This next card/chapter in the series references a few crucial details I’ve added to Act I in the editing process. You’re welcome to revisit the two updated story slices, refresh your memory, and fill in the blanks, but it’s not absolutely necessary. I think you’ll still feel the weight of this next one.

Read Card 2. The Chaplain
Read Card 5. The Counsel

If you’re ready, grab the nearest light, and let’s go dark.

9 | The Room

B’trix emerged, covered head-to-toe in blood and bits of brain matter. Stu, bewildered and silent, followed behind her, surprisingly untouched, save for a spray of burgundy that decorated the arm he instinctively used to shield his eyes. She let the metal portal close behind them and walked to the shiny red phone with no rotary dial. It hung on the wall next to a calendar of a snow-encrusted mountain range, a freebie sent in the mail from some nonprofit conservancy. Slightly discombobulated from the impact, she used one hand on the wall to steady herself and the other to pick up the receiver. She held the phone to her ear and paused before tersely stating the obvious to someone on the other end. “Hi. The Room didn’t go so well today.” She hung up and reached for the file on the desk, thick with paperclipped paperwork, paying no mind to the smeared prints she dispensed on everything she touched. Instead, she noticed how Stu’s gaunt expression smoothed the deep folds in his face. When he deflected his glare downward, she assured the old man. “Oh, they’ll send someone to clean up.”

Though B’trix had prepped Stu on the scope of possible outcomes The Room could produce, no one is ever really prepared. Admittedly, this session wasn’t the worst she’d seen, but up in the top three, for sure. They both simmered in the office vestibule, blank-eyed and slack-jawed, letting the events bubble quietly at their hard edges. Perhaps in time this all would become more digestible. B’Trix made a few mental notes.

The silence was torn apart by the high-pitched trill of the red phone, which B’Trix grabbed before it stopped. The voice on the other end must’ve explained their next move. B’Trix responded in fragments, “...Great. And you mentioned—? ... Did he say—? Well, shit. … No, no, it’s fine. Be right up.”

B’Trix hung up the phone. The clots on her fingertips had transmuted to a gummier consistency. She turned to Stu. “They’re ready for debrief, let’s head up.”

Stu hadn’t uttered a single word since his clichéd retort, ready as I’ll ever be, several hours ago when he’d willingly agreed to this chaos. Prepped for the debrief, B’Trix reached for the office doorknob. Stu reached out to her. His voice low and thin, he mumbled, “B-B’Trix, I’m not sure what happened, s-so maybe I should just…um…stay behind.”

Clutching the chunky file folder in one hand, with the other hand on the doorknob, B’Trix shook her head. There’s no time, she thought, although every fiber of her being ached to plop down together on an old smooshy couch, West Coast cool jazz on the hi-fi, cradling warm mugs of sweet, frothy liquid, and break it all down. Everything. The whole racket. And why she—they—were stuck in this mess, and quite literally, based on the organic bits she could feel wedged into her hair.

She assured him again, “Stu, I know this is a lot. Let’s just get through this debrief, ok? I’ve got the lead, you know that. If they ask you any questions, I’ve got you. You’re in training; none of this is on you, ok? I mean, metaphorically speaking.”

Stu glanced down at his red bespeckled sleeve, then up at B’Trix’s hair and asked, “Shouldn’t we, you know, clean up?”

B’Trix held up a finger as if to gesture, thanks for the reminder. She set the file folder down, returned to the portal door, punched in a code, and pulled the handle once she heard the affirmative chime. Like opening a package of rancid beef left inside a hot, rusty car, a tangy stench billowed from The Room. She scanned the inside and spotted that the tennis ball—now more maroon than chartreuse—had rolled to one corner. As she took a few quick strides to retrieve the toy, she tried to hold her breath, but the odor ransacked her nostrils. When B’Trix returned to the office vestibule, she saw Stu had covered his nose and mouth with his hand.

“Stu, it’s all about the dramatics.” She stretched out her hand dramatically as if the entire mess would soon play the starring role. “They’ll eat it up. They’ll call for an emergency board meeting. It’ll be a whole thing.” She opened a file drawer, pulled out a plastic bag, dropped the ball inside, and smoothed her damp fingers along the zip leaving a red smear along the top. She gathered the bag and the folder, cleared her throat, and tipped her head toward the hallway with a rousing, “Let’s go!” Repulsed, but too weary to protest, Stu swallowed the bulging rebuttal that clung to his throat and obeyed her order.

As they walked toward the elevator bank, B’Trix recited the Candidate’s biography from memory: name, gender, age, location, occupation, fun facts, and snippets of local gossip. He had been a recluse, only venturing outside to walk his beagle, but at least a dozen times a day. A neighbor had mentioned to one of their agents on recon that perhaps the man walked his dog too much. The curious neighbor had asked the agent: Why so much? Was he a veteran? Was he a recovering addict? Was he writing the Great American Novel in his head? B’Trix sympathized with the recluse. Like every Candidate—well, like everyone, to be honest—the guy was only trying to find his path with his only source of light available.

Light.

The word startled her back to the task at hand, and she turned to Stu before they boarded and asked him, “Remember what I told you in the library a while back? What my mentor shared with me?”

Stu nodded, head still down. “Yes, but I certainly don’t feel like you’re holding my hand in this God-awful darkness.” 

That hurt. But she ignored the twinge in her belly and proceeded, “As Chaplains, we have to know when to hold someone close and when to let them go. It’s a fleeting moment. You’ll see it in time, with practice. But honestly, Stu, the death piles up. If you hold them all, they’ll bury you.”

Their car finally arrived with a ding. They entered and B’Trix pushed the button for the top floor. When the doors closed, she finally felt some semblance of intimacy. She inched closer to Stu and nudged his arm before she conceded, “I’m sorry your first time was so bad.”

“Yes! It was really, really bad, B!” Stu heaved, exasperated.

The smell of moist iron mixed with fermented sweat in the tight space hijacked her senses. The twinge in her belly opened into a bottomless pit she dared not peer into. To calm down, she zoned in on the Muzak version of an old classic rock song drifting in from the panel speaker. She wanted desperately to belt out the lyrics from the top of her lungs, So if you're tired of the same old story! Oh, turn some pages! Stu interrupted her brief attempt at Zen, contempt in his voice, “Where did we go wrong, B?”

Where indeed, B’Trix thought and returned to the smooshy couch, the cool jazz, and the warm drinks, but stifled her sarcastic response and maintained her composure. “Stu, what we experienced in there wasn’t a case of right or wrong. As we’ve discussed in training, The Room is all about nuance. Not every transformation is a clean break.” She looked down at her blood-soaked lab coat and continued, “Some folks just aren’t ready for what’s next. Knowledge is horrifying. They say the truth will set you free—they aren’t wrong. But folks are rarely prepared for the naked vulnerability of freedom. Especially when the role of the imprisoned victim has kept them comfortable.”

B’Trix thought about the recluse as she pulled a piece of him from her hair. The mountain of evidence under her arm held photos of the man’s entire library. It wasn’t unlike their own at the Institute—books about religion, dense sociology and anthropology texts, colorful art history catalogs—perhaps he was writing a novel in his head on those long walks with his beagle. So enthralled by the world around him, but so frightened by it. So much knowledge met with so much ignorance. No one to hold hands with in the dark.

Another ding pulled her back to the present. The elevator door opened, and she rhetorically asked Stu for the second time that day, “Ready?” She caught herself and added with a small chortle, “Jeez, ignore me.”

She exited the elevator, took a few steps forward, and noticed the old man’s absence by her side. She turned back. Stu remained inside the car, one hand on the elevator’s frame to keep the door from closing.

With renewed gusto, Stu confessed, “I can’t do this, B.” An obnoxious alarm began to toll from inside the elevator. He looked up into her eyes for the first time since before The Room and continued, “Sorry. I’m going home. I have to be alone.” He released his hand and let the door close on what could only be described as the harrowing expression of an animal knowingly doomed for slaughter.

His last two words—be alone—ricocheted from corner to corner, inside the corridor, inside her head. The phrase mutated into a question the recluse had asked them immediately before liberating himself from his biological trappings:

Does being alone mean leaving or being left?

She wondered if these words chewed away at Stu too. She wondered if he thought about this a lot, even before The Room, maybe even before he landed here. They’d both arrived in this place having been released from very different prisons (or was it an exile?), but their warden was the same. Either way, she knew they both had to acknowledge the vulnerability of their own stark truths. She prided herself on handling it, but did she really have it handled? Was Stu just much more resolved and candid about their reality here? In his craving for normalcy and structure, perhaps he’d created more room to move while she’d confined herself to the arcane adage, the rules are there are no rules.

To steady her frantic thoughts, she flashed back to her wise old friend Sulaiman, just before he’d quit the SkinFree program. She could see him amongst his cohort, arranged in their circle of folding chairs, down in that musty church basement. It was their final meeting, so each Candidate brought their postpartum alleviation memento to share with the group. Sully presented an antique camping lantern, a family heirloom, and explained how much he cherished his annual backpacking trips with his father to a remote area, a couple hundred miles from their home. It was a stark, almost brutal landscape, but his father explained that all the men in their lineage cherished this land. He assured his son that the high elevation and lack of distractions would silence innocuous mental chatter, but Sully’s heart raptured under the shimmer of the inky night. The gaudy spectacle above filled his head with captivating fantasies and mystical places he might go—if only he could admit the truth. And thus, on one of their treks, when he was in his late teens, Sully came out to his father. And as he feared it would, their relationship collapsed from a burden they’d both unknowingly carried to this moment. The silence on the remainder of that trip was far from medicinal. When they returned home, his father unable to understand or acknowledge Sully’s truth, finally mustered a single word: leave. 

B’Trix squeezed the plump folder to her chest to compress the sour grief, turned toward the long corridor, and began her voyage toward the head offices to plead her case. When she increased her pace, each step made a light smacking sound as sticky prints of blood from her shoes clung to the tile. Like a pop-song earworm, she repeated the recluse’s phrase to the rhythm of her footsteps.

Leaving or being left.

Leaving or being left.

Leaving or being left.

9 | The Hermit

In Rider-Waite tradition, the Hermit card features the archetype of a bearded old man in robes, holding a staff and a lantern. Surrounded by rocky hills or snowy mountains or occasionally the sea, he’s clearly on a journey, but stands still, lantern outstretched, pausing to assess his next move.

