Allegories of the Tarot

by Ribken, Annetta

  Allegories of the Tarot

  Edited by Annetta Ribken

  Word Webber Press

  Fairview Heights, IL 62208

  This anthology is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Allegories of the Tarot © 2013 Annetta Ribken

  Cover image © 2013 Kris Austen Radcliffe based on photographs of artwork by Pamela Coleman Smith

  Copy edited by Jennifer Wingard

  Ebook formatting by Dog-Ear Book Design

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the authors, editor, or publisher with the exception for the use of brief connotations in critical articles or reviews.

  2013 Word Webber Press Kindle edition

  Published in the United States by Word Webber Press

  Fairview Heights, IL

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  On the Road to Devil's Gulch ~ Peter Giglio

  The Intern's Story ~ Lon Prater

  Deadly Son ~ Billie Sue Mosiman

  Flesh In Frame ~ Spike Marlowe

  Dmitri and the Mad Monk ~ Kris Austen Radcliffe

  On the Shoulders of Muses ~ Jessica McHugh

  A Modern Affair ~ Eden Baylee

  Squashfest ~ Annetta Ribken

  A Promise in the Dark ~ Rochelle Maya Callen

  The Hermit ~ Red Tash

  Vista Bridge ~ MeiLin Miranda

  Justice ~ Catie Rhodes

  Path of Sacrifice ~ Matthew Bryan

  Transformation ~ Timothy Smith

  Reply All ~ Anne Chaconas

  Hoarder ~ Patti Larsen

  After the Fall ~ Jordan L. Hawk

  L’Etoile Flamboyant ~ Samantha Henderson

  The Moon ~ J.H. Sked

  The Strange Case of Sal and the Solar Elixir ~ Tristan J. Tarwater

  A Body for Your Birthday ~ Jennifer Wingard

  Phoenix ~ Laura Eno

  Afterwords From The Editor

  Thanks and Gratitude

  THE FOOL

  On the Road to Devil’s Gulch

  By Peter Giglio

  When Max looked up at me with those sad eyes of his, I smiled, trying to be reassuring. “A car will come along soon, boy,” I said, “take us to the next town and more good times.”

  Max’s dry bark said he wasn’t buying it.

  “I’m not your owner. Run away if you think you can do better without me.”

  A blast of prairie wind rolled across Highway 23. Tumbleweeds tumbled.

  Although Minnesota was said to be land of 10,000 lakes, the slogan clearly didn’t carry to this remote corner of the state. The way I figured it, every land left their armpits and assholes out of the brochure. But it was fine by me, even if Max was having one his many moments of doubt.

  You see, I was looking for experiences that couldn’t be found any other way. The land must be felt, smelled, and touched to be truly understood and that wasn’t a thing you could do thirty-thousand miles above the earth. Even in the air-conditioned comfort of a car—though Max and I often counted on the kindness of travelers to bridge wilds like these—it was hard to appreciate the complex beauty of the terrain.

  Max and I met many kind people along the way, and we had a lot of fun. Trust me, that dog knew he’d found a good thing, even if he challenged me from time to time.

  A hopeful bark sounded, one I knew well, causing me to turn. From the north, a Lincoln Towncar approached. I stuck out my thumb, flashing an enthusiastic smile, and the car slowed before pulling to the shoulder. Yanking the heavy pack from my back while Max ran in excited circles around me, I strode to the open driver’s side window. There, a wizened man took my measure through his squinted gaze.

  “What’re you doing out here?” the man asked. “Did your car break down?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Funny, you don’t look like a homeless. Don’t smell like one, either.”

  I smiled. “I’m not. I’m just looking to get a little further down the road. I’ll gladly pitch in for gas.”

  “So you have money?” The man’s tremulous voice rang with disbelief.

  “Yes.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of planes and buses, young man?”

  It wasn’t particularly funny, but I chuckled. I guess that’s a natural reaction when you’ve heard the same thing too many times to count. Maybe not. Repetition seems to anger or annoy most folks. Perhaps my parents were right—I’m just wired wrong.

  “I like to experience the land and meet new people,” I said.

  Shaking his head, the old man reached down. A click sounded as the trunk lid popped open, then the driver hooked his thumb toward the back of the Lincoln and said, “I’m going as far as Garretson, South Dakota, about twenty miles from here. Will that work for ya?”

  I nodded eagerly then started around the car. For a moment, I was struck by the emptiness of the trunk. Most travelers carried some kind of luggage. But it didn’t seem like a worry worth dwelling on. After all, the car had Minnesota plates. And, as the man said, we were only headed twenty miles down the road. I stowed my pack and slammed the trunk.

  Despite the age of the Lincoln, the interior sparkled. Clean and fresh, like a car just driven off the showroom floor.

  How will he react to Max, I thought, worried poor eyesight had caused the old man not to notice my traveling companion. As Max jumped onto the leather passenger’s seat, I said, “He’s a good boy, very well-behaved.”

