These posts are fictional works inspired by consulting the Oracle.
Each consultation takes the form of an Oracular Pronouncement, a deal of one or more cards from either or both decks. The majority of these deals follow patterns, which will be identified and explained as this experiment goes on.
Each post is a short story, a scene, a vignette, a poem, an abstract painting, a magic trick, a piece of modern dance, a symphony, or just a stream of consciousness that resulted from consulting The Oracle. I have not set a time limit on their production, but in practice I’ve not more than a few hours on each.
Each actual Pronouncement or Deal will be posted as a daily preview early in the day in the Daily Deal category, and will usually also appear as a prominent image at the top of each post.
Anger fed on him, burning through his whole being, controlling almost everything he did.
It was anger that destroyed his chance at recovering his lost job. He couldn’t face all the stupidity of the office grind and still remain calm. There had been a time when keeping up with the games of office politics had seemed fun. Those days were long gone, lost to the sea of anger that led him to neglect all his carefully cultivated relationships and pools of favors.
There were times when he had been tempted to leave, but had always stayed out of some sort of misplaced loyalty. Loyalty that has been repaid (or so his anger tells him) by abandoning him in his time of need. The way they swept him out of their lives felt entirely like betrayal. And fed his anger more.
His anger led to his failure. Failure as a businessman. Failure as a husband. Failure as a father. Failure as a provider. Each one of those failures became as a lodestone, dragging him down in the river of anger. He was drowning in it.
The headwaters of that river were a lake of placid indifference. Something must of broken the dike, released the water, and washed him away. Nevermore to be calm in the face of the world. Nevermore to hold his dog. Nevermore to hold his daughter.
For the anger fed on him, burning through his whole being, controlling almost everything he did.
The stick was just sitting there, but when I picked it up, I heard a quiet growling noise.
I put it down.
The growl stopped.
I couldn’t just let it lie there, so the battle of minds between owner and cat got underway.
The stick had a string with a feather bob on it. The cat was attached to the feathers, and unwilling to let go of his prey. He clearly knew that anyone picking up the stick was going to attempt to take the prey.
As the game continued, my gaze wandered among the knickknacks collected where they were safe from the cat. A plasma ball. A line of Hummels. A magic eight ball. And in its own alcove, a lava light. The slow circulation of the waxy goo was hypnotic. It drew the eye and held it there while the background music (and the cat) did their work.
The cat was still growling.
The door opened, and one ear twitched as if to confirm that the right person had arrived.
He was dressed slightly oddly, as if as displaced in time as his tchotchkes, but his suit was also somewhat threadbare and worn.
The he held his hands out in seemingly empty space, and the most hauntingly beautiful music appeared. The slightest wiggles of his fingers were translated into audible liquids that washed over us.
The orchard was peaceful this morning. A few ducks were picking around the roots of the venerable trees looking for treats. The wind was whispering among the leaves, and just a few fruit remained from the recent harvest. It was a perfect spot to sit in a morning coat and enjoy the view, while planning for the day’s adventure.
A pot of tea close at hand completed the picture of luxury.
Surely many in the world would envy his position, and his job.
For this was his job. To sit and admire the view, and occasionally take note of a new ship that happened by.
Then in a shocking instant, the world changed.
That island across the way was no longer there. The shockwave broke every one of his windows, and left him deaf for a few minutes after. The tsunami washed the harbor clean.
He stared at the keys in dismay. For a time, Roger could hardly move, for fear that movement would serve to make it all real. It couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t take the kind of world where this was allowed to happen. It was all gone. Everything. His masterpiece was no more. And the infernal machine was to blame.
Finally, he lifted his gaze.
The window was right there, offering a ten story drop to the rocky beach…
The next thing Roger knew, the window was standing open and the infernal machine was nothing but a speck vanishing in the distance as it flew and fell into the waves.
The cleansing surf washed away what little was left.
And it carried with it his anger, his rage, his emotions.