The rest of the card is rather stark compared to others in the Major Arcana, more like an open wilderness or even a blanket of snow than a lush landscape. The Hermit is far from home in a land that might feel lonesome but also acts like a blank slate, free from disturbance that would cloud his focus. The Hermit is a foil to The Fool, the first card and archetype in the deck. While The Fool is young, naive, and carefree, paying no mind to the warning “look before you leap,” The Hermit taps into his many years of wisdom—symbolized by the glow of the lantern and the stabilizing staff—to self-reflect before he moves forward.

In some card designs, the lantern holds another hidden symbol: a six-pointed star—the Seal or Ring of Solomon. Per Jewish tradition and Islamic mysticism, the ring inscribed with this magical pentagram sigil—crafted by God and delivered to King Solomon by an angel—gave the King and Prophet immense power over demons and the ability to speak to animals. The kind, wise, and wealthy Solomon became a heavy influence on both Jewish and Islamic teachings as well as non-religious esoteric practices.

If you receive The Hermit card in a reading, consider the fact that a lantern can only illuminate your next step, not the entire journey. Put away the distractions, take a slow walkabout, but pause for a moment, and let your gut instinct and intuition be your guide as you consider your next step.

References and Synchronicity

1. The recluse in this story may or may not be someone real, and I hope he’s just a big fan of walking.

2. The West Coast / cool jazz reference could be Chet Baker or any of these scrumptiously soothing musicians.

3. If you’re not a classic rock buff, the Muzak song playing in the elevator is “Roll with the Changes” by REO Speedwagon. The Room is an homage to the film, Cabin in the Woods and one of my all-time favorite horror movie scenes. You can watch the scene here (BUT! major spoiler alert if you haven’t seen it yet). Watching it now still gives me goosebumps. It’s hilarious too because I haven’t seen the film in several years, but one of the key props in the scene undeniably lodged itself into my cerebral cortex. I didn’t even realize it ‘til I found the clip just now.

4. Another neat factoid is that REO’s lead singer Kevin Cronin wrote the lyrics while moving from his home in the midwest out to California, classic American road trip-style, towing a U-Haul with his Ford Pinto. As Cronin explains in this interview, he got so distracted trying to transcribe the lyrics while driving, “Finally, for the sake of highway safety and more legible penmanship, I decided to pull off the side of the road and I finished the lyric right there in New Mexico.”

5. Sulaiman was the full name I gave to Toby’s bartender friend Sully (a detail I added to The Counsel story in my editing process this year). In Arabic, Sulaiman is written سليمان and references the Islamic prophet and Quranic King, also known as “Solomon” in the King James Bible. The name means peace.

6. And I suppose the thickest helping of synchronicity is that I had experienced my own Hermit moment while letting this story simmer inside my mental crockpot. So here’s a little insight into that journey:

Yadda yadda, I’ve been trying to make sense of this story as a whole. The more I struggled, the more I drained my creative mojo. So I gave up the ghost. I stopped trying to outline my next move. I allowed Bonesick to sit on the shelf for a while, no longer staring at me like a rabid wildebeest lurking in the shadows of my every waking moment. Unfortunately, this all happened to coincide with the fact that I had signed up for the April Foster Cohort. Who signs up for a writer’s workshop during Mercury Retrograde anyway? Though I had nothing to submit to my Cohort last week, I read through my fellow Foster writers’ final submissions. With each essay and short story, I could feel the effervescent sparkler of inspiration crackle in my brain. Their words were the lantern I needed to see my next move. I opened my Act II Google Doc and typed nonstop for two hours, interrupted only by the fact that I had to go to work.

And then…

Ok, so everyone on planet Earth has recommended The Creative Act by Rick Rubin. I’ve picked it up off the shelf at the bookstore so many times. I’ve read snippets. And yet, I always put it back. I think I’ve been in this weird, cynical state about it. It’s the same way I feel about The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron (I’m so sorry, stans). But then a good pal I trust mentioned it last week, and my favorite yoga gal, Adriene, read a passage from it in her May vlog. The passage spoke directly to my lived experience these past few months. Here it is, and I’ll leave you here.

For some artists, being surprised is a rare experience. But it’s possible to cultivate this gift through invitation.

One way is through letting go of control. Release all expectations about what the work will be. Approach the process with humility and the unexpected will visit more often. Many of us are taught to create through sheer will. If we choose surrender, the ideas that want to come through us will not be blocked.

It’s similar to writing a book by following a detailed outline. Set aside the outline, write with no map, and see what happens. The premise you start with could develop into something more. Something you couldn’t have planned and would never have arisen if you were locked into following a particular script.

With your intention set, and the destination unknown, you are free to surrender your conscious mind, dive into the raging stream of creative energy, and watch the unexpected appear, again and again. As each small surprise leads to another, you’ll soon find the biggest surprise:

You learn to trust yourself—in the universe, with the universe, as a unique channel to a higher wisdom.

— Rick Rubin, The Creative Act: A Way of Being

As it turns out, Bonesick was innocent this whole time, and I was the rabid wildebeest lurking in the shadows. Until next time, my friends, keep on rollin’.

Truth be told, I penned my last story slice—The Chariot, aka The Pale Horse—back in APRIL, dear lord. It’s been a minute. But you don’t have to read and/or refresh your memory. I’m going to change it a bit anyway.

I’m also switching up the structure to save the Tarot card symbolism for the end rather than the intro. Now you can dive right into the good stuff.

You ready for The Upside Down?

8 | The Stray

This time, Box in hand, Toby looked both ways before crossing the avenue that separated his apartment from the city park, the park that would lead him to the bike path, the path that connected him to the WAPT bus line, the line that would carry him to his nearly deserted hometown, the place with the church and the ghosts that separated this pile of bones from the flesh that once was. The entire route would take about two hours. The Box he shifted awkwardly from one arm to the other was not light. But he decided that the discomfort was his mandatory burden on this final pilgrimage to United Methodist.

Toby, The Box, and the bus approached the metro limits and the first of three exits that would lead into town. The sun hung low in the west—a plump, dull red orb that wouldn’t burn your retina if you peeked. Toby gazed down at a used condom tucked behind a seat leg to avoid looking at the charred remains of the Biskit Basket. The diner, along with several buildings in the area, were burnt to a crisp by a pack of arsonists who remained at large. Long before Toby’s employer was a publicly traded global monstrosity, Nüch swallowed up dozens of independent grocery stores, bodegas, and restaurants like the Biskit. The diner was located miles outside the town’s disintegrating center, seemingly protected by a riverway park. Nüch management felt assured the Springer family could continue to run the place, business as usual. But the contagion eventually punctured nature’s barrier. After three too many robberies and one too many dead bodies in a dumpster, the corporate overlords threw a Hail Mary at the problem: abandoned warehouse turned mixed-use condominium. Investments fell through; no one moved in. Rumor had it the series of fires were started by the Springers themselves, but Toby refused to believe they’d do such a thing. Nüch wised up to their capital blunder and opted to go nuclear.

When the WAPT pulled into its terminus, Toby braced himself. United Methodist’s hulking Gothic silhouette loomed in the distance like his father on the porch whenever Toby had returned home well after curfew. He deboarded the bus and shifted The Box to his right hip. It was hard to tell if his arm trembled under the weight of its contents or the memories. He turned down the ghosted Main Street but barely took note of the funeral march of establishments lining each side. Dark, gaping holes that used to be picture windows looked too similar to the cavities Toby refused to acknowledge in the bathroom mirror every morning.

Toby crossed the river that both divided the town and pulled it together. He forced himself to walk past Angela’s old house, boarded up like all the rest. When he rounded the corner with the burned-out ten-story complex that used to be an old folks home, he was punched breathless by the void that unfolded in front of him. He thought he’d prepared his psyche when he’d spotted the death kneel of dump trucks during his previous visit. He hadn’t anticipated the sheer magnitude of the devastation. The entire twelve-block radius that surrounded United Methodist had been completely leveled. What was left of the church structure was the only surviving vestige of a neighborhood once teaming with mothers and mailmen, Sunday cookouts and sunset bike rides. He crossed the sprawl of weeds and rubble, circled to the church’s north end, and scanned the demo fence that diagnosed this cancer as terminal. When a corner of disconnected cyclone revealed itself near a pile of bricks, Toby knelt down, shoved The Box through, shimmied inside the perimeter, and proceeded to the old Community room like a convict surrendering to his warden.

The room’s entrance was wide open—the ornate wooden door likely sold for a mint decades ago, and the stone collapsed around the hole like an old man’s mouth without teeth to give it structure. Stepping over the threshold, Toby was nearly knocked over by the unique stench specifically relegated to abandoned structures like this one. The temperature felt twenty degrees colder, exacerbated by the pungent humidity that emanated from both the surrounding stonework and urine-soaked loam beneath his feet. Toby pulled his hood up against the sour hostility.

A while back, after the church itself shuttered, some rich philanthropist’s foundation sent a task force to reopen the Community room. The staff turned it into a makeshift donation center, soup kitchen, and shelter for anyone in the area without the means to escape to more lucrative pastures. Toby walked along the seemingly endless piles of refuse that clung to the inner walls. Spongy undulations of dank clothing mixed with building insulation and paperwork spread like a mold bloom. Curious personal items dotted the bleak landscape like shiny bits of candy stuck in mud: one worn tennis shoe with a hi-viz swoosh, a pair of banana yellow six-inch heels, a glass bottle emptied of its bottom-shelf liquor, a packet of stapled pages encrusted with a pea soup substance and marked with an aggressive red letter “D” in the top margin, obligatory drug paraphernalia, a lone five of spades from a deck nowhere to be found, bottle caps with their brands worn off, a shattered cassette titled “Back in the Day” with mangled black tape oozing from one eye socket, a decapitated Barbie doll head, shaved, next to her stark naked body save for the purple plastic purse slung over her shoulder. Graffiti and gang tags coated every surface of the room. “For a good time, call your mom” was written in black marker on a wall next to what used to be the coat closet. “Eat the rich” decorated the refrigerator door. On the tile floor, a stenciled message read, “the broken come back stronger” in the shape of the infinity symbol. And on the cloth partition that separated this room from the church’s main nave area, a spray-painted prayer coupled with a sloppy pentagram: “Let me go. Please.”