  The old man laughed and threw me a dismissive wave. “Oh, I can tell he’s a good boy. I used to have a Jack Russell just like him. Best dog I ever knew.” Then he scratched Max’s head, and Max's big doggy smile widened with approval.

  I slid into the car, and Max made himself comfortable in the backseat.

  “How long have you had that dog?” the old man asked.

  “Max joined me at a rest stop in Pennsylvania.”

  “A stray?”

  “He must have been abandoned by a family. Maybe forgotten. I just couldn’t let him fend for himself. Besides, it’s nice to have a friend along for the journey.”

  “A journey, huh? Well, where are you headed exactly?”

  I shrugged as the old man steered the car slowly back onto the empty highway.

  “You know,” he said, “a journey ought to have a destination. Or are you some kind of rambling man?”

  “I guess that’s what I am.”

  “Fellas like you were around a lot in the ’60s, but I suppose you’re something of a rarity these days.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “Don’t think I’m hassling you about it. Fact is, it kinda takes me back a bit.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “So,” he said, “what are you hoping to gain from all this? Yo
u ain’t one of those kids who’s trying to find himself, are you?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m just looking to broaden my horizons, gain experiences that I can write about someday.”

  “Ah, so you’re a writer.”

  “Hope to be, but I think I need to do some living first.”

  A moment of silence followed as the car sped down the road at ten miles above the posted speed limit. That rate of travel, counterintuitive to how I’d seen most elderly folks drive, surprised me. Although I wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere, a glance at Max told me he approved. Panting, he stared at the blur of yellow through the window. I’d treat his patience with a big fat burger when we reached the next town.

  When I shifted my gaze to the world outside the car, a sign welcomed me to South Dakota. “Great Faces, Great Places” the marker assured, and the iconic countenances of Mount Rushmore hung above that slogan.

  “South Dakota,” the old man whispered. “Hell, I haven’t been here for thirty years.”

  “Is it a long drive from where you live?” I asked, my mind flashing back to the empty trunk.

  The man shook his head. “Nah, I’m from Mankato, not too far from here. I just haven’t had a reason to come back for a long time.”

  “Why are you returning now?”

  “The wife and I honeymooned here. We didn’t have much money in those days, so we couldn’t afford a fancy trip. I’d served my country in Vietnam, so I’d seen a good bit of the world. But Ellen, God rest, had never left the state. She was tickled to see something new, even if South Dakota ain’t much to brag about.” The man pointed up through the windshield and smiled. “There’s a reason why they call these the fly-over states.”

  “I understand how she felt,” I said.

  “Yeah, I suppose you would. Guess you’re just looking for something different, too, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Maybe you’re just hunting for a good place to settle down?”

  “Maybe. Eventually.”

  “Well, you ain’t gonna find it out here. I’ll tell you that much.”

  “So why are you coming back now?”

  The old man, who’d dodged my question the first time, wasn’t quick to answer. His sad stare lingered on the road, and it was clear I’d hit a nerve. I hoped he wasn’t offended.

  Finally, he said, “I’m coming back for one last look, a trip down memory lane. Ellen, you see, she passed away last year, and I know my own time on this rock is winding down, too. She always wanted to relive our honeymoon by coming back, but I kept putting things off. There’s always enough time, you tell yourself. Always enough time…’til there isn’t.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “Oh, don’t be silly.” The man’s outward mood seemed to shift in a more positive direction. “You’re on an adventure. I guess I am, too.”

  “Is that why you didn’t pack any bags?”

  The old man nodded then he fell silent again. I feared further questions would only spark more painful memories, so I kept my mouth shut. Able to see for miles, I took in the flat landscape and tried to enjoy the scenery, but those bleak environs failed to inspire my attention.

  Then the trouble started.

  The old man took a deep, consumptive breath, and the car swerved into the oncoming lane.

  My heart thundered.

  Max growled.

  I grabbed the steering wheel and guided the car back into the proper lane. The old man shook his head and sucked another lungful of air. Exhaling slowly, he gazed at me, his eyes misty and distant. Then, turning his attention back to the road, he gripped the wheel.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he said with a grin. He added, “I bet you’re excited to see Devil’s Gulch again, aren’t you?”

  Now I was confused. “Like I told you, sir, I’ve never been here before.”

  The old man laughed. “Now you’re just pulling my leg, you old kidder.”

  “No, I—”

  “Forty-one years ago,” he said in a wistful, faraway voice. “It’s been a long time, but certainly you must remember.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “I’m only twenty-three.”

  He turned to me, and I readied myself to grab the wheel again. “Oh, Ellen,” he said, “you’ll always be twenty-three to me.”

  I backed against the door, putting as much distance between me and the old man as I could. “Stop the car,” I shouted. “I want out! Now!”

  Sadness swept the man’s parched face. “Don’t act like that, Ellen.”

