Tag: tarot

Today’s story is brought to life by the following prompt…

This is my submission for Kevin’s No Theme Thursday.

Limousines and Healthcare

The dim light barely illuminates the room, its glow unsettling as it clings to the shadowed corners, leaving the space both suffocating yet exposed. Stephen shifts uncomfortably, his unease growing as Doctor Cole gestures toward the seat opposite, scrunches his lips, leans forward, and nods.

“So, tell me, son, what brings you here? We don’t get many of your type these days,” the doctor says, his tone playful but sharp enough to cut.

“I’ve had this…” Stephen hesitates, furrowing his brow as he fixes his gaze on the doctor. “What do you mean by ‘my type’?”

The doctor laughs, slapping his knees before leaning back, his hands clasping behind his head in a pose both comfortable and cocky.

“Where do I start? You’re healthy, obviously. You eat well—you’ve got some excess fat, healthy fat, mind you. You’ve got a job, healthcare, both lungs and kidneys, all your original parts intact, and—” he sniffs the air, “—you even showered today. That’s your type. Normally, the people I see don’t have healthcare, suffer from diseases without names, have never seen water, food, or soap to save their lives.”

He exhales sharply, waving a hand dismissively. “So, you,” he continues, peering at Stephen’s medical records, “Mister Bantan, you are unique. That tells me one of two things—you’re either someone of notability who doesn’t want the ailment you’re suffering from known to the outside world, or someone I’ve assisted in achieving their nirvana has sent you here.” He squeezes his lips tightly and leans forward again. “So tell me—who are you, and why should I care?”

“S-Sal Bodega t-told me to come see you,” Stephen stammers, his voice breaking under the weight of his unease.

Doctor Cole’s expression hardens as he rises abruptly. “I don’t know any Sal Bodega, Mister Bantan. So if you’re done wasting my time, there’s the door.”

“H-H-He told me to bring sixty thousand credits for you—and another three million for your cause—s-so you could keep helping those who can’t help themselves,” Stephen stammers, his words tumbling over themselves.

Doctor Cole smiles wryly and shakes his head. “You’re not the first to try and entrap me, Mister Bantan—or whatever your name is. I’ve already confirmed you’re not who you say you are. This Bodega person has never been a patient of mine, and I do not take well to bribes! I run a professional establishment, catering to those who cannot afford the luxuries one such as you can. So, unless you have something else to add, I suggest you leave, while I feel inclined to allow it!” he spits with curled lips and a scrunched nose, pointing toward the door.

Stephen takes a long-winded, stuttered sigh and gets to his feet, his face a picture of worry and confusion.

“B-But—” His words are cut off as Doctor Cole slams his foot to the floor, the sound echoing like a gavel in the heavy air.

“Good day, Mister Bantan!” he spits, his tone final.

Stephen drops his head and places an envelope on Cole’s desk. “For those who can’t,” he says uneasily before making his way out, each step slow and hesitant.

“I’ll make sure the deserving people get your generous donation, Mister Faulkner,” Cole says, his grin sharp and voice laced with venom.

Stephen’s eyes widen as he stumbles through the doorway into the decaying neighbourhood beyond. The stench of sewage fills the air, clinging to him like a damp shroud. A sleek black limousine waits at the kerb, its polished exterior an almost mocking contrast to the squalor around it. His driver, Frederick, leaps from the passenger side and rushes to open the door, his face pale with panic.

“Quickly, sir. This is not the sort of neighbourhood we want to be caught in,” Frederick says, shuffling Stephen into the car and closing the door behind him.

Inside, Stephen freezes. Sitting opposite him is a man in a medical gown, a mask half-covering his face. A nurse sits beside him, her expression calm but unsettling.

“Hello, Mister Faulkner. Let me introduce myself. I am Doctor Median. How may we reconstruct you today?” the man says with a malevolent cackle, his eyes glinting as the nurse leans closer, her needle catching the dim light.

Today’s story is brought to life by the following prompt…

This is my submission for Kevin’s No Theme Thursday.

Hand Inside the Mask

The light hangs from the ceiling, gently swaying by its cord as the shade forces the light downward onto the desk before him. Sydney wipes a sea of sweat from his brow with an old, musty cloth, then presses it against the underside of his jaw, targeting the porous places of his overly sweaty body with precision. He stuffs it into his armpits, one after the other, then lets out a gasp as he tosses it to the side and gulps cool mouthful after cool mouthful of the ice-cold water from his glass.

He slams it on the bench and lets out a gasp of satisfaction, then takes another, less fulfilling breath and studies the crudely constructed mask that sits before him. He scrunches his nose and rubs his eyes with the backs of his fists. He hisses and grumbles, blinking his right eye in quick succession, before grabbing the cloth and pressing it forcefully into his socket, soaking up the salt-enriched sweat stinging his eye.