Toby’s stomach churned—a bizarre feast for the senses that rendered one both nauseous and famished. He pushed through the partition and entered the sacred space that once cradled his warmest childhood memories. A boy, barely five years old, sat in a wooden pew, surrounded by the familiar pillars of his community. This boy would gaze in awe at his father, a charismatic and verdant pastor who brandished his pulpit like a weapon of truth or consequences. After service, his saint of a mother would stand in the back to exchange pleasantries, dole out comforting embraces, and gather prayer requests. It wasn’t until Toby grew old enough to understand the church’s place in the community—not the heart exactly, but more like the skin, an identity that held their neighborhood together—that he began to see the boils simmering beneath the surface.

When Toby was in elementary school, the seemingly prosperous local plant had closed temporarily and furloughed everyone except upper management. In one of many arguments that punctuated his sleepless nights, Toby heard his father admit to his mother that the church was predominantly funded, not by the weekly offertory baskets, but by the plant. So when the gossip of a permanent shutdown tugged at the community’s fragile fabric, the church was the first to feel the strain.

While they waited for the plant to reopen, families either eyed up the neighboring suburbs that survived on fast food chains and strip malls or aimed for a better shot in the bustling corporate-driven metropolis a half-hour north. After the first union protest, their population’s imperceptible trickle outward shifted to a gushing hemorrhage. As quickly as Toby’s father twisted Bible passages into tourniquets, panicked rumors would rip the words to shreds. In less than a year, the congregation dwindled from thousands to hundreds to dozens. Toby never got to see the last one standing. His father the hypocrite abandoned ship and his mother couldn’t bear to gather anyone else’s prayers when the single request she’d clung to had been ignored. Despite the pickets and protests from workers with more courage in a single throbbing hangnail than the entirety of his father, the plant closed for good. The march for earned sustenance turned into a hunt for table scraps. The threadbare community managed to rally for a little while under a new identity: a cloak of sanguine desperation that preyed upon their naïveté but eventually sucked them all dry. Then the looting began. And the squatting. And the arson.

What remained of those table scraps littered every inch of this cavernous wasteland. With The Box still tucked under his right arm, Toby surveyed the damage. Sconces, statues, pews—anything of value that could be lifted, tugged, or towed was long gone. At some point, the roof collapsed. Debris had rained down like confetti at an exclusive soiree that celebrated the local flora and fauna, which flourished in the grander spotlight. 

To his left, Toby found the source of the burning smell that permeated the church, small flames licked the insides of a rusty 42-gallon drum, fed by the broken bones of the once lofted roof. To his right, Toby noticed an overturned plastic shopping cart—a relic of the Before Times when the townsfolk still had consumer choices and disposable income. Underneath the cart, he thought he saw a rounded bulge covered with fur. The bulge looked still, too still. He approached the red cage, and a set of triangular ears confirmed his suspicion—a small cat curled inside. But it was too dark to confirm whether or not it was alive. Someone had trapped it there. Maybe to keep the animal secure while the owner searched for their next meal? Or their next high? What if it was some schizophrenic addict’s idea of a maniacal joke, one last thread of control over an innocent living thing? Toby recoiled at the thought. He put down The Box and reached out to move the cart, but before he could grab a wheel, something else pulled at him instead. Just a few inches from the cart, amongst the dirt and cigarette butts, sat a baby’s pacifier with a cartoon lion on the front, shiny like it had been dropped just moments ago. Toby reeled as his memory strongarmed him back to the evening Angela brought home the dusty pink bag with the powder blue tissue paper. It was a gift from her coworker and confidant from the bookstore, the only other soul they’d told about the fetus growing inside of her. Up to their eyeballs in arguments at this point, Angela reluctantly showed Toby the bag’s contents: a small pack of newborn diapers, a terrycloth bib, and a pacifier with a cartoon lion on the front. All he could muster in response to her display was a curt, thoughtful, and returned to stirring tomato soup on the stove. In dejected silence, Angela stuffed the items back into the gift bag and retreated to the bedroom.

The deafening metallic clink of her door latch startled Toby’s attention back to the pacifier with the lion abandoned to this mess, back to the cart with the cat that could be alive or dead, back to the suffocating remnants of lives collapsed, back to the putrid stench of failure, back to the church with a God that didn’t give a shit about anyone, back to the life that Toby selected instead of whatever it could’ve been or should’ve been. 

Toby grabbed The Box and hurled it toward what was once the Sanctuary, but now just a den to shoot up or shoot your load. He located the nearest window and climbed over a heap of busted architecture mixed with shards of stained glass. The moment he smelled fresh air, he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the weeds. But no matter how hard he wretched, he couldn’t eliminate the ravenous apathy that took permanent residence deep inside the folds of his bowels. All that was left of the day was a thin strip of lavender along the western horizon. Toby wiped his jaw, checked the time, and started back. The apartment complex, Angela’s house, the river with the moon swimming amongst the soda cans and plastic bags, the bus, the bike path, the park, the avenue, and the apartment—all lined up like dominoes. Everything felt plastic and colorless, precariously structured. He tried to think of Pam, but even her soft tentacles intertwined in his rigid fingerbones were no match for the hungry sludge that began its feast below. He boarded the WAPT, leaned his skull against the window, and surrendered what remained of himself to the darkness. The insatiable turmoil devoured every last piece.

8 | Strength

They say that we never truly stop being afraid, we just summon enough courage to coexist with that which haunts us. At face value, the Strength card symbolizes the bravery required to meet your deepest darkness face-to-face. But you can keep your muscle-bound, sword-wielding knight in shining armor, chest puffed with a single foot atop the slain dragon. In traditional Tarot illustration, this card features a gentle maiden who cradles the muzzle of a lion in her hands—his gleaming sharp teeth mere inches from her delicate fingers. Our Wild within isn’t something to be slaughtered or even tamed so much as respected, admired, and even perhaps befriended. When you’re this close to a monster that could tear your life to ribbons, you have to commit yourself to understanding your beast fully and completely. You must approach your darkness with unwavering focus and serene compassion. Only then can find symbiosis in the liminal space where civilization meets wilderness, knowledge meets instinct, and order meets chaos. The knight would plunge his sword into the golden heart of the lion and snuff out the flame that could’ve given him a power that goes beyond trophies and kill counts. The maiden demonstrates restraint, wisdom, and patience. The lion regards her with reverence. In time, she builds up the resilience to reach inside and touch the flame. The lion rewards her. Her fear becomes her power.

Next time the mouth of darkness yawns wider. But there’s a light.

References and Synchronicity

1. Here and in the future, there may or may not be some heavy references to Breakfast at Tiffany’s (the original Save The Cat plot device) only because I love it SO VERY MUCH. Watch these opening and closing clips. Bring Kleenex.

2. United Methodist is loosely based on the infamous City Methodist Church in Gary, Indiana, here in the U.S. I’ve referenced and illustrated the church in the past here and here, so I updated one of those older comics to feature The Box for this story slice. This piece is essentially my artistic interpretation of the white flight that took down the city once U.S. Steel collapsed—what I imagine it could’ve been like, the loss, anger, and devastation. Here’s an inspiring write-up in the New York Times (February 3, 2024) about where Gary is today and the hope that can blossom when you tear down to start anew. I actually read this article after I wrote this story, and the similarities (the diner, the updated commuter line, the global conglomerate swooping in, the man who’s childhood home is about to be demolished) are truly uncanny. I have many colorful bits of “candy in the mud” that I’ve gathered from Gary over the past 15 years. I do hope that new ideas birth progress and success.

   

Thank you for reading—I’ve circled over to your desk to tuck a small Valentine that features Garfield enjoying a giant dish of lasagna inside of your shoebox festooned with construction paper hearts. For my practicing Christian friends out there, I see you, and I acknowledge my blasphemous smear upon the brow of Ash Wednesday in my writing here tonight. Trust me, it was all a coincidence! Did you give up something extra difficult this year? From personal experience, coffee was tougher than alcohol. And cheese was tougher than coffee. What about you?

Leave a comment

The third and FINAL part of Bonesick x Inktober is finished. (If you missed Part One or Part Two, jump there first.)

Inktober Part One

Inktober Part Two

Life lessons?

Back in Part Two, I explained how these Toby flashbacks inside the Sicada Box aren’t just random access memories. They tell a chronological mini-story arc within the bigger Bonesick arc. With that said my five-day break became seven days as I legit struggle-bussed my way through Part Three’s architecture. Between scenes that begged to be illustrated, a soundtrack that needed to make sense, the correct minor arcana Tarot (with no repeats), dialog that didn’t feel cliché, and an ending that’s not really an ending but a hint to the very beginning? Felt like a Wembanyama-sized order.

Admittedly, as you scroll, this mini-arc is missing beams, studs, two zebras, and screws. It’s as if you’ve stumbled upon someone’s secret mental diary, but a ton of the pages are gone, so you have to make a bunch of assumptions. If you’re new here, don’t fret, you discover these missing pages as the rest of Bonesick unfolds, starting with The Reboot.

So let’s get on with it, man.

Structure Refresher

As a reminder, each Inktober panel includes:
(1) a Minor Arcana [Ace through King] Tarot Card reference that connects to…
(2) a past Toby memory,
(3) a tiny piece of dialogue,
(4) and an accompanying song.

Onward…

Inktober x Bonesick — 23

Ace of Swords:  New ways of thinking, mental clarity, time to take action.

Soundtrack: “One Way Trigger” — The Strokes (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 24

Knight of Swords (Reversed): Restless and frustrated, stuck and simultaneously barreling in the wrong direction.

Soundtrack: “Best Disaster” — Cuco (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 25

Two of Wands: Risks taken, leaving comfort zone to embark on a new path.

Soundtrack: “I’ll Be The Death of You” — I Break Horses (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 26

Six of Swords: A delicate state of transition nestled between emotional baggage and opportunities for expansion.

Soundtrack: “Are You Someplace Else?” — Dinner Set Gang (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 27

Seven of Swords: Deception, secrets, and self-doubt, a classic case of Imposter Syndrome.

Soundtrack: “Little Secrets” — Passion Pit (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 28

Seven of Pentacles (Reversed): A lack of rewards, questioning current investment.

Soundtrack: “Knowitall” — Phantom Planet (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 29

Nine of Wands: Test of faith, courage in the face of a final challenge.

Soundtrack: “Need You Around” — Smoking Popes (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 30

Ten of Swords: The inevitably painful rock bottom.

Soundtrack: “Cold (The Blanck Mass recording)” — The Editors (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 31

Seven of Cups: A bounty of scintillating gifts — beware of detrimental illusions.

Soundtrack: “Terrible Lie” — Nine Inch Nails (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 32

Ace of Wands (Reversed): Marooned with a rudderless sense of purpose. Despite all attempts, progress seems futile. 

