I had no interest in possessing it whatsoever.
Her face was beautiful, beautiful like the stars’ glow that night years ago, but it stirred within me no rosy bud of romance, no sense of longing, no stirrings within me. Her glances out the window did not inspire the kind of giddy exuberance that it would in my peers.
She approached me one day, cornering me in crevice corner between two rose bushes. The blooms were just starting to stick out their heads from their furry emerald helmets. Caught between the greenery and her glass features, in the cloud of the roses’ perfume and her lavender scent, I paused, knowing I would not escape without hearing her words.
Her words were as blunt as her features were fine. She argued that it would be like fate, that I could be the farm boy in the fairy tales, setting out to seek my fortune and win the heart of my one true love. I reminded her that I was no farm boy and that to say otherwise would be to lie to fate itself. As she looked for the words to say next, I slipped away to tend to the lawn.
When I returned to my cottage, I could have sworn that the small black cat— the one that liked to slink around the baseboards, looking for the mice that liked to tremble across the worn planks of my kitchen floor—was watching me with doubt, as if wondering how I could deny my fortune. I only shrugged at it in reply.
The next week a basket of fresh fruit was left on my doorstep. An envelope was tucked between a bunch of grapes that were so succulent they were nearly bursting on their own and an apple with skin as dark as sin and flesh as white as a dove. It contained a carefully folded poem, with words so beautiful that even the most arrogant scholars couldn’t deny its craft. It was clearly her hand, and her words, and her thoughts and she begged me to consider the ties of fate, the way that our stories had arced together, the way they would continue to do so.
I tucked the note into a book of romantic poetry, one of the only volumes that found a home in my cottage. My mother took the fruit and baked it into a galette for a village celebration. I found the poem many years later and smiled at the childhood folly of the memory.
The next week I bumped into her, most literally, on a visit to the village store. I, on my way out, she on her way in. When she asked for my help in carrying back her load I took up a basket and set my pace beside her.
She wove the way back with words of destiny, of soulmates, of love, until each step was another twist of the shuttle across a loom. I said nothing in reply; to make a tear in a piece of beautiful art is a crime in itself, but once the load was laid in the kitchen of the large house I bowed my head slightly and took my leave.
This was the form my life took, and, in the nooks and crannies of my mind, I think I almost began to wonder if fate was driving me to her and her to me. Until one night, she wasn’t peering from her window down at mine. She wasn’t coming into the grocery store as I left. She wasn’t leaving tokens on my stoop. She had found another lover—adventure itself—and left on a passing ship to see the world.
I think of her sometimes and smile. I hear tales of a beautiful woman climbing the Alps, or sailing down the rivers of China, or standing among the dunes of the Sahara, and wonder if it is she, the one who courted me so insistently. I hear and I wonder if she was wrong about fate the whole time, if it is as real as a puff of smoke is tangible. Or perhaps she was right, and fate is merely more fickle than she anticipated. Perhaps fate changed its mind.
#stars #fate #Draco #gift #beauty #truelove #adventure
Getaway Car
Her breath was light and slow on my neck. She was asleep. I could tell, because when she woke up, her breath always quickened, like she did, because she always had somewhere to be and something to do. I liked to wake up before her, because then I could watch her be calm for a few moments before we started our day.
She was hard to keep up with. The sun crept in through our window and fell across her face and her eyes opened with it. There was no slow blink, no battling remaining sleep away. She was instantly awake and alert and alive. My heart fell in my chest slightly.
Kissing my forehead, she bid me good morning and stepped out of bed. Stretched. Opened the door. Entered the bathroom. I heard the water of the shower go on.
I laid in bed for another moment before rising and following her into the bathroom to brush my teeth with the little pale blue toothbrush I'd been keeping since university, just replacing the heads. As I brushed, I drew patterns in the rapidly forming steam on the mirror. A face. An arrow. A heart. A star.
Into the kitchen for breakfast. While I was eating corn flakes, she strode in behind me, heels already clicking, already clad in suit, hair already in a ponytail that swished back and forth, back and forth as she strode along. She put the kettle on and then walked around behind me, wrapping her arms around my neck and resting her chin silently on my shoulder.
I stopped eating and focused on the breathing of the woman that left me in the dust. In and out. I felt her chest rise and fall on my back and felt her eyelashes flutter on my cheek and her fingers on my chest and the pressure of her chin in my shoulder.
