The jazz club was called ‘Wings of Love.’ Jennie watched the taxi drive away and wondered what she had gotten herself into. So far she had done a shitty job of navigating life and her brother had promised that the fortune teller at this club would help her adult more efficiently. A jazz club seemed like a strange place to get life advice but she had nothing to lose. The velociraptors caged on the stage made beautiful music as they smashed the instrument they were caged with. A harpsichord died beautifully inside the cage of a raptor missing one eye. Jennie made her way to the bar. “I’m here to see Karen.” The bartender pointed to the hall the bathrooms were in. The women’s sign had been replaced with a handwritten note, ‘Life Advice: 20$’. Jennie took out her last twenty and went in. The door had been removed from a stall and Karen was perched on the back of the toilet. Karen was a parrot. Jennie waited for her turn. After dropping her 20 in the hat on the floor – Karen spoke. “Rawk. Move to Nebraska. Rawk. Wear the red dress.” Jennie smiled and headed home to pack up her life.
The gold ghost drifted through the forest. The sun danced in her ectoplasm and cast rainbows on the trees around her. Always moving. Always wailing. The forest life fled the sounds of her screams. The birds stopped singing and the foxes fled. It was the sound of a sociopath. The gold ghost smiled as the animals fled. No matter how far she roamed she couldn’t get away from the stench of life. She wandered the western plains and was disappointed to find life everywhere. The far reaches of the north were almost quiet but flightless birds and other creatures disturbed her rest. She had no desire to haunt dance halls or old theaters. She was a modern ghost and baby, she just wanted to be alone. Night fell and she glanced at the stars. Her weak thought patterns remembered a science lesson about the vacuum above her. Maybe this was her last hope. She let go of gravity and drifted into the void above.
Even Picasso painting an impossible dream could not have fathomed this. On the vintage dance floor under the abstract beauty of a chandelier built from fairy lights and spinning bicycle tires – the fire man danced. Flame dripped from his body as he moved to the music. The pipe organ music almost overwhelmed the electric violin and tuba player – but somehow, it worked. 3 people played bongoes in the corner and everyone swayed to the beat. The unlikely orchestra switched to a jitterbug and the dance floor filled up like a clogged sink and overflowed into the rest of the bar. There was a circle around the fire man – no one wanted to risk his flames. The water baby was late to the party but she waded right in, as at home in the crush of people as she was in the sea. Everyone sighed as she passed and her mist cooled their skin. She reached the fire man and smiled. He grabbed her hand and spun her wildly until dawn.
The two koi circled in the small pond. Pisces and Juno watched from their watery dungeon as people leaned over their puddle of a home and threw shiny round bits of metal at them. Juno watched in horror one day as a small human tried to grab Pisces. She splashed at the tiny human and was relieved when it left. Pisces spent several days in hiding after that. The humming light overhead turned on and off with a regularity that was a mystery to the two fish. Many years went by and their worldly view never changed. Humans came and went. One nice human came by occasionally and took all of the shiny rounds out of their water hole. They sighed in relief at the loss of the metallic tang in the water flow. Within a few on and offs of the light the humans would again toss the shiny rounds at them. One cycle of light Pisces was dismayed to find Juno floating unmoving. He prodded her and wished he had a shiny round to trade for one more day with her.
I want a confection shaped like my cold dead heart. The chocolate must be darker than my soul. The glittering frosting should reflect that troublesome twinkle in my eyes that betrays me every time I dream up mischief. I want twenty seven tattoos decorating the flesh asylum I am locked within. But above all, I wish to love myself as much as your eyes love me. I wish to be kind to myself the way your heart is gentle with mine. I wish I could hug my worries away the way you so valiantly do. But for now. My prison of skin loves yours with madness and mischief. Thank you for giving me everything and loving me fearlessly.
The scooter puttered through the windy streets. It was 9:15 pm but the sun had just barely begun to set. The swirls of summer air tickled her skin as she deftly maneuvered the scooter. She loved nights like this. The wild thing in her chest wanted to howl at the sliver of a moon that arose after the suns descent. She reached her destination and grabbed the violin case from the back of the scooter. It was a comforting weight on her shoulder. The warm night air was punctuated by the discordant sounds of an orchestra warming up. Several different melodies clashed as each musician warmed up in their own unique style. She glanced at her watch. She was right on time. She climbed the winding back stairs until she reached the roof. The moon felt close enough to touch. She opened her violin case and a shot pierced the air. The orchestra was silent and screams cut the air. She deftly skipped down the stairs. No one ever suspected a sniper in a sundress.
The Pyramid of Peace loomed over the city. The city dwellers shuddered when its shadow fell over them. They chanted a prayer whisper loud and hurried to their destinations. Inside the pyramid was the gauntlet. It ate the souls of any who were deemed unworthy. Every resident of the city had seen a loved one perish at the hands of the priest who wielded the gauntlet, an emaciated man who was immune to the gauntlet because he led a life devoid of living. He was addicted to the power and spent seven hours a day on his knees in penitence. A pirate sat upon the rail of his ship and contemplated how he could pluck this jewel of a city. He watched the residents scurry and on an impulse he hatched a plan. He had his men deliver barrels of gunpowder to the base of the pyramid. On a Tuesday morning he lit the fuse himself. He watched with glee as the pyramid collapsed, burying the priest and the gauntlet. The residents screamed in terror and fled inland. In the harbor boats were crushed like toothpicks by the monster the pyramid had warded against.
The singing tarot cards are a tool of painful realignment. Their music reaches into your soul and tweaks it until you are in agony. Once you sleep off the effects the world feels overwrought. Soon you’ll be gripping the rose hard just to feel the thorns. That balance will sustain you for a breath or two. Over time you will feel yourself blossom like a crimson amaryllis in a window on a bleak winter’s day. Within a month you stop squinting at the morning sunlight. Within a year your skin finally stops itching. Time passes but the brilliant flame within you burns ever brighter. By the end of the decade you barely recognize yourself, the transformation is so complete. You are a walking paradox – both dead and alive.
In terms of tragedy, my story gets a middle grade – a C or C minus at best. I may be an orphan but at least I have magical powers. That has nothing to do with this tale but I thought you should know. My friends and I got all dolled up for a night on the town. We were looking hot. We decided to hit the local dive bar. No literally – it’s an underwater bar that you have to take a submarine to reach. It’s the hottest place to party under the sea. The bouncer almost smelled me out. My chimera blood pounded in my ears but the gaudy enchantment I wore around my neck distracted the troll bouncer as it was meant to. We got inside and the place was jumping. The aqua dome overhead sparkled with the light from the disco crystal. Nymphs and Satyrs were kicking up their heels on the dance floor situated on a dormant volcano. Everything was going fine until a Satyr grabbed my ass and my tail lashed out, stinging him with a barb. A riot broke out and a cave troll broke the aqua dome. 400 people had to swim for their lives. Thank goddess mama gave me gills.
There is an off kilter symmetry in the way religion clashes with cowboy boots. One demon set out to change that. She wore her fire engine red boots as she attended every Sunday sermon. The preacher noticed her week after week and prayed for the immortal soul she did not possess. The prayers slid off her skin and clung to her boots like a persistent scrap of toilet paper. Soon they were the holiest boots on Earth. A hundred years passed and they sat well loved on the shelf of an antiques store. Some heads turn and look at them but they sat unworn for years. Finally a young girl came in with her precious babysitting money. She was so excited she wore them out of the store. She practically skipped down the street. A whim overtook her and she clicked her heels “There’s no place like home.” She should’ve been more specific as she stared in shock at the demon’s living room in hell.