Soundtrack: “I Believe” — Ghost (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 33

Nine of Swords: Crushing internal turmoil, guilt, and despair.

Soundtrack: “A Bad Dream” — Keane (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 34

Eight of Cups: No hope of rehabilitation from this toxic state of being. There’s nothing left for you here.

Soundtrack: “Fast Slow Disco” — St. Vincent (Listen on YouTube)

Eggs n things

Fewer pop culture eggs this time around, and more references to previous Bonesick panels, Tarot, and episodes from the past. Here are a few noteworthy clues and callouts:

• Before Toby was banished to cube life in the creative department of Nüch’s grocery conglomerate division, he was a humble sign artist, a nod to Trader Joe’s.

• The doctor is in! “The Fix,” featured in Panels 24–32 as a menacing, sticky, stringy red mass is not drugs per se—at least not specifically—but rather the prescriptive escapes that often lure us into a false sense of security and then cling on for dear life.

• Panel 32 is Toby at the apex of this “I’ll try anything” approach, so I tried to cram as much trendy Fixe du Jour as I could (many of which I’ve tried myself). And while Toby’s mohawk shave exudes Travis Bickle vibes, it’s more likely he tried to be a transcendental monk for a hot minute.

• Panel 29/30’s letters are prominently featured in Tarot 06 | The Broken. 29’s upside-down barely legible page hints at what’s up with Toby’s mom these days.

• Head back to Panel 17 for a reminder of what Toby’s neighborhood block looked like in his hey day. This image is directly inspired by a specific row of homes in Gary, Indiana. Abandonment is obviously a huge theme in Bonesick, so Toby and Angela had to grow up in a city like Gary. As I’ve mentioned before, I have a deep soft spot for the people of Gary's grit and perseverance. Google Maps allows you to travel back in time. Presently, while Toby’s block is worse for wear, Angela’s block called for historical preservation.

Soundtrack

Man, I worked my ass off to make this soundtrack fit, not just the mood, but the narrative of Part Three. One perfect industrial masterpiece captures Bonesick’s very core, its essence. (And also a song I would absolutely go deaf to because it’s always cranked waaaay beyond 11). So, if you were to listen to one song from the batch, it’s Day 31 “Terrible Lie” by Nine Inch Nails. Whether you’ve lost your Faith or you’re just having a shitty day, this one always comes through in a pinch.

Enjoy the rest of the “I Need You Around” mix on Spotify:

Season Finale

Biggest sigh. That’s a wrap, folks. All said and done—from planning to drawing—this project took around 150 hours. You’re thinking to yourself: girl, you’re insane. But I love it. After not seriously drawing for nearly half my life, the fact that little square panels came out of my brain, into my hand, onto a screen, and now exist in the vast sea of human creation? Just happy to be here. Plus I’m grateful for the TIME I get to do such a weird thing.

AND I can’t tell you how grateful I am for those of you who plodded alongside me for the past month and a half… email responses, comments, a text photo of a watch pop-up notification of one of my panels (!!!)

Truth be told, though, as the holiday and my lightpainting season ramp up, I’m headed into Substack hibernation. With some time off ahead of me, my Big Fat Goal is to nail down the rest of the story outline. Then I can finally start to trickle out Act II at the turn of the year. If you’re new to the Bonesick canon, you can tide yourself over here:

Reboot at Tarot 0 | The Fool

Questions? Concerns! (I’m good!) I’d love to hear from YOU! Did any particular aspect of this Inktober project stand out? Fave panels? Looking forward to the return of SkinFree Toby? If you were to dedicate yourself to a 150-hour project for 4-6 weeks, what would it be? How do you [REALLY] feel about taking breaks to recharge and reset? Leave your thoughts in the comments or email directly!

Inktober Part One

Life lessons?

I continue to use Substack Notes, not for engagement, but for my daily post ritual. I almost posted the ten panels of Part One to my personal Instagram, but something in my gut said I’m just not ready. It’s as if I want my Bonesick world to remain in my cozy oven of Substack obscurity while the ideas continue to bake. After Part Three, I hope the DING goes off and my mind and soul both shift to open the oven door.

While developing Part Two, I realized that these aren’t just little snippets of memories that Toby has collected inside the Sicada Box. These snippets have to tell a full story. So now I’m writing a story arc within a story arc and it’s a freaking challenge, I tell you! Quarter-way through Part Two, I took an entire afternoon with little note cards scattered all over the couch to correctly arrange how the plot of memories needed to unfold.

Finally, I am honestly and truly in lust with this process. Yes, it’s challenging and I’m just so ridiculously slow at drawing, but I after dinner and a night walk, I find that I crave my iPad and Apple pencil (digital doesn’t always kill the romance!). It’s been particularly enjoyable with the soothing sounds of murder and mayhem in the background (Halloween is in full-force on our television).

Structure Refresher

As a reminder, each Inktober panel includes:
(1) a Minor Arcana [Ace through King] Tarot Card reference that connects to…
(2) a past Toby memory,
(3) a tiny piece of dialogue,
(4) and an accompanying song.

As always, if you want that extra dose of Deep Cut eggs, Tarot bits, and other bonus references, you can find that hit at the end.

I humbly thank you for your gift of presence!

Onward…

Inktober x Bonesick — 11

Six of Cups: Playful childhood memories dripping with innocence and nostalgia

Soundtrack: “All Through The Night” — Cyndi Lauper (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 12

Eight of Wands: Time to move full speed into your schemes. Manifest your dreams.

Soundtrack: “Dream Girl” — Curtis Harding (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 13

Ace of Cups: Love’s beginnings

Soundtrack: “Oh, What A World” — Kacey Musgraves (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 14

Two of Cups: Union and partnership

Soundtrack: “Through It All” — Lady Wray (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 15

Queen of Cups (Reversed): Emotionally drained from heartbreak, in dire need of support

Soundtrack: “Take Care” — Beach House (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 16

Five of Cups: Heartbreak and loss; grief over how to move forward

Soundtrack: “My Heart Goes Out To You” — The Championship (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 17

Knight of Cups (Reversed): Emotionally-charged dreams and schemes not grounded in reality

Soundtrack: “America” — Simon & Garfunkel (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 18

Four of Swords: Finding strength, calm, and solitude before the next challenge

Soundtrack: “Happy & Well” — Thee Sacred Souls (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 19

Four of Cups: Deep state of discernment, but often blind to or dismissive of generous opportunities that await

Soundtrack: “One by One” — Billy Bragg & Wilco (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 20

Five of Swords: Selfish power struggle that will inevitably lead to destruction 

Soundtrack: “Jealous Guy” — Donny Hathaway (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 21

Seven of Wands (Reversed):  Exhausted and overwhelmed by battle, collapse under the weight of pressure

Soundtrack: “Giving Up” — Durand Jones & the Indications (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 22

Eight of Swords:  Blinded by victimhood, surrounded by self-made enemies with no way out.

Soundtrack: “Changes” — Charles Bradley (Listen on YouTube)

Eggs n things

Again, I’ve tucked a small sampling of cultural gems and insidery bits inside. Panel 11 is lifted from one of my top film moments in history: The Virgin Suicides scene where the girls and boys trade playing records to each other over the phone—the original Mix Tape. Angela’s got Thompson Twins on deck, while Toby’s waiting to play something from Thriller. Panel 13 has major West Side Story vibes. In Panel 20, I didn’t own a Nokia phone, but one very similar. I was really good at the multiple taps-on-taps-on-taps of the ABC setting until I discovered the magical portal of T9 predictive text.

I also hid some personal references. Panel 19 features my mom’s monogram. Panel 14’s napkins-tucked-into-books activity was something my friends and I did in high school at Barnes & Noble (“Veil & Valiant” is a nod to the bookstore giant). But hold on. See, I know it’s hard to believe, but I was one hell of a nerd. Instead of declaring my love to my sig-other on napkins, I wrote “U2 Rox” and “I <3 Bono” along with green shamrocks to celebrate the lead singer’s May 10th birthday (ahhh, glimpses into my weirdness, you’re welcome). The books in that panel are Franny and Zooey, All About Love, Quantum Physics: From Schrödinger's Cat to Antimatter.

Other eggs are events that were mentioned in previous Bonesick entries. Panel 15 with Toby and his mom is an echo of Panel 4 (only two sets of dishes this time). Panel 17 at Toby’s house is an echo of the “let’s run away” theme at Angela’s house back in Panel 7 (along with a hint of the infamous motorcycle). Panel 16 illustrates the death of Angela’s brother and father shortly thereafter (mentioned in Twenty Years Ago), where I also imply that her mother has long since passed — all represented by the three roses. Eight crows migrate through, symbolic of transition, endings, and foreboding trouble ahead. Panel 18 includes a hint of Angela’s maternal ancestry inside a frame in her bedroom as she herself learns of her own burgeoning motherhood. Panel 21 features three pictures from other Bonesick spots. And Panel 22 is a nod to the bench scene back in Panel 10. I didn’t overtly reveal his childhood wish, but, allegorically, it’s all there.

Soundtrack

Just like The Virgin Suicides scene, music provides that extra layer of emotional impact. Enjoy the “I Can’t Compare to What’s Out There” mix on Spotify:

Big sigh. I’m dooooing it. Ready for the final part of this Inktober journey into the recesses of Toby’s memory banks?

Check out Inktober Part Three

Life lessons?

In a not-so-shocking twist, I haven’t fallen in love with Substack Notes yet (ever). But the daily post is a solid ritualistic touchstone to keep me accountable to the overall process. On the “shouting into the void” scale, it’s more of a devotional offering to the creativity gods than a lonesome bellow into nothingness.

Dopamine-hit-wise, producing this work daily without much validation actually feels pretty good. Like sippin’ on a green smoothie packed with nutrients rather than scarfing down an entire bag of Ruffles chips. Love the work for the work itself, not the eyeballs and hearts (although those can be nice, mmm Ruffles).

Project Backstory & Structure

As I referenced last time, The Broken episode featured a mysterious Box that Toby keeps hidden away. The Box has a Sicada Labs label on the top, so the SkinFree™ inventor has something to do with it. This project will give you a glimpse inside the Box: a collection of life highlights and lowlights that chiseled away at Toby’s psyche.

Each Inktober panel includes:
(1) a Minor Arcana [Ace through King] Tarot Card reference that connects to…
(2) a past Toby memory,
(3) a tiny piece of dialogue,
(4) and an accompanying song.