I reached up and lightly touched her fingers. Her breathing slowed, and for a moment, I thought she had fallen asleep.
But I still felt her chest rise and fall on my back and felt her eyelashes flutter on my cheek and her fingers on my chest and the pressure of her chin in my shoulder and I knew she was still awake. She was just calm.
Since high school, she'd always left me behind, holding hopelessly onto ropes attached to the back of her getaway car as she sped around, growing in success and spirit until she dwarfed my own pace of life. I prefered things to be slower than she did. And every so often I'd let go of the rope and walked along the roadside for a while at my own pace and she'd circle back around and ask me if I wanted a ride, and I always said yes. My desire to go with her was an inevitability. Her desire for me to come was an inevitability. And when I eventually opened the passenger door and got inside and let her drive, one handed wheeling like a maniac through life, she eventually put the other hand in mine and it fit like it had always had, even though we were nothing alike and fought constantly and had different ideas and plans for life. And every so often, she'd stop entirely just to sit with me and hold my hand occassionally even whisper that she loved me. And I'd take her in my arms and we'd lower down our seats and I'd kiss her and tell her I loved her too. I was always better at that part.
"I love you," she murmured in my ear.
I turned around and kissed her gently. "I love you too."
Preparations for Emergence
I think that as we wonder what we think we of where we ought to wander,
A certain thrill of participating sadness and redirecting gladness fades away.
Our tendency to reflect upon multitudes of minutia we are too careful not to squander,
And the efforts to overgeneralize the chaos of our human Fray...
Holding fast to what we hope to find as we unwind our consciences and fringes
Deciding where we need to go as our stories react, retract, create, rearrange, and singes...
Our Fortunes and our Plans redefine what we can do to participate...
Sidewise slanting, death unchanted, past amerleiorate.
I think at last, the things that last are not what we can see and touch,
But that which resonates and re-creates a pattern painted with history's echo.
We can try not to think or to feel too much,
But we revolve, resolve, evolve, and grow into what we can learn to let go.
The Show
The black compact endured, held agony.
The light it comes, but much too harsh for me.
In dreams I thought of comfort, since so long
It had been gone; instead, disruption wrongs.
It comes to me a searing intrusion;
It brands my eyes, blindness and confusion.
In hopes for freedom, I then stumble out,
Into the open, welcoming – no doubt?
My legs, they shake, too weak, my body aches.
I doubt that much more torture it could take….
The needles poked in places I can’t see,
A pain so sharp, I wished death came to me.
Then stuffing stuff in my ears, eyes, and nose
They made me weak but forced me on my toes.
So now, this freedom, I cannot express
How grand. The feeling swells to fill my chest.
All yearning I did was to liberate,
And water – that would help me celebrate!
But now, out here, this open ring of light,
I realize it’s not over. I must fight.
My eyes, they feel uncomfortable, sticky,
I barely blink. Struggle. Vision icky,
I see around me shapes, they move in blurs.
Ears caked with wetness, I hear shouts in slurs.
I try to breathe, my nose it does not work.
I seek escape, but the villains, they lurk.
I want to find freedom, my family,
But fierce pain shoots, harms more than vanity.
Again, again, the pain like lightning strikes
Fatal. A roaring crowd around me hypes
For beings, eager evils, who race past
Continue plunging sharp things in me, fast.
One, two, three
I cannot breathe
Four, five, six
Will it ever quit?
They wave red at my face. Dazed and confused,
I run this way and that, destined to lose.
I roar, I bleed, I cry out for your help,
But on and on – they do not cease to pelt.
My screams of agony linger in air,
Unheard by gleeful mobs, surely uncared.
I beg for death – I just want it to end.
Why is it me? I do not understand.
Then cheers so loud, they pierce through deadened ears;
In comes another, with a larger spear.
This is it – my fear turns to relief;
Finally, they’ll shed me of this grief!
It lunges deep, comes out my underside
Why do I feel it? Why do I survive?
He pulls the sword back out with great effort –
Surely, the second time will have to work.
Alas, again, I still must feel the harm,
But that’s okay – the third time is the charm.
He plunges firm, thrusts right into my heart,
And now, at last, I’m done playing my part.
The crowd leaves satisfied, appetites full,
For now the world holds one less wicked bull.
Of the psychological and physical torment inflicted,
It’s just an animal – tradition cannot be evicted.