He grimaces and mutters incoherent words to himself before picking the latex mask from the bench and studying it with wide-open eyes. He turns the mask over, studies the back of it, peers through the neck hole, then places his hand inside it, turning the mask to face him once again.

Fierce eyes stare out toward him from inside the blank eye holes.

“What game are you playing at, Sydney? Why are we down here, in the musty crusty? You promised me a night out on the town! You promised me control—not that you’d stick your hand up my clacker and use me as a fucking puppet!” the mask spits.

Sydney’s bottom lip trembles as he curls one side of his mouth, sucking in the other and biting gently on the soft flesh.

“I-I-I,” he stammers, as a fresh sea of sweat cascades down his already salt-scarred brow.

“Y-Y-You what? You realised you’re a gutless cunt? You realised you’ve got no balls? You thought you’d screw me over after all I’ve done for you!” the mask screams as it thrusts forward, headbutting Sydney with bloody ferocity.

Sydney tumbles in a mess of arms and legs to the floor, a trail of red following him to the ground and painting a line directly from his nose to his throbbing fist. The mask lies on the ground, silent and still, a crimson splash covering its bulbous forehead.

Sydney scrambles to his feet, looking down at the mask with trepidation. His breath falters as he picks it up again, his trembling fingers setting it carefully back on the bench. He stares at it, his eyes widening, the corners of his mouth twitching with unease. He swallows the dry lump in his throat, hesitates, then shoves his hand into the mask once more.

His nose screws up as he pulls a pistol from his jacket, pressing the muzzle against the mask’s bloody forehead. He laughs—a jagged, wild sound that cracks the air.

“What the fuck do you think that’s gonna do, kid? I’ll be back—and I’ll be meaner than before. I’ll probably get you to fondle your sister before we chop off her head, and—”

The words cut off as Sydney pulls the trigger. Latex and blood explode outward, splattering the walls and floor. The shredded mask drops to the ground with a sickening thud, limp and lifeless.

Sydney screams at first—horrifying, guttural sounds—but they twist into deranged, breathless fits of laughter. He stumbles back, gripping his bleeding stump as crimson streams pour down his arm, pooling at his feet in thick, sticky puddles.

The door above shakes with heavy thuds, muffled voices shouting his name.

“Sydney!”

He gasps, his chest heaving as his gaze shifts to the cracked, dirty mirror hanging on the far wall.

In the reflection, he sees himself wearing the mask—its hollow eyes staring back at him.

He drops to his knees, his bloodied fingers fumbling for the pistol. With a trembling hand, he raises it to his temple as tears cascade down his cheeks.

The door upstairs bursts open just as he squeezes the trigger. The sound is deafening, and his head snaps to the side, blood and bone splattering the walls as his body collapses to the floor.

The voices on the stairs rise into horrified screams, but the reflection remains, staring out from the cracked glass, silent and still, watching the chaos play out below.

Today’s story is brought to life by the following prompt…

This is my submission for Kevin’s No Theme Thursday.

One Sided Twice

The hole aches for everything, yet it wants nothing. It doesn’t desire, imagine, or even fester a thought—it simply is. It sucks in everything around it, devouring endlessly. The skies tear asunder, dragged away into the hole’s gaping maw.

Peter raises his hand to shield his eyes from the fury roaring down from the heavens—his lip curling in trembling trepidation. He turns back to the others and shakes his head, resignation shadowing his face.

“It’s no use. If it was going to work, it would’ve already happened,” he mutters.

“You don’t know,” Sandy replies, her voice tinged with desperation. “There’s still time, it might—”

But Peter shakes his head, this time with cold finality. “I’m sorry, Sandy. There’s no way to stop it now. Whatever chance we had—it’s long gone.”

“What if we went back and did everything differently? Faster, more precise? What if we didn’t waste time like we did this time?”

Peter rolls his eyes and shakes his head disapprovingly. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour,” he slurs, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I don’t see how a simple question could be misconstrued as a joke,” Sandy replies sharply.

“Because you’re operating on a different wavelength! Can’t you see? In a few short hours, this planet will be pulled off its axis and sucked into the void—along with every other planet in this solar system, probably the next two or three as well. It’s a universe killer, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. We definitely can’t go back in time.”

“Why not? We’ve got time to calculate the trajectory and put together a plan. The only thing stopping us is you!”

“NO! The only thing stopping us is the fact that time travel isn’t possible!” Peter spits, venom lacing his words.

“Says you.”

“Says everyone who’s ever lived!”

“Not true. In twenty eighty-eight, Doctor Rashid Vander successfully sent a live mouse three seconds into the future—and three seconds into the past. Documented experiments, proving it can work! Sure, he never scaled it up, but that wasn’t because he couldn’t—it was because he disappeared! Some say the government took his work, twisted it for their own gain. Others claim he…”

“Enough! Just stop! What’s the whole point?” Peter snaps.