If you want a big helping of delicious Deep Cut eggs, Tarot bits, and other bonus references, you can find those buried treasures at the end.

Ok let’s do this already! Enjoy, my sweet friends…

Inktober x Bonesick — 01

Ace of Pentacles: New chapters and promising fresh starts

Soundtrack: “There’s A New Day Coming” — Menahan Street Band, feat. Saundra Williams (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 02

Three of Cups: The pure bliss of a good friendship

Soundtrack: “Hot Fun in the Summertime” — Sly & the Family Stone (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 03

King of Swords (Reversed): Intellectual authority; oppressive, cold and absent

Soundtrack: “Helplessly Hoping” — Crosby Stills & Nash (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 04

Queen of Pentacles: The ultimate earth-mom, wife, caregiver

Soundtrack: “Nothing But A Heartache” — The Flirtations (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 05

Three of Swords: A sudden blow, betrayal, confusion

Soundtrack: “Inner City Blues” — Marvin Gaye (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 06

Five of Wands: Brewing conflict on the brink of explosion.

Soundtrack: “When the Levee Breaks” — Led Zeppelin (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 07

Two of Swords: Painful impasse in the face of a bitter Truth

Soundtrack: “That’s All I Wanted From You” — Jalen Ngonda (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 08

Five of Pentacles: Financially down and out

Soundtrack: “Living for the City” — Stevie Wonder (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 09

Page of Cups: Introspective romantic, curious about new possibilities

Soundtrack: “A Joyful Sound (Reprise)” — Kelly Finnigan (Listen on YouTube)

Inktober x Bonesick — 10

Two of Pentacles: The work of inevitable change to balance chaos

Soundtrack: “Shooting Star” — Harper Simon (Listen on YouTube)

References

Minor Arcana Suits

• Wands – Flash Light: Ruled by the element of Fire, represents the flash of inspiration and the illumination of internal mindsets led by spiritual guidance.

• Cups – Mug: Ruled by Water, represents a warm mug-full of emotion, interpersonal relationships, and matters of the heart.

• Swords – Quill Pen: Ruled by Air, represents the quick stroke of constructive (or often destructive) action, analytical intellect, conflict, and power.

• Pentacles – Pentagram: Ruled by Earth, represents the two-sided coin of generosity and greed in the material world of home life, vocation, career, money.

Eggs n things

I’ve tucked a handful of eggs in panels, some for fun, some symbolic like the Book of 1 Samuel and a poster that features perhaps the darkest of fathers. One panel references “Black Monday” and the Steel Mill closings in the late ‘70s—the protest signs were inspired by the employee ownership movement that started in Youngstown, Ohio (photos in this article).

I pull some of these illustrative ideas from thin air, but occasionally I get auto-biographical, like the candy cane reindeer. My mega-crush in 3rd grade was sitting next to me in class and made his candy cane reindeer kiss mine. I absolutely died and you’ve been interacting with my ghost this whole time.

Soundtrack

I have a WHOLE lot to say about the magic of a great soundtrack. But this post has already taken up enough of your time, so I’ll save that for later. Just know that—being the card-carrying Gen Xer I am—I 100% agree with Rob Gordon that a good compilation is an art form.

Listen to the Part One soundtrack “If It Keeps On Raining Mix” on Spotify:

Whew! Thanks for your eyeballs and hearts! Ready for Toby’s Middle Years?

check out Inktober Part Two

This is a longer one, so let’s jump right in.

The Candidate

“I feel like a tuning fork that’s out of tune—a de-tuning fork?” A few candidates in the circle chuckled knowingly at the comment from the thick man wearing a mask, hat, sunglasses, and gloves. Everyone in the circle wore some version of this ensemble. It looked like an Invisible Man cosplay convention, aside from one in a red latex bodysuit and one who insisted on wearing an old Captain Kirk Halloween mask. But this was required protocol for these meetings in the musty church basement, every second Monday of the month, 7 pm sharp. Disguises and first initials only. Leave your identity at the door.

Donning a black balaclava with just two openings for his eyes, Toby nodded along with the masked man’s de-tuning fork description. This caught the attention of the group’s leader, who went by “B.” She shifted her gaze towards Toby before he could look away.

“You feel the same way too?” B prodded. She seemed young, too young maybe, judging by her camouflage.

He squirmed in his squeaky folding chair and replied, “Yeah, kinda.” He paused for a moment before he described his specific variety of skin sensations exacerbated by his melancholia. “For me, it’s like I’m wearing the reverb from an iron door that someone just slammed inside of a cave. It just vibrates incessantly all over. It’s obnoxious.” He didn’t bother to look around for agreement.

B encouraged a couple more replies to this week’s investigation. Over the past five sessions, the young woman had interrogated the group of SkinFree candidates with the typical therapy stack: What trauma led you here? How does it make you feel? What methods have you tried to navigate these emotions? Do your friends and family support your decision to go through with the Procedure?

Toby loathed sitting through everyone’s egomaniacal sob stories. Mental illness, drug addiction, homelessness, assault, attempted suicide—all variations on the same theme: life is a fucking struggle—he didn’t need the reminder in excruciating detail. In last month’s meeting, an older lady alluded to a baby she’d surrendered. The searing fire poker of personal shame that lanced through Toby’s chest cavity was enough to send him up out of his cold metal chair and straight to the stairs. B had to chase after him with the mildly convincing fact that he’d have to complete all six meetings eventually. 

While he shared a thought from time to time, Toby kept his dirty laundry list of sub-standard life choices to himself. He didn’t need to prove anything to these masked strangers shoegazing into their own muck. He hurt inside and out. The mental anguish that crawled into bed with him each night and woke up beside him each morning was reason enough to take the next step and go through with this—as radical as it seemed to normal folks. It was time to peel off the weak, tender cloak that did nothing to protect any sense of self-worth. Every mistake only added to the pile of evidence that he was a waste of space.

After Latex explained how his skin felt like bugs, B checked the clock above the fire exit door and wrapped up the meeting with some platitudes about better days to come. She reminded the candidates of the final session’s assignment: bring postpartum alleviation mementos to discuss with the group.

Most of the candidates gathered around the coffee maker after the meeting. Some lifted their masks to take slurps of tepid caffeine and discuss the details of their upcoming procedures. Toby bolted for the stairs. Even amongst this odd pack of depressed misfits, he was an outcast.

He climbed the basement steps up to the church’s narthex. His footsteps echoed against the marble and lofted ceiling. He snuck a peak at the cathedral’s interior. Strategically placed lights softly uplit carved architecture that was as opulent as it was oppressive. The earthen, musky scent of Frankincense still lingered from Sunday’s Mass—bitter nostalgia of his youth, when his father led the Evening Praise and Prayer service before everything collapsed.

Although this was a Catholic establishment, not a Protestant one, Toby had vowed never to return to any denomination after his father abandoned him, his mom, and his entire hometown. But here he was: inside of another church, stuck in some horrific time loop, doomed to relive his most challenging memories. He picked up a stray service bulletin from the floor and flipped through its contents. He didn’t recognize any of the hymns, and the structure was different from the services his dad preached. On the back, there was a list of staff members, one of whom was Sully: his SkinFree sponsor, bartender, and only real friend on earth. 

Sully was the one who gave Toby the SkinFree pamphlet. Sully was also the one who convinced him that B’s meetings were by far the least awkward of the challenging bunch. So Toby agreed to the required six-month stint in the basement in tandem with his weekly one-on-one wellness sessions, all of which would lead up to the procedure. Only 55 days to go. While his pal Sully had endured the same group therapy theatrics, he never went through with the procedure. He backed out two weeks beforehand. But Toby still trusted Sully’s guidance. Sully knew what it felt like to want to tear off your skin so no one could make assumptions about you. Sully never made him feel like a heretic for going through something as absurd as replacing your skin with some cryptic company’s outer space material. Sully just listened. 

Toby leaned the weight of his body into the church’s thick wood door. He felt the crisp night air pour through the crack and grab at the openings of his balaclava mask. A young female voice pulled him back.

“T? Could I check with you on something quick?” B had followed him up the stairs. He kept his shoulder pinned to the door.

“I gotta run,” Toby replied with a nod toward the outside. “Maybe next time?”

“It’s about your workplace,” B interjected before he could push through the door. “The staff is having trouble setting up the transition. Apparently, you haven’t completed your post-op prep account with them yet?”

This wasn’t just any workplace. It was Nüch, the biggest company in the country, top ten globally. It was so mammoth that Toby’s health insurance covered the entire SkinFree procedure, no questions asked. The problem was his boss. Without a social life, Toby had poured most of his waking hours into various positions in the creative department of the grocery conglomerate division. He had made himself indispensable. So while Toby would undergo post-op recovery for the next eight months or so, the VP of the department was obviously in full panic mode. He’d have to do some actual work for once.

“Yeah, my boss is being a pain in the ass about it,” Toby admitted. “Tips?”

“Ok, let me ask you something,” B replied. “Are you the kind of guy who builds his entire self-worth around his job?” 

Stunned by B’s brazen sneak attack, Toby took his shoulder off the door and let it close. The fresh night air would have to wait. “Um, ok, whoa. I don’t know if that’s the problem.”

B continued, “The thing is, we have all your records. You took three personal days since you started at Nüch. Most of your recovery time is covered by five years of rollover vacation.”

Toby glanced down at the church bulletin still in his hand. “We all have our vices.”

As if he were a frightened creature she’d have to trap, B gingerly took a few steps toward him. “Toby, listen, I apologize. I’m not here to slice and dice your personal life. That meeting ended eight minutes ago.” She laughed to put Toby at ease, but he wasn’t amused. She continued more seriously, “You have to set up your prep account, or you may not have a job to come back to.”

“Would that be so bad?” Toby asked.

“Well, that’s up to you, I guess.” B got distracted by echoed voices behind her as a few candidates climbed the stairs. She moved in closer to Toby. “See, everything about this process is specifically constructed to provide you with the best outcome—a smooth transition into, well, a completely different life ahead of you.”

“I’ll manage.” All he wanted to do was skip to the part where he didn’t have to be the Toby-shaped sad sack he’d been dragging around all these decades.

B inched closer. “T, I know how you feel about Group. Like you don’t fit in here.” 

“I’ve never fit in. Anywhere.” Toby paused as he considered how much more he wanted to share with B. He watched her eyes flicker behind the pale, expressionless mask she wore, issued by her company.