Your Destiny
Destiny is out of your control regardless of your free will. Your free will is included in destiny because what you will do or not do, (decisions you make), do not affect destiny. Free will is predetermined and pre-considered into your destiny.
These facts only apply if you allow and trust in the universe of love in which you were born.
The old saying, "Let Go and Let God," simply explains destiny and fate. You may not like the fact that you are very good as something but you don't really like it. You may have many other interests but you are really good at "X."
That is your destiny. Your given talents are inevitable and are part of destiny.
Think about how you got real good at what you do. That is fate, the molder and encourager of your destiny.
Coincidence is a bad word, camouflaging the fate that helps create your destiny.
Just accept it. There may be surprises you absolutely love because you make decisions (previously considered), and live with trust in a love for you, while here on this earth you may not understand.
this is not love.
There is a certain calmness in the inevitable.
In knowing that no matter what you do, or how you foolishly attempt to change fate, death will make its way towards you. It will find you, even if you hide . . . even if you fight.
You fear death. I can feel it. You fear me. You fear what you will become, as our souls become more and more intertwined and our life forces are fused together.
Well, I think it's rather exciting. I'm eager to find out . . . will your life be longer, because of this entity inside you? Or will it be cut in half, the strain on your body from completely separate soul residing alongside yours too much for your weak body to handle?
Just remember, even if you die, I will always be here.
Ah, you're angry. You're really stupid to think that you can fight me. It's your fault I'm here, anyway. That my spirit rose from my entrapment in my grave and merged into your body. That our souls and our hearts are becoming one. That your body is now mine, too, and I can see your memories as well as you can feel mine.
You're even beginning to look like me. It's the eyes. Haven't you noticed that one is green, yet? Yours are brown.
There is no "individual" anymore. There is me and you. Us. And if you try to fight it, I'll kill you. I could kill you now, even - take control of our body and throw it off a building, or even jab a knife into our stomach.
But I won't do that. I like you, remember? Fated lovers . . . almost more tragic than Romeo and Juliet.
You call me sick, a murderer, a freak, that one day you'll rid me from your body, like I'm some sort of demon you can cast out. You say I'm just some "voice" in your head. Hate to break it to you, darling, but I'm no demon. I'm not just a voice, either. I was a person once. I can be that again. We can be that, together. It's like it was destiny that put us together, that gave me the chance to live again. Soulmates really do exist.
So go ahead and scream all you want.
You don't have any other choice.
Two of Wands
Some would say that a feeling doesn’t have a smell. But the fortune tellers would have to disagree. At least those of us who are of true descent. The spirits and magicks that pulse through the wind--the fates and futures that rise and fall like the tides of the very air we breath--can be so chokingly distinct to a Romani, a keeper of destinies.
Still, one must be trained in the ways. To recognize how certain strains of serendipity have a familiar, welcoming spice that tickles the nostrils, while others bring with it a cloud of musky-scented mourning that clings to the lungs and lingers in the clothes.
People bring with them their own kismet, meandering off them like incense. Their moods, hopes, and fears become their own fortune teller that need merely be read by those with a nose to sense it.
I've never liked my nose really--too pointy and small. It's a wonder the insignificant thing can sense anything at all. But it does. More than I want to, that's for sure.
I hold my long hair back with a scarf, tieing it around my head with a knot against the back of my neck. A woman lifts the flap of my tent and enters bringing with her a sweet scent.
As I shuffle the cards the bangles on my wrist clang together like wind chimes singing of the impending storm. Their cold metal against my skin helps ground me. It helps focus my attention on the task at hand instead of the strong sweet odor of deceit that fills my tent and makes my stomach cramp. Deceit tricks me every time. It has an overpowering, sugary aroma that mimics the scent of love and is similar to innocence, yet without the hint of mint.
The woman before me has tight curls that barely meet her bony shoulders. Her gaunt face pulses on the sides like she’s clenching her teeth in time with her wringing hands.
I swallow.
One last attempt to cleanse my aching throat as I finally take my eyes off my client and give all my attention to the cards.
The tips of my fingers confirm the stack is ready and with eyes closed I retrieve the top card.
A metallic zing runs up my hand and I know the reading before I see it. “Reverse nine of wands,” I say.
My voice is huskier from the fire burning in my open mouth. It blazes more raw with each breath.