Sandy shakes her head—her eyes wide, almost feverish. She rubs her temples—fingers digging in—then clutches her side as a grimace crosses her face. She takes a jagged breath. “My point is… what do we have left to lose when we’re as good as dead already?”

Peter’s eyes narrow, his voice sinking to a whisper. “Our sanity.”

Sandy clenches her jaw, eyes hard. “Can’t you see? The world is falling into the abyss, and the time for the impossible—or improbable—is now! Doctor Vander’s notes show how he builds a small cycle, using curvature, motion, size, and sunlight to achieve the impossible.”

Peter’s expression falters for only a second before settling back into bitter disbelief. “And what happens when it doesn’t work—when you’re staring at that machine, waiting for it to fold time and spit you out somewhere else—only to find it just hums until your bones vibrate? What then?”

Sandy stares at him, a glint in her eye that wasn’t there before, a sliver of something colder than hope. “Then I’m the last thing this universe sees before it swallows itself whole.”

Peter shivers, but he holds his ground, even as the ground itself begins to tremble. The sky above darkens, twisting in on itself, the stars blurring into strange spirals. Sandy turns her gaze upward, her face bathed in a shifting, unnatural light. The air around them thickens—heavy with a quiet hum that builds, resonating deep in their bones—as if reality itself is straining against an unseen edge, ready to unravel at the slightest push.

The world rolls apart and reforms, reality twisting in ways the mind cannot follow. Sandy stands in two places at once, her figure stretched and elongated, her fingers flickering between dimensions like ghostly tendrils. She tries to scream, but the sound shatters, scattered across fragments of time. The machine—a failure—has sent her spiralling across the timeline, scattered like dust through centuries and moments. She knows somewhere deep within that there is no repairing what has been broken beyond recognition. All she can do is watch.

A single tear slips down her cheek, trembling before it too is swept away, dispersed into the chaotic flow. In the space between seconds, she feels herself unraveling, slipping into something unwritten, a part of history that never was and never will be. And then she is gone—sucked back into the void, erased from time itself.

Today’s story is brought to life by the following prompt…

This is my submission for Kevin’s No Theme Thursday.

A Million Miles Down Without a Line

Slowly, the world around him edges its way back into focus. First softly—glimmers of light, hums—then clear and coherent sounds. Then all at once, he is back again. His eyes spring open as he kicks and waves his arms and legs in a frenzied panic. A sea of bubbles explodes from his suit, quickly and frantically making their way to the surface, some distance away.

He shoots a glance upwards, watching the bubbles bleed and disappear into the darkness above. He swallows an uncomfortable mouthful of air and looks back down, towards the faint, humming light hidden behind the underwater mountains before him. He takes one desperate breath after another, only to feel panic rising as a blinking red light begins flashing in his helmet, warning him of his excessive oxygen use and rapidly depleting supply.

“River One, do you copy? This is Freshwater Sam. Come in!” he grunts through trembling teeth.

His visor hisses and crackles, and for a moment, lost in the waves of static, he thinks he hears a voice cut through the murkiness. He strains to listen, closing his eyes, gritting his teeth, holding his breath, and praying for the voice to return. Then the static drops into silence, and all he can hear is the fevered gasps of his breathing and the suit’s warnings flashing in his visor.

His fingers tremble as he clenches them into tight fists, then releases them again. He looks out into the murky distance, his gaze drifting down once more to the mysterious light below, an almost magnetic pull drawing him toward it.

He’s thrown into a spin as a school of fish swims past him in a mad rush, then another, and another, until a pod of whales follows behind, all heading in line towards the light glowing in the distance. He floats aimlessly, pushed by the current, dragged by the tide left by the behemoths as it pulls him downward. He clutches at the water, trying to realign himself, struggling to control his descent. But the pull is too strong, and as more sea creatures pass him, the stronger the pull toward the seabed becomes.

His breath catches in his chest as he draws closer and closer, drifting over the mountains and into the valley below. There, a city—a kingdom—glitters with light and wonder. He gasps, choking on the air as his helmet’s alarms scream at him. A line of static breaks the silence—followed by a low hum.

“I-I… I can see such wonders here, son. It’s—so beautiful,” a voice whispers, trembling with emotion.

He sucks in a stuttered breath.

“D-D-Dad?” he cries, as tears cascade down his cheeks.

“It’s okay, son, you don’t have to worry anymore,” his dad’s voice says softly. He can see several figures rising from the light below, coming towards him. Sirens scream, lights flash, sweat pours down his brow. He gasps and gags, desperately grabbing at anything, his lungs screaming, his chest burning.

The figures close in, and his eyes gape open, his lips curling.