He reluctantly continued, “The other night you asked what pushed us to this option, and I didn’t answer.” Toby shifted his weight and crossed his arms against his chest. “You know how amputees suffer from phantom limb? That’s how everything feels to me. Only it’s my existence that’s the ghost. Yet it's operating as if it’s real.” He stopped and immediately regretted his admission. Out loud it sounded hollow and cliché.

B gave Toby’s words some room and nodded before asking, “Would you like to do something else with your life? After the procedure?”

Toby groaned, “Oh I don’t fucking know. No matter what prescription of woo I try, I’ll probably feel like this. I’ve done it all, ya know? Started with fad workouts, went vegan, saw a psychic, microdosed. I read all the self-help hits. I even went on a silent retreat for God’s sake. I still feel lost.” Toby’s exasperation ricocheted across the surrounding marble. “But I haven’t tried this, so I might as well toss myself to the wolves.” He waved his hand in B’s direction.

She whispered as her shoulders dropped, “You think we’re wolves, T?”

Toby felt frustration crackle under his chest. “You’re part of the industry… this wellness complex that capitalizes on our trauma. But we’re all too weak to resist. We’re at the end of our rope, one step away…” He trailed off and shifted his focus to the candidates hovering at the other end of the narthex.

B interrupted, “If you think this is some sort of snake oil factory, then we’re gonna have to have a different conversation altogether.”

Toby returned to B’s earnest stare. Regret oozed like molten lava through the cracks and he began to recant. “No, no, I don’t, B. I’m just… honestly, I’m so tired.”

Toby closed his eyes. To calm down, he tried to grab a handful of comforting memories, collected decades ago. There was Angela, age 8. Her happy house on Jackson. The bedroom closet she hid him in when he ran away from his sad house. The scent of detergent and pine wood. The grilled cheese sandwich she snuck in so his growling stomach wouldn’t give him away. But his recollection was too delicious to evade his hungry ghosts. In moments the memories, plump with serenity, became starved shells clinging to the walls of his skull.

Toby opened his eyes and continued, “Sorry, B. Clearly I don’t share enough in Group.” When she didn’t even snicker, he paused to think of a way to reassure her. “You know what convinced me to give this weird, wild ride a go? It was the concierge—when I sent in my application, she reignited something in me.” He rubbed his chest.

B sighed, “Eliza’s amazing. I’m grateful she reached you. T, we’re all on your side. I’m only asking you to take this seriously. If you go through with the procedure, it’s going to feel like…” she paused as she struggled to come up with a metaphor, “...well, you’re not dead, you’re not alive, you’re—”

“A more complex third thing,” Toby added. “Whatever it is, it’s bound to be better than this.” Toby looked up. “Listen, I gotta go. I get it. You’re just doing your job.”

B shook her head. “Forgive me for all this. When I’m at Group, I’m on autopilot. Rules and regulations. Crossed T’s, dotted I’s. This entire process is hard for all of us. To be completely honest, you deserve better.” She lowered her voice as she nodded her head back toward the candidates, “You all deserve better. These folks, they’re lost just like you. We’re all a little lost. We have that in common at least, don’t you think?”

Toby turned to survey the sad little group of misfits; his shoulders drooped. Caught between misery and company, he couldn’t concede to the comforting arms of either one.

B noticed the fall in Toby’s demeanor and lifted her gloved hand to reach for his. But he plunged his shoulder hard into the church door. A blast of frigid March air reached out for her instead. She watched him remove his balaclava. She caught a quick look at the mess of black hair at the top of his shaved skull as the door’s hydraulics gently reduced her view to wood and shadow.

She stood alone, embraced only by the cold. Her skin prickled against the anxious whispers from her candidates, just weeks away from their more complex third thing.

References

The 16th-century composer Palestrina is a dear fave of mine from my college days. Now I didn’t take a “banned music over the millennium” course, but how cool would that be? In this instance, I’m referring to when polyphonic music was controversial in the 1560s. Important councilmen thought the intermingling of voices made sacred text difficult to understand. Palestrina depended on papal patronage to make a living and when Paul IV dismissed him for such blasphemous music, he was basically screwed. Luckily, Paul IV croaked a few years later. Legend goes his successor, Pius IV, was like: You’re cool, Palestrina, go ahead and compose a full polyphonic mass. Palestrina composed Missa Papae Marcelli, and the rest is history.

…

One final THANK YOU to my Foster people — Jude Klinger, Sena Gürdoğan, and DJ May — who helped with edits to the first draft of this one. Since June, that draft changed and lengthened quite a bit, but I appreciate the love nonetheless! Again, I’m not sure I would’ve written this three-part prologue had it not been for the Season 3 workshop. Here I was, thinkin’ I’d be on some leisurely break this summer!

With that said, I’m not quite sure what’s next in store. Sure I’d love to start up Act 2 (Tarot Card No. 8). But I’d also secretly love to polish Act 1 with some rewrites and a lot more drawing. I also have big thoughts and dreams about making it literally tangible. Opinions? Give’m to me!

Post-Script: I asked and you answered. “Whatever you want, I’ll be here” sounds great! So let’s do something different.

Welcome to my mini-project inside this project: Inktober x Bonesick. In the canon, the following three parts exist after the Prologue you just read, but before Tarot Card Zero. Enjoy!

Read Inktober Part One

Welcome to the thick ‘n juicy, protein-packed, meaty center that is Prologue Part Two. (If you missed Part One — oh hi new subscribers!! — go to there now.)

Pro-Tip

If you’re looking at this via email and especially with a mobile device—yikes—my apologies. No “phone-friendly” version this time. I also chop the comic in half so it loads faster, so if you tappy-tap the one below to expand, make sure you tap them both. Basically, you could actually click here to see the full monty even bigger and more bodacious.

On with it!

we're here for you ›

References

Today’s multi-dimensional, multi-media creation has enough easter eggs to make fluffy festive frittatas for all your loved ones. I’m going to play a little differently today. If you spot a pop culture reference in the comic, throw it in the comment section! There’s a super obscure one tucked deep in there; your hint is The Lost Lottery. Take some time with it, let the egg wash over you.

Speaking of which, to logistically connect the comic above to the website out there didn’t happen like I thought it could because Substack won’t let you add links to images. Man that would’ve been amazing. So forgive the awkward. This “Don’t Make Me Think” UXer over here hates it.

Finally, I’d love to give props to Season 3 Artisan’s Way Foster workshop again. I actually wrote this entire thing back in June. I had absolutely NO clue how it would transition from words in a Google Doc into Bonesick-ness until I settled on the fact that the second half should be a real website. Then a week later, the drawing gods gifted me with the images of the first half chopped up into various scenes. In any case, EXTRA THANKS to the following Foster Folks who helped edit this piece to make it better: Jude Klinger, Michael Shafer, Chris Angelis, and Nick Drage. And another round of applause for Sara Campbell my coach this season.

Ready for the final part of the Prologue?

Grab your camouflage

Well, I lied, kinda.

Let’s back up a sec. A fellow Substacker I follow had mentioned back a few months ago that he got a writing boost with help from the good people at Foster (writing community + editing/feedback app). When I read about his Season 2 experience, I was so enamored, I immediately signed up to be notified for the next season.

And of course, they rolled out Season 3 during my busiest time of year, of course.

But, I kid you not, within seconds of receiving the announcement email, in the passenger seat of our van, traveling 80mph down I-39, I applied anyway. My gut told me it was a very good idea. Sometimes you have to take on just …one …more …thing.

Because here we are. It’s July 6—the workshop’s Closing Ceremony when we’re all invited to hit the “publish” button on what we’ve crafted all month—and I’m super stoked that I packed this workshop into my packed world.

Let me introduce you to the first of three parts that will comprise the Bonesick prologue. For my brand new subscribers (oh, HI!), this prologue will provide you with a boatload of additional context that will help set the tone, the theme, the “what’s the point and why should I care” flavor that set the stage for Tarot Card Zero and beyond. For my O.G. readers (heeyyy!) who already care about Toby, Pam, and the gang, the 8 story-slices I’ve written up to this point will make more sense.

Grab a beverage. Settle in. Let’s do this thing!

Twenty Years Ago

Bonesick Prologue Part 1

“Wait, so is the cat dead or alive?” Toby questioned Angela as they plopped into the slippery booth. Burnt potato hung in the air; its salty char punctuated the clamor from the back kitchen. 

The Biskit Basket, a classic all-American diner, was named after its specialty menu item: butter-soaked pillows of flour fluff dished up by the Springers for fifty years. The family’s matriarch opened the establishment during the town’s Steel Industry heyday. After the industry collapsed and decimated the town, some Big Food conglomerate took over but let the Springer kids run it. The locals would’ve rioted otherwise. The diner remained an institution, successful because it was just off the interstate, midway between the town’s now ghosted main street and the thriving metropolis next door. A half-century of age revealed itself in every seat cushion’s peeled vinyl, grime that took up permanent residence inside the cracks of the black-and-white floor tile, and amber waves of oil that coated the walls. But this never deterred the hungry folks who crowded the vestibule to wait for a table. Toby and Angela had to wait about seventeen minutes for theirs.

Angela was about to answer Toby about the cat, but he interrupted her, distracted by the nostalgia, “I can’t believe this old greasy joint’s still open.” He grazed his hand along the speckled Formica table and kissed his thumb and fingers together. “Same ol’ stick.”

“Toby, be nice.” Angela summoned her loudest eye roll for the waitress who was waiting for them to get settled. “It looked just like this when we were kids.”

Darlene popped her gum and slung back at Toby, “Sorry, hon, this ain’t the Ritz. I’ll getcha wiped down in a sec. You two want something to drink?”

Toby turned over his coffee mug. “Darlene, you know I’m just messin’.”

The waitress was everything you’d expect from a gal who’d worked diners her whole life, right down to the slick-tight hair bun, garish shade of red lipstick, and plastic name tag, chipped on all four corners. It read “Darlene,” a name her broke parents dumped on her at birth when they probably just assumed she’d grow up to don an apron, carry a pencil behind her ear, and make minimum wage while throwing back snark at teenage ruffians like the lanky one sitting in front of her with the snide remarks.

“Milk for me, please,” Angela ordered with extra etiquette.

“One milk for the lady, one coffee for the punk,” Darlene gave Toby a wink. “I’ll be back with that rag.” She scuttled off to the next booth to ask about dessert. This was the kind of diner where the locals always ordered dessert after breakfast.