This card doesn’t tell me anything my sense of smell hasn’t already. “You have a secret you don’t wish to be found out.” We are merely setting boundaries for what is to come. “You are wanting to know if it's too late.”
Even I cannot sense if her husband knows of her actions. The cards must do the rest. They speak to me like the wind whispers to the trees. Like my Mother and Grandmother raised me to smell those around me, they also taught me to listen to the wands-the magic in the cards.
My fingers dance on top of the deck and the top card is harder to read through my touch but I’m certain it’s the right reading. On the table I exhale as I read it. “Upright. Six of wands.”
The air twists from sweet to sour, like milk that has spoiled. I speak swiftly to ease this woman’s dooming fear. “You’re successful in your quest and have overcome the burden of publicity you fear. See how the six of wands has a man with a wreath riding a white horse. The white horse of course represents strength," and purity, but I leave that bit out. "You have shown much strength in this situation and will surely be publicly rewarded for your efforts."
The woman smiles and her hands are finally still. I inhale deeply at the welcoming refreshing scent of ease. Like rain after a fire it soothes my lungs and throat.
A painful shock is sent through my fingers as I brush the top of the deck. The top card is not right. Closing my eyes, I hum without thinking, and my fingers are lead to the card somewhere in the deck that finishes this woman's destiny.
Down toward the end of the pile I retrieve the one card that vibrates through my fingers. I only stop humming when the Queen of wands is upside down on the table, facing me instead of the woman.
"You must beware of selfishness and jealousy."
The woman and I make eye contact and I both see and smell the worry in her face. "The queen of wands, in either position, represents fertility and the feelings emotions and hardships it brings."
The womans dirty brown eyes have lost all the shine of youth. Without looking away from my face they fill with tears.
"This could mean an obstacle will stand in the way of your success. In order to have what you desire you will have to push through this thing, or person, that stands in your way," I cringe at my own words wondering what this woman is planning and what I am leading her to do. With a shake of my head I continue. I don't need to know the detials of her life. It's none of my business. "Just as one pushes through the hardship of labor and delivery."
My smile turns to grimace as the air in the room spoils like rotten fruit. Another tricky emotion, though I’ve had more experience with lust in my tent than deceit.
I don’t process the woman’s thanks, I only hold my breath as best I can to keep from retching. She pays a grateful tip and runs off to make a mess of whatever fate I interpretted for her. I grab at my stomach as soon as she’s left, falling forward onto the table with one fluid sigh of relief.
My head clears with each fresh breath and I remove the scarf from around my head to dab at my sweating brow. The waves in my stomach calm. The flask under my table is half full and I sit up, then tilt my head back to wash it down quickly.
I blame the attacks of scents that woman put me through for why I don’t notice my next client approaching. My senses are burned numb from use and without warning a large man throws open the door flap and enters.
Sounds of laughter from the carnival and screams from the rides make a chill run up my arms. Or perhaps it’s this gentleman’s appearance that puts me on nerve. Or the fact that I can’t smell him at all.
His shape is like an upside down triangle, with wide thick shoulders and a lean waist. His black hair is unkempt, his eyebrows too shaggy to reveal any eyes, and his beard so mangy it screams laziness more than style preference.
I grab a hanky from my belt and blow my nose trying to clear my senses before we begin. “Your fortune awaits, Sir. Please have a seat in my office.”
I wrap my head dress around my head again bringing the length of the scarf down to drape over my shoulder.
Deceit and lust were tricky, but this next scent has me completely baffled. It floats out to me with an edge of warning but of what? I detect the scent of leaves and grass clippings. Anxiety? It's missing the putrid roadkill scent of fear, though it's definitely earthy. It’s nothing like the pleasant sort of dirt smells that accompany carefree moods such as mellow and relaxed. If smells could have images attached to them this one would definitely be that of a worm wriggling in the darkest of soils.
I can't put my finger on it yet there is something familiar about this man's smell. I've encountered it before. The man smiles a toothy grin and many of his remaining teeth are lopsided with brown decay.
I list again the smells I detect. Leaves, grass, earth, and the last is a nutty sort of aroma that could possibly just be something he ate while enjoying the fair.
The man says nothing, only smiles his disgusting smile and breathes a ragged breath that makes him sound like a smoker. Could that be the nuttyness I smell?
“Can I read your fortune for you, Sir? Or perhaps a palm reading?" My voice shakes at the blindness of this conversation. I still have no clue what his intentions or desires are.
