She waved her fingers through the candle flame, the lick of heat enough to make her breath catch. She chided herself for putting off the inevitable, and faced the candle squarely.
Staring into the flame, she let her eyes relax like she’d learned to do at parties when she was a teen, finding hidden images in posters hung on walls covered in fake wood paneling. She wasn’t looking for a dolphin embedded into a sea of psychedelic gummy bears, though, she was looking for her son.
Since he’d been deployed, every evening she’d sent a little prayer to the universe as she’d blown out a candle, let the smoke carry her words of protection into the ether. The last few nights, however, she’d felt unsettled, and when she sent forth her petitions, she’d felt them hang heavy in the air, and then evaporate without effect.
The flame crackled, flickered, eating at the melted wax, and she saw a glimpse of his face. Her chest tightened, and her throat constricted. Was it smoke from the candle that made her eyes tear up? She closed them, and against the red tinged background of her lids, a scene played out. His profile wavered, he shifted slightly to look directly into her eyes, and then the flames engulfed him. The fumes that made her nostrils flare were not from her pumpkin spice votive, they reeked of gunpowder, rubber, burning flesh, and death.
She snuffed out the candle, plunging the room into darkness. Hugging her knees close, she rocked back and forth on the couch. No, no, no, she tried to rationalize what she’d seen. He’s hurt. He’s alive, he’s out there, he’s just hurt. Repeating the mantra didn’t make the knot in her stomach go away.
The shrill ring of her phone was a slap in the face. She froze, reluctantly sliding her eyes toward the glowing screen beside her.
Like a cornered animal, she struck at the phone, flinging it across the living room. It hit the wall, slid to the floor, and continued its incessant blare for attention. As the government number persistently displayed, the stubborn stranger, unwelcome in her home, she let a wave of grief engulf her.
This week’s story was inspired by the Queen of Swords, a card that speaks to feminine loss. For me, it conjures thoughts of widowhood, the loss of female bonds, loss of children, loss of self due to that box that females so often find themselves caged in. The image of the queen seated on her throne, even with the clouds, one hand raised and an upright sword in the other, makes me think of a woman who has reached the crest of the mount, and is ready for whatever life has in store next.
Our character this week is dealing with that motherly intuition that links so many to their absent children. For some, despite distance, there is still nothing stronger than that bond. While my own son was deployed, I did the same, sent up silent prayers for his protection constantly. He never knew how often he was on my mind. Thankfully, I never saw his demise in the flames.
The art of fire reading is one, in my opinion, best practiced around a campfire, with a marshmallow roasting on a stick, hot chocolate nearby, and a slight chill in the air. However, pumpkin spice scented flames do the trick as well. Is there anything more comforting and simultaneously exhilarating than fire?
I hope you enjoyed this one as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you’ll join me next week for another card pull, and another original story! Today’s story is free, available to all. If you like what you see here, consider upgrading to a paid subscription so you get ALL the stories, sharing with a friend, or giving a subscription as a gift!
Until next time, let’s make some magic!