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Post by Deleted on Apr 30, 2014 0:19:32 GMT
You stare past your cards and look through the front window; this city felt strange, always hungry. You wonder if you could ever looks away from them. You're sitting with your legs crossed, and in front of you the cards are spread in a neat line, it's funny, the future literally sits mere inches away from you. You can't help but wonder, as with the lines of the hands, could you connect the constellations that may litter a person's face and see as well. Without looking down at them they're shuffled back into the deck, and you lay out a new spread. You do this over and over, not particularly looking for anything.
Some say silly little cards can't divine anything, and that lines of hands are nothing. You love to prove them wrong, and with a small flick of your wrist the cards fall into their formation. The five card spread, they seem to lay like a cross; sometimes it seems you could crucify people on such things, doesn't it? Oh you could, you've always been able to.
It's a boring day, one of the few slow ones that comes around every once in a while. You like to wonder if it's because, for some reason, people are happy with how their lives are going. If they feel no need to try and grasp at strings. But you know better, people always came to you when they wanted to solve their problems. They always had, and you suspect they always will.
You look down at the spread and see the lovers before the door opens. You're curious now, this isn't a card you see too often. No, not at all.
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mortal
with 130 posts
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| crawl so low with some gin-soaked boy that you don't know |
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Post by IGGIE VAN ALLAN on May 4, 2014 21:49:32 GMT
The night is a quiet one, or maybe everything's just seeming that way. Iggie can barely feel the ground beneath his feet, he can barely feel the blood in his veins. He's weightless and faraway from the blaring car horns, flashing lights, riotous laughter.
Iggie's avoided death in at least five different ways that night, shouldering open the door and coming in swaying. It's dim, he squints into the heavy air, finds the man sitting on the floor with a deck of cards and nods in his direction.
The last time he trusted a psychic, she'd been a lying gypsy bitch. Then again, none of them could be any good if they were still sitting in the dingy dark burning incense and pretending they knew anything about anyone.
But he feels empty and existential - he wonders if there's any point in knowing what's gonna happen if you can't do fuck all about it. As if he does fuck all anyways. He rubs at his bloodshot eyes.
"I'll be honest, I have like... three dimes and a stolen credit card on me." Iggie sits down across from him anyways, tilts his head back and yawns.
@southie3
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Post by Deleted on Jun 20, 2014 22:34:39 GMT
You just watch as he comes in, it's like he's not there. Far away but stepping through your door; you snorted to yourself quietly, many a drunk or druggie stumbled into your small store. It wasn't anything new, drugs, liquor, they instilled faith in the occult in anyone. You would like to say it broke your heart when they would ask when they'd fix themselves up, or get better, any variations really. But it didn't, sometimes you could tell them with certainty, other times you couldn't. Life goes on, simple as that.
You raise an eyebrow at him. "Tell me a story, and you'll be fine." you say, his cards were laid right as he stepped in the door. They were there, waiting for you to pick apart; you're a vulture in that way, sometimes what you had to say tore at people. That's what did make you cringe sometimes. That bit of hope, or existential bliss going out in an instant.
People wandered into your store like children to a porch light. The light doesn't always stay on, though. When will people get that? It goes out, and leaves you in the dark, or not getting what you wanted. Come now, the porch isn't too far.
"Here for any particular reason?" you ask, trying to coax a story out of him.
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