“You look too young to be a fortune teller." His voice is more earthy than his scent. "And definitely too pretty to be one."
"You doubt my abilities then? How I'd love to prove them to you. Please, take a seat." My voice rises higher with each word.
A new scent of roses blends with the earthy smell. Confidence. He does not doubt my abilities at all. Rather he is counting on them. What does he want?
The tent flap is opened again and a crow comes swooping in deftly. With the sight of that bird and the smell of this man I, in an instant, realize two things. One, I know exactly where I've smelt this before and two, I am in big trouble. It all clicks. This man is one of Jarku's men, come to kill off the race of fate-readers, and this bird is with them. I was only six years old the last time I saw this bird help Jarku murder my mother. That nutty aroma I remember now is the intent to kill.
Another man steps in as the bird continues to fly at me.
Standing, I knock my chair over and grab a tarot card from the table in one fluid motion. Instead of allowing the ache to creep up my fingers I push it back into the card and it glows a dim wavering blue.
With a flick of the wrist the card goes flying through the air toward the bird and slices into its neck just as it opens its beak to squawk. The bird call is cut short as it falls with a thud to the ground. From the cards lodged position in the dead bird I can make out the five of wands and the blue light goes out.
Both men just stare at the bird while I grab all the cards from the table.
"I actually liked that bird," the new intruder says. He is taller, but just as full around the shoulders. He wears a simple once-white tunic and a leather strap across his body. The men's mouths are alike in every way, except this one is clean shaven and has white thinning hair.
Stuffing the deck into the folds of silk around my belt I grab two cards for each hand. With a step backward I crouch low and fan the cards-one pair of weapons in front of my face and another high behind my head.
“Now, now." Says the second man. "No need to make this difficult, Gypsy.”
I curl my lip at the term. People associate “Gypsy” with thief, someone they can’t trust. The moods in the air swirl around me and I focus on them trying to decipher which ones come from whom. Anticipation from the first man. Impatience, determination, and doubt from the second one before me.
“What does Jarku want?” I say, not moving from my ready stance.
“He merely needs you to do a reading for him”
I sniff. “Liar!” I spin a card toward him, missing his face by only inches.
The first, stockier man whistles then chuckles.
The fruity smell of agitation hits me in the gut and I pull another card from my sash.
“Just come quietly and we promise not to hurt you.”
The air shifts to the scent of brisk spring rivers- they’re ready to pounce and grab. Barely moving my arms I flick all four cards out in front of me. The ache leaves my fingers as the cards soar and I reload. Two of the cards hit their target, the first man’s throat, one right after another they slice his airway and he falls grasping and spluttering.
The bigger taller barrel of a man dodges and I spin all four new tarot cards out at him again. His sword is drawn and he deflects them but the last glowing tarot card knicks him on the cheek and he grunts.
Dabbing at his cheek he looks at the blood on his hands. Vanilla and warm spices fill the air. He’s enjoying this. It’s the challenge he was hoping it would be.
My hands are reloaded and I crouch again speaking back to the cards. The ache is pushed out of my fingers onto them and they glow a brighter blue than before.
He smiles and takes his stance as well. “Jarku won’t mind a small delay. Never said to deliver you alive.”
I try to give a confident smirk of my own but I know the smell of road kill in the air is from my own fear. “I don’t hand out free fortunes,” I say. “I will expect my regular payment for this reading.”
With that I spin my hands in front of me, letting go of the cards faster than I’ve ever released them. He dodges them and flips a small knife from his shoe. I lean just in time to hear it whiz through the scarf on my shoulder.
Reloaded I send two toward his feet and one at his face. His dodging steps are like a dance the way he hops and skips and moves his head away from them. He is drawing closer to me from the movements. His sword cuts through the air so swiftly that he slices the last card in half mid air.
As I’m grappling for more cards his sword comes at me. Now I’m dancing my part, a sideways frantic shuffle, but my arm isn’t quick enough and his blade makes contact. Pain in my arm makes the ache of the cards feel dull. I barely notice though when he comes at me again. I jump backward missing his second blow and have cards in my hand again.
He steps back as he sees my hand full of cards raise. One, two, three cards fly and the second one zips across his ear making blood rain on his neck.