  “My name’s Bill,” I said. “I’m…I’m not your wife.” I reached for the door handle, calculating my chances of survival if I leapt from the moving car. Not good. And then there was the matter of Max, who was still growling at the driver. Like most dogs, Max granted trust with graceful indifference, but at the first signs of trouble, he didn’t hesitate about changing his position.

  Perhaps it was best to just play along, I told myself. Max and I would make a run for it in Garretson. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

  The old man smiled. “Ah, nothing to worry about, dear. Happens to the best of us. You’ll be glad to hear we’re almost there.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “Very good.”

  “I wonder if the old tales of Jesse James and Devil’s Gulch are true, don’t you?”

  I nodded as if I understood what he was talking about.

  “I just don’t see how a man could jump that ravine on a horse and live to tell the story.”

  “I don’t, either,” I said.

  “Well, I guess we’re gonna find out in Garretson, aren’t we?” He patted the dashboard. “This old girl has far more horsepower under the hood than Mr. James ever dreamed of.”

  I felt the sudden jerk of the engine in the pit of my stomach. Faster…faster…we sped down the highway. My gaze became frantic. Where was the state patrol when you needed them?

  “I don’t want to die.” I wheezed. My pulse thrummed, running a race it couldn’t win.

  The old man laughed. “Oh, Ellen, we’re already dead. Why not go out in a blaze of glory?”

  I yanked the seatbelt over my chest and fumbled beneath the leather bench for the locking mechanism. Snapping the restraint in place brought no comfort. I glanced at the speedometer. The needle vibrated just south of one hundred.

  Numb with panic, I hadn’t realized Max jumped onto my lap until I looked down. Trembling, he stared at me, clearly trying to determine if I had a solution to the mess of ours. When he seemed to come up empty, he turned his attention to the driver.

  Hunching low, Max growled.

  The events following that diminutive—though predatory—warning happened fast.

  Max sprang at the old man, biting and scratching. The man’s eyes widened as he released the wheel to defend himself, but he was slow and Max was fast. Sharp canines sank into the man’s neck as we careened off the road.

  The car somersaulted, the world around me spinning.

  Then the embrace of darkness.

  When I opened my eyes, Max sat in my lap and looked up. No longer was he trembling. I patted myself, looking for injuries, then pulled the sun visor down and studied my face in its mirror. Other than a terrible case of dizziness, I felt fine. I wiggled my fingers. I moved my legs. I rubbed my stiff neck and groaned. Yeah, I was alive.

  Blood trickled from a gash above Max’s brow. Concerned for his wellbeing, I felt his limbs, then pressed two fingers into his belly. When he didn’t whimper, I assumed he’d live, too.

  The same couldn’t be said for the old man.

  Jagged lines spiderwebbed across the windshield, and in the center of that bloody mosaic, the old man hung suspended. The lower half of his body was still in the car, but his front half draped across the Lincoln’s blue hood.

  I heaved my breakfast onto the floorboard, unsnapped the seat belt, yanked the door handl
e, then staggered from the car. With Max at my side, I stood in the deep ditch that stopped our fall, waiting for balance to find me. After a few baby steps, testing my ability to walk, I ambled to the driver’s side door and leaned through the window. Doing my best to ignore all the blood, I reached down and pulled the trunk release. Sliding on my pack, I trudged up the steep embankment to the highway. Max followed at my heels.

  Short of breath, I stood on the shoulder of the road. I looked left then right. No cars. A sign staked in the barren earth read, Garretson 3 miles. Max and I started walking.

  The afternoon sun blazed, and my mind became as empty as my stomach. Max’s head hung low as he panted, but he kept pace with me.

  A few minutes later, an engine roared behind us. But no hopeful bark erupted from Max.

  Without so much as a glance at the approaching vehicle, I stopped walking and stuck out my thumb.

  Max gazed up at me, titling his head quizzically.

  “Don’t worry, boy,” I said. “The next one will be all right. I promise.”

  ***

  A Pushcart Prize nominee and an active member of the Horror Writers Association, Peter Giglio is the author of five novels, four novellas, and he edits a successful line of books for Evil Jester Press. His works of short fiction can be found in a number of notable volumes, including two comprehensive genre anthologies edited by New York Times Bestselling author John Skipp.

  ***

  THE MAGICIAN

  The Intern's Story

  By Lon Prater

  Hansom Haddix nudged the antique pickup’s three-on-the-tree column shifter back into third. The transmission shrieked like a circular saw cutting through knotty wood. The big truck shuddered, but somehow kept right on zooming down the red clay Georgia road. We were on a mission, the infamous white-haired photographer and I.

  I just didn’t know what it was.

  “So why this location, Mr. Haddix?” It was my first day interning for the aged photographer. I wanted him to know he’d made the right choice, picking me from all the applicants. I hoped no one from the college had called to let him know I had dropped out soon as I finished my photography elective.

  “Someplace lucky,” he said. “And call me Hansom.”