“Let go, boy. It’s time to come home,” his dad says, as the figures draw close enough to touch. For a moment, he sees his father’s face within the group, but it blurs and changes. The face changes—first his mother’s, then his sister’s, then someone he recognises but can’t name. The faces flash one after another, and though he wants to close his eyes, he can’t. Then he sees his own face reflected back at him, warped and hollow, eyes wide and unblinking.

He stifles a scream as each face blends into the next, forming an endless chain of twisted, mirrored versions of himself and everyone he’s loved. The outer glass of his visor cracks, and his heart pounds as the figures blur and merge, all converging toward him in a vast, inescapable tide. Another slow crack sounds—a warning, a wailing—and the sea comes alive around him, humming its own song, colours swaying. The dull sound of an oboe vibrates through him, growing deeper and longer as it reverberates in his bones.

He gasps one last time, and then, as the crack splits his helmet in two, the pressure implodes around him in a crude burst of red.

Today’s story is brought to life by the following prompt…

This is my submission for Kevin’s No Theme Thursday.

Reading a Crimson Hand

She holds the cards tightly in her grasp and presses her fingers against her temple. She closes her eyes as thin beads of sweat trickle down her brow, desperately searching for a way out.

“I—I—Is anything the matter?” Conner asks nervously.

She forces a weary smile and shakes her head. “Of course not. In some circles of the trade, they call this part of the reading the upsell. It’s where I grasp the roots and all, convincing you that this is what you must do—otherwise, your reading is going to fail, or worse.”

“But you’ve decided to play this one differently, to upsell me in a different way, right?”

“You could say that was the plan. But to do that, I’d have to lie to you, which is hard when”—she places another card down and grimaces—”the Death card.”

“O—O—Oh, FUCK!” Conner bellows as he leaps to his feet, gripping his hair and pulling chunks of it from his head. “I’m gonna FUCKING die!”

“Conner, please,” she says, reaching a trembling hand toward him. “The Death card may mean death, but it doesn’t have to mean your death. It could be the death of someone else, or something else—b—”

“H-How do we find out w-what it means?” he interrupts, gripping the table, his lip curled as he bites down on it, like a snake devouring itself. He grimaces in pain, clutching his mouth as a thick stream of blood runs down his chin.

“As I was saying, let me continue the reading, and as the cards fall, so will the path you seek,” she says as she places the next card down—”the Tower.”

His eyes bulge, and he looks from the card to her, then back to the card. “W-W-Well?” he snaps, poking the card with a derisive finger. “What the FUCK does a Tower mean?”

“A surprise, but not in a good way. Something sudden, and something uncomfortable,” she says with a jittery smile on her thin lips.

“Oh, fucking great! I’m going to die suddenly, and it’s going to be uncomfortable! That’s everything I ever wanted!” he spits.

“That’s not what the cards are saying. Now, let me draw the next card, and I’m sure this one will bring the next move to light,” she says, drawing another card—”the Ten of Swords.”

He peers over at the card and then tosses himself back in his chair, folding his arms and staring uneasily across at her.

“An end is coming. It’s inevitable and, unfortunately, it’s painful.”

“What a fucking surprise! I’m already dying, it’s going to be sudden, it’s gonna hurt, and now it’s probably going to happen today, sooner rather than tomorrow.”

She places another card down and stutters a breath in her chest—”the Devil.”

“Finally! About time that fucking card showed up. I was beginning to think you didn’t own one,” he says, looking at her twisted, pale gaze with puzzlement. “Hey, Medusa, what’s wrong with you? I’m the one getting the bad reading!”

“I—I—I—” she stammers through twitching lips. “I don’t own a Devil card. I—I throw them away whenever I get a new set—they’re bad luck for the dealer.”

“Bad luck for you? Bullshit, you’re just making it up!” he scoffs with a mocking laugh.

“NO!” she spits, slapping the desk. “I don’t lie. Not about this!”

“R-Really?” he says through trembling lips. “What d-d-does it mean?”

“The Devil card brings with it manipulation, deception, and lies—lies told from the beginning of time to now,” she says, shaking her head and looking up at him. “This last card will be the final card. With it, the shuffle will be set, and the future will be what it will be,” she says as she slowly draws the card, only for him to place his hand on hers.

“W-What happens if you don’t draw the card? Who would know? Who would care?”

“The spirits know, and the spirits care. They’ll haunt us until the day we release this mortal coil—and then they’ll haunt us in the next!”

He takes a breath and lets go of her hand. She places the final card down—”Judgment.”

“O—Oh shit,” she stammers as blood runs from her nostrils. She looks up at Conner, who stares back in petrified desperation.

She forces a weak smile, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s talking about me.” Her body shudders, eyes widening with terror. “I can feel it—inside me.”

A tremor rips through her, skin stretching and straining—then, with a sickening crack, her head explodes. Blood, bone, and flesh spray across the room, showering Conner in a warm, sticky burst of crimson and tissue.