Toby eyed his girlfriend of five years this coming Tuesday. Angela was wearing her hair natural these days, his favorite, full and thick like a plush dark chocolate halo around her delicate face. She studied the menu, just as sticky as the table, with a certain intensity. Toby nudged her foot with his own and tapped her dark brown wrist with his pale white pinkie finger. “Whatcha lookin’ at, Ang? You always get the same thing.”

Angela sighed as she looked up. “Yeah yeah. I guess it’s just nice to know I have options.” She flipped the menu closed and slipped it back into its holder at the edge of the table. The metal wires were rusted with specs of ketchup all over the bottom. Although, in this town, red flecks could mean anything.

“You know, back in the day when my dad would take me here after church, he’d order something new every single time.” Toby grabbed the back of his booth seat to stretch his head around dramatically. “I bet no one here has tried the whole menu,” he announced.

Angela whispered, “Toby, you know these are all just city hipsters.” Through the east window, she noticed a couple of them eyeing up her parked motorcycle. It was a ‘68 Scrambler she inherited from her older brother who didn’t survive the gift of a gunshot wound on his 16th birthday. She just had the bike painted a creamy white with money she saved from her paychecks. Had her brother survived, he definitely would’ve dropped dead knowing she covered up the classic orange two-tone. When she and Toby took long rides out to the country, he never minded riding bitch behind her. She loved the comfort of his arms wrapped tightly around the exhilaration in her guts.

“Well, at least we grew up here!” Toby bellowed again into the breakfast crowd. Angela dropped her face into her hand.

“This kid bothering you, hon?” Darlene was back with milk, a fresh pot of coffee, and a sopping wet cloth that smelled of chemicals.

Angela just shook her head and grinned. “I guess I’m just destined to be both desperately in love and completely embarrassed every minute of the day.”

Darlene laughed loud enough to draw the attention of the adjacent booth who had refused dessert. Not locals. “Well, at least he’s cute, right?” She winked again as she poured Toby a cup and wiped the table down. “The usual? An Elvis, extra pig, and a Honey Bunny?”

The two nodded with their arms tucked in their laps below the table, waiting for the wet streaks to evaporate. Someone started up the jukebox, a 1972 Wurlitzer Americana 3700. The sleek silhouette with its rounded corners and robin’s egg blue and faux wood casing clashed with the ‘50s doo-wop vibe of the rest of the diner, but it played great. Toby sang along with the patron’s selection, which Angela didn’t mind because he had a deep, soothing tenor that would often lull her to sleep after a nightmare.

 “...But in my heart I’d be a king…” Toby looked into her eyes and laughed at himself.

Angela met his sweet gaze. She tapped her foot against his. Tuesday, they’d swing by her job on her day off to celebrate their anniversary. They had a silly little tradition, which they practiced each year since she said yes to his persistent requests for a night out—her official acceptance of the awkward shift that makes adult lovers from childhood friends. They’d sit down in the bookstore’s cafe with a pile of square napkins. And one by one, they’d write out their names, surrounded by hearts, of course. Then they’d slip them inconspicuously into random books throughout the store. Well, Toby picked random books, but Angela sought out meaningful ones that she’d remember to check the following year. If the napkins survived, maybe they would too.

When Toby wrapped up his crooner duet with Tony, a small wave of sadness lapped at the shore of his face. “My dad would play that one for her,” his voice drenched with both grief and regret.

“I know.” Angela tapped his foot again, more gently this time. She watched as that small wave opened up into the troubled sea she knew all too well by this point in their relationship. There was no stop to the tidal crash. 

“God, it’s just … I want to shake it, Ang, I really do. It’s been ten years. I was just a dumb, little kid. It shouldn’t matter to me anymore. I should be over it by now.” Toby grabbed a napkin from the metal dispenser, also speckled with a dried red substance, and began to tear the paper into long skinny strips.

Angela let him tear his strips. “Babe, these things take the time that they take. As I always say, ride easy. They’re just thoughts. Don’t gun ‘em down.”

Toby’s tone shifted, “Well, lately it seems like it’s all I ever fucking think about. I mean, ever since you told me—” he stopped and clenched his jaw. He glanced away at the jukebox where a new patron scanned the title tags of the 45s.

Angela dropped her eyes down to her belly.

Still locked onto the jukebox, Toby carefully admitted, “I can’t help but think I’m the worst possible dude for the job here. What if I’m in some vicious circle? What if I’m just like him?” Angela looked up, fear pooled in her eyes.

“Don’t say that, Toby,” she pleaded. “There’s no circle. You’re not him. You’re here, aren’t you? With me now?” Her eyebrows furrowed with a flare of urgency.

Toby’s shoulders fell. He returned to her, softened with a sense of defeated resignation. “I don’t know, Ang. What about all the looks we’ll get? I mean based on the garbage everyone already tosses our way, but now full dumpster. You want that?”

Angela sat up very straight in that slippery vinyl booth and interrupted him in a hush, “Listen here, Tobias. I swear to the Holy Trinity itself, you better not back out on me in the middle of some cheap breakfast at some sad-ass diner today.” Angela noticed the waitress grab their food from underneath the strip warmer. She snatched up the torn strips of napkin and hid them in her lap. “Can we do this later? Even this nonsense you’re dishing up can’t put a dent in this appetite of mine.”

Toby nodded. After Darlene set down the steaming plates, he thanked her kindly and told her to give the line cooks his chef’s kiss of approval. Then he placed a piece of bacon on Angela’s plate. “For the little guy,” he smiled.

Angela’s face brightened. She took a bite and added, “Or girl?”

“We’ll see.” He tapped her foot twice.

Toby and Angela took anxious, but famished bites from their plates, lost in thought, soothed by fat and sugar. Otis was up next on the jukebox. They looked up at each other and traded knowing smiles. This song was her dad’s favorite. He had played this album every Sunday in their small Edison-style house when she was in elementary school. Angela’s father was gone too, but he didn’t leave like Toby’s did. Her mom said it was his broken heart that did him in.

As noon approached, the rowdy din of the breakfast crowd settled to a couple of coughs, the rustle of the Sunday news, and forks scraping up the last bits of syrup. The hipsters had all left for their city condos. Toby and Angela would stay and share a slice of French Silk pie.

References:

I’ve crammed quite a few pop culture snacks into Part 1. “Elvis, Extra Pig” is a grilled Peanut Butter & Banana w/ Extra Bacon is a sandwich probably featured in a hipster diner near you. “Honey Bunny” is a Pulp Fiction nod (aka Yolanda, aka Amanda Plummer in the diner scene). And my diner drawing is based on the one in Moonlight, which features THE best movie-diner-complete-with-poignant-jukebox-song scenes.

There’s a 1972 Wurlitzer Americana 3700 jukebox that currently sits silent in my home; tragically, it does not work (…yet). The Tony song is Tony Bennet’s “Rags to Riches” and the Otis song is Otis Redding’s “Try A Little Tenderness.” The latter has been on my top five songs list for over twenty years and will never leave. If you’re not doing Duckie while it plays, you’re doing it wrong.

The Biskit Basket diner family name comes from Finis Louise Springer, who had worked on the housing abandonment problem in Gary, Indiana for decades. She helped rehabilitate many of the derelict homes there and raised funds for the Horace Mann-Ambridge Neighborhood Improvement Organization. She passed away just last year and left behind an incredible legacy for the city of Gary.

Prologue Part 2 is a weird one but absolutely necessary to build the Bonesick world.

check it out now!

EXTRA THANKS to the following Foster Folks who helped edit this piece to make it better: Jude Klinger, Sarah Ramsey, and Nick Drage — your feedback and fixes were exactly what I needed to polish ‘er up. And a round of applause for my coach this season and who let me in 😂

Last episode we learned a little more about the turmoil that’s been brewing in dear Toby’s soul: a relationship—er, something-ship—that went awry. Today, we peel back a major layer, so let’s ride on. (There’s some tie-in to The High Priestess in this one, so get your click on if you missed that episode the first go’round.)

In traditional representations of The Chariot Tarot card, we see a charioteer, ensconced in armor, sitting on a throne-style chariot. In front, the chariot is led by two creatures, often depicted as horses or sphinxes. The creatures are distinctly black and white—a frequent dualistic theme in Tarot as I’m sure you’ve picked up on. Again, they represent the delicate balance of yin and yang / feminine and masculine energy: the integration of intuitive interception and active willpower.

This card often contains a mega-load of symbolism beyond the charioteer archetype. A wand symbol harkens back to The Magician, which helps the charioteer leverage creativity and mystic forces against the wild creatures. Crescent moons adorn the charioteer’s armor (moon translates to “intuition” and the crescent is an early moon phase, which nods to much more story to come). Sometimes these symbols are drawn as the laughing and crying masks of Thalia + Melpomene, the comedy and tragedy symbols from ancient Greek dramatic theatre. A canopy of stars decorates the top of the card to symbolize the vast cosmos: does the charioteer have command over their own destiny or is their fate pre-determined?

The charioteer represents our steadfast consciousness while the untethered creatures represent our subconscious, our instincts, and even our conflicting animal urges ready to take us on some wild cockamamy adventure, even willing to tear us apart as they forge ahead in opposing directions. So it’s up to us to decide if we have command over these beasts and in which way they must be steered. When is our intellect on our side? Should we trust our instincts instead? Is there room for nuance between the black-and-white binary?

So let’s meet our Chariot, shall we?

7 | The Pale Horse

As Toby drained the remnants of his morning cup of coffee into the sink, Pam floated into the kitchen befuddled. “Um… good morning? Did you go to bed last night?”

“Nah,” Toby replied as he walked to the carafe, mug in hand. “I’ve been thinking.” He poured Pam a fresh cup and handed it to her.

“Oh?” she asked as she clasped the warm mug firmly between two soft tentacles.

Without waiting for even a single sip, Toby launched into the conversation he had been waiting all morning to discuss. “I read the letter again last night.”

Pam released one of her patented sighs and let it fill the room instead of the hundreds of choice words she would’ve rather used.

“I’m tired, Pam.” Toby took a seat at their tiny two-person dinette table. “The Procedure—it’s just not helping like they—”

Pam interrupted, “Toby, you haven’t followed any of the instructions. In fact, you literally broke into the main rule…again and again. It’s as if you never believed in any of it to begin with!”

“True. Which is why I’m getting rid of it.” Toby stood up, walked to the hallway closet, and opened the door. He reached up to the top shelf to retrieve The Box. “I get it. This is supposed to be like a test of my perseverance or courage or whatever, but the experiment failed. So it’s gone.” With The Box under one arm, Toby reached for his apartment key with another.