The memory of the card is still on my fingers “King of wands,” I shout. Quickly I reload and crouch. “You're too cocky and impulsive to be a good fighter.” The shake is out of my voice but I reign in my own pride. Lower myself further to the ground like Grandmother taught me.
He growls as he rushes me with sword in both hands overhead. At the last minute I duck and weave out of his way. Just as he rushes by me I take a card and slice it across his back ripping his shirt and slicing skin with the end of the stroke.
The card falls to the ground. “Knight of Wands,” I say. I’m breathing heavy but smile at the appropriateness. “You must watch your temper. The knight of wands relays the loss of power. Turning to anger is the straightest path to weakness.”
He's hunched over after my blow but with a grunt he leads up with his shoulder, swinging his arm which hits me in the chest. I fall backwards from his blow and my cards spill across the dirt floor. I'm scrambling, crawling backwards like a crab as he rises and towers over me.
"Me Mother was a rotten gypsy like you." He wipes at the blood on his face as it drips into his mouth. "Always telling me about my temper."
One more crawl backward and my fingers ache against a card.
"Always telling me what I was feelin' ’fore I said anything."
The card heats, it's in my hand and I hope the glow cannot be seen from his angle.
"I'll be glad when Jarku finishes off your-"
Leading with the top of my hand my movement cuts him short as I swing from behind. The card is wedged between my fingers. With a flick it's sent off, glowing so blue it lights up the entire tent.
At first I sense his relief as he realizes I missed his throat--the death of his comrade moments ago. There isn't a hint of fear in the air as the card cuts through the fabric of his tunic and lodges deep in his chest. The heat of the glowing card makes the flesh it touches burn and the room stinks for different reasons than emotions or destiny. The only mood to be sensed is shock permeating like fresh cut lemons bold and strong.
He falls to his knees as I scramble to my feet.
The card sticking out of him has a man on top of a castle holding a globe. "The two of wands," I whisper. "Your fate looks grim. You've ignored important details in planning your future, making your downfall," he falls forward flat on top of the cards and I jump out of his way. "Inevitable."
I catch my breath as I stare at the mess made from the fight. Escaping the hand of Jarku a second time has me rooted in place shaking at every limb. To think I could do so a third time is foolish. I need to run.
The bird lies with his beak open and stiff. The metallic smell of my revenge fills the room. I bend and retrieve the card sliced in half, the nine of wands with the sick man standing alone. The last one standing, ready for battle, the card speaks to me of resilience and grit. Stepping over the men I say without looking back, "You owe me a new deck of cards."
A Rom-Com Kind of Fate
What are the odds?
Do we only consider probability in mathematics?
Can we calculate the probability of two souls meeting?
Whatever the probability,
Whatever the calculations,
I believe our meeting was destined
That warm August night
I donned a ratty college t-shirt and dirty black converses
My hair freshly dyed a fire engine red
To show the world my unwillingness to conform,
To settle down
To showcase my “I’m ready to take on the world” confidence
To display my spontaneity
As spontaneous as my personality,
Fate proved even more so
You showed up,
Reluctantly
I was waiting,
Reluctantly
You were tagging along,
Politely but blatantly ignoring my loud hair
And my short, stubborn sentences
I was also tagging along,
Pretending that the laws of attraction were not trying their best
It wasn’t until our friends disappeared,
And the bottle of wine was nearly empty,
That we stopped pretending
But that only lasted until the sun came up
Fate is a myth
It only exists in romantic comedies,
Where two people are brought together by the universe,
And fall madly, deeply in love,
Where they live happily ever after
That’s what I told myself
But almost inevitably,
Just like the fate of a romantic comedy,
Something brought us together again
This September night I’m covered in paint,
The remnants from a party we both happened to attend
Instead of going home,
To rinse off the messy memories of a fun-filled night,
We spent the rest of the night covered in dried up paint
Drunkenly lying on a crisp, white hotel bed,
Listening to music until 6 in the morning
As if we were the only people in the room
The next day was spent thinking,
Replaying the night in my mind on a loop
Until I finally believed
That possibly
Our meeting was inevitable
Our meeting was fate
And here I sit
Four years have passed
Knowing you,
Loving you
And I know that without a doubt
Whatever the probability,
Whatever the calculations,
This life together is both the product of fate
And the product of choice
In any lifetime
This one or the next,
I know that our souls will always meet
And I will always choose you
#challenge
#fate
#destiny
#choice
#inevitability
#romance
#love