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Send those angels down to woo me now
Hello, brain. At this point, I've decided not to ask why last night's dreams were full of alternate Hanukkahs and strange centaurs and spiral staircases twisting down into black and brackish water. The night before, I dreamed that I was romantically involved with a thirtyish Derek Jacobi who lived in a brownstone in not-Boston with a library of videos—were you at all aware of the logistical conflicts with real life this scenario presents? And the previous night, when I dreamed of traveling to a blue-painted city in Tunisia with an eccentric kami who looked mostly like Neil Gaiman, and complicated dealings with a historical nobleman who wanted his oracle to come out a certain way: I went back to sleep and got a political feud with assassinations and Lovecraftian things beneath the streets of a bakery. What is this, dream sweeps week? You go on constructing storylines I couldn't plot even if I were conscious. I'll be over here, thinking about Orlando (1992) and Ash: A Secret History. Get me a Tilda Swinton icon, somebody.
Oracle
"No," he said, laying his hand over mine on the bones and cards. His skin was very soft and plump, and there was a plum-colored stone on the ring on his middle finger. He shook his head.
I looked up from the patterns in the cards, drew my third eye away from the patterns in the stars. "No?" I bit the inside of my lip so he could not see my dicomfiture. Though this particular Vidame was rumored to be more generous than most, I did not care to test him; power and money do not generally tend to make people less capricious. "It is hard to turn the wheel of fate the wrong way, signore."
"Hard. But not impossible." He flicked a bone into his hand, caging it in his fingers, dropped it in his brocade pocket. "For luck," he chuckled. Turned a card sidewise.
In the silent cold dark, Mars wheeled and veered.
The fringe on the table also swayed.
"My oracle will read as I wish it: so?"
"You shall die next Wednesday."
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Prrrrr.
Where is the rest?
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It's still lovely.