“Listen.” Pam moved in very close, just inches away from Toby and The Box. “It’s my fault. I’ve been frustrated with this recovery process. Maybe I haven’t been the confidant you needed me to be. Maybe I was the wrong…” she trailed off.

“No, no, not true.” Toby shook his head and grabbed her outstretched pink tentacle in his boney hand. “Just trust me. This will be my real fresh start. I’ll show them.”

Pam wanted so desperately to defend the inner workings of Toby’s prescribed recovery strategy but struggled to find the words that would temper his determination. Besides, he was already at the apartment door, keys in hand.

“I’ll be back…one box of misery lighter!” He smirked as he closed the door behind him. He galloped down all five flights, through the front door, and out into the early morning light that filtered through the nearby park’s treetops onto the sidewalk and street in front of him. As the sun reached into his sockets, he felt the first semblance of autonomy since he started this journey. It was as if he’d been lost in the wilderness for years and the trail path finally revealed itself to him.

In the same moment that Toby took a step off the street curb, a violent blur of white and wheels collided into his space, clipped his left arm, and sent his body in one direction and The Box in another. Dazed on the sidewalk, he saw two legs running toward him.

“Shitshitshitshit, are you ok?!” The legs yelled out.

“Um.” Toby looked around and saw an old Scrambler parked at the curb. He couldn’t redirect his focus toward the pair of legs in front of him. The motorcycle with its creamy painted tank and the worn King’s X sticker on the back of the seat — it was a direct jolt to his already pounding heart. “Where did you get—”

The legs interrupted him. “I’m so sorry, let me take a look at you.” The legs were now all helmet directly in front of his face, white but covered in a pattern of tiny black star decals, unless that was just the vertigo taking over.

“Oh, I’m fine.” Toby shook his head and refocused on the girl who wore a pale leather jacket that matched the color of the helmet and the bike. Patches adorned each shoulder: one seemed to be laughing at him. “I’m—I’m kinda indestructible these days,” he chuckled with the patch.

“‘Skin Free,’ yeah I noticed. I’m one lucky bastard,” the girl laughed as she lifted her visor. “Stay here, let me grab that box you were carrying.” She stood up and glanced at the cardboard container, now open with some of its contents spilled out onto the curb and into the street. She gathered each item and placed it back inside. There was an envelope a few feet away caught by a breeze. “Is this yours too?” she yelled backward as she ran after it. After a momentary chase, she stomped down on the paper rectangle and picked it up. When she turned it over in her hands, the name and address in the upper left corner clutched at her eyes, widened with recognition. She looked up at the huddle of bones and clothing on the sidewalk. She returned to the box on the curb, crumpled a bit on one corner, and added the letter to the top of its contents. When she closed the box’s flaps, she noticed the label’s logo. Again, familiar.

When Toby noticed that the girl seemed to take a more intimate interest in The Box, he finally got up. Dusting himself off, he yelled over to her, “Oh hey, thanks for grabbing all my stuff.”

The girl returned and handed him the crumpled container. “I think it’s all ok. We should get you to urgent care though.”

“Totally unnecessary. The doctor told me it’d take a direct hit by a Mac truck to make a dent in this material.” Toby explained as he brushed his fingers over an arm. “So you’ve heard of this? Skin Free?”

“Yeah yeah, I work down at the—” the girl started and then paused to reorganize her response. “Here, let me give you my card in case you start to bleed internally.” She grabbed a small pouch from her back pocket, pulled out a crisp business card, and handed it over. “I mean I hope you don’t need me, need me,” she laughed a little too loud.

Toby glanced at the card and met her laughter with his own, “Ah, so you’re a chaplain?”

“Yeah, again, I feel terrible about this.” She surveyed the area once more. “You sure you’re ok?”

“Totally, um…” Toby looked down at the card again for her name. “…B’trix. Yeah, I’m fine. I gotta do something about this box though.”

“Ok if you’re sure. I really gotta jet.” B’trix lowered her visor and jogged backward toward her motorcycle. “I was already running late for a thing. Just call if you need anything!”

With another glance at the motorcycle, Toby gasped and started toward her, “Wait, that bike—” but he was drowned out by the start of the engine. She exited his life as instantly as she arrived.

Toby looked down at The Box in his hands, out toward the park across the street, and back down at The Box. He shook his head. His original mission would have to wait.

He ran back up the five flights and burst into his apartment. Pam was in the living room with her coffee and a twelve-year-old issue of The Atlantic that Toby brought home from the Little Free Library. She glanced up to the ruckus.

“Pam, I just got hit by a motorcycle! A white Scrambler! It’s her bike, Pam!” Toby crossed over to the couch and handed Pam the business card.

“Wait you got hit by a what?? Are you ok?” Pam searched for injury before she peeked at the card.

“Obviously not a scratch, but I’m freaking out here! Someone — this chaplain chick’s got my ex-girlfriend’s bike. She wouldn’t give that thing away for a trillion dollars.” Toby put The Box on the floor and sat down next to Pam in a daze. “Something’s wrong.”

“So you’re sure it was hers?” Pam asked, her voice laced with skepticism.

“Who in their right mind repaints a ‘68 two-tone Scrambler all white?” he replied. “It’s hers. The King’s X sticker and everything. Maybe it was stolen?”

She put a tentacle on his shoulder. “We’ll figure it out, buddy, I promise. You should call this B’trix person and see what’s up.”

“Yeah… probably.” Toby continued to sit and catch his breath as Pam looked over the card.

—

Miles away, B’trix parked her motorcycle in the back of the Institute and jogged to the door, late for her pre-op review with Stu. Today would be his first experience in the Room, and she knew he was probably having a shit fit she wasn’t there yet.

As she grabbed the door handle, she remembered the address on that envelope. Coincidence? A synchronistic sign? Breadcrumbs to follow? For now, at least, she would have to shake off the bewildering questions that pulled her imagination from all angles. She muttered to herself as she looked upward, “Sorry, mom. Not today.”

— End of Act 1 —

1. References:
   King’s X is one of my forever human’s favorite bands. We saw them a few years back in this ratty, but iconic club with a miniature Stonehenge affixed above the stage. My favorite song of theirs is called “A Box” if you want to take a listen.
   
   The Scrambler I’m referencing here is something along the lines of this ‘68 Honda CL350. And Toby’s right, who would paint over that slick vintage two-tone?! We had one from ‘68 or ‘69 sitting in our garage for years — an abandoned barn find — but it never found itself fixed, so into someone else’s hands it went.

   The sub-line to the title of this episode is a lyric from “Fell in Love with a Girl” by The White Stripes because B’trix is clearly a fan. Listen if you need a kick in the ass today.

2. Synchronicities:
   Last week I had a chance DM exchange with a French yogi named Sybille in my online YWA Kula group. She sent me her blog (predominantly in French) and the most recent post was called “Zen Horse.” My brain immediately perked. I set Google Translate to English. I’m sure lots got lost in translation but the English version was beautiful! I also stumbled into a Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind by Shunryu Suzuki, which I hadn’t encountered before (and I’ve dabbled quite a bit in Buddhist reading). The quote at the top of “The Pale Horse” story slice is from that reading and very much fits the theme of Bonesick. More from that piece: “Those who can sit perfectly physically usually take more time to obtain the true way of Zen, the actual feeling of Zen, the marrow of Zen. But those who find great difficulties in practicing Zen will find more meaning in it. So I think that sometimes the best horse may be the worst horse, and the worst horse can be the best one.” Man that’s good stuff, especially when you’re having a total “I’m the shittiest person ever” kind of day.
   
   As I researched different styles of The Chariot card, I stumbled upon Lisa Sterle’s version from The Modern Witch Tarot — a deck I don’t own, nor have any experience with — but a total coincidence with the motorcycle imagery! The [fortuitous] thing is that I found her card prior to drawing my own. In my head, I had a similar image (front-facing of B’trix on the bike), so I had to alter my imagined version to ensure there would be a distinct difference. I dig the end result—moments away from collision—a lot better anyway.

3. Next time: Well, folks, I wince as I deliver some bittersweet news. We are now at the end of Act 1, which means several things. I’m about to re-enter my busy side-hustle summer season, which means a lot less time to devote to Bonesick. I know, my heart hurts too. My next episode will not feature the next card in the series, but rather a little more explanation as to what the next few months hold for Bonesick. Please do stick around though — pleading with you, new subscribers — because good stuff is on the way, that I can promise!
   
   Oh, and HELLO from the distant future! Never fear, subscribers, I’ve got the next card in the Bonesick Tarot series ready for you!
   

   Meet The Stray

Last episode, Toby bellied up to the bar to pour out his hurt to his bartender confidant. This is that story continued, but first, some Tarot card backstory:

6 | The Lovers

In addition to The Fool, I dare say The Lovers is my second favorite Tarot card, and not because of its seemingly obvious romance association. Bear with me here because I’m about to spin out a philosophical tangent.

Traditionally, The Lovers card features the biblical story of Adam and Eve, complete with symbols of the Tree of Knowledge, the forbidden fruit, and the serpent. Because they were the O.G.s of love, you ask? Well, might you know “love” as a horrifyingly painful experience where you’re torn from the tender arms of naive innocence and thrust into an all-too-real barren landscape of devastation, loss, confusion, and regret? Yes? Read on!

The Lovers represent the duality of union and separation, communion and banishment, sacred and profane, naïveté and knowledge. We cannot know one without the other. In the Adam and Eve story, it’s hard to believe God didn’t see it coming, ya know? Being omnipotent and all. Did he really give Adam and Eve the opportunity to obey or defy his One and Only Super Important Rule to never, ever, and I mean ever eat the forbidden fruit from the Tree of Knowledge? Or was it a setup? Perhaps the story is meant to illustrate that God—in cahoots with the Devil-serpent—knew it was Adam and Eve’s destiny to be banished from the ignorance of the Garden, shoved into the blinding light of Wisdom, and thus be the first dominos to fall and set our complicated human existence—as painful as it is lush—into motion. The only way we can ever experience life is to know death. Pshhh, original sin. Memento mori!

We are all born with the urge to find our Paradise Lost. Most of us look for it inside the soul of another mate, in our children, in our friends, but we also wander around looking for our missing piece in an office building, on a blank canvas, as we cross the finish line, on the horizon as the sun rises, and in between bites of a home-cooked meal. We are yang constantly focused on the gaping hole at our very center, knowing that yin has been barricaded out there beyond the great wall of the serpent’s curve. If only we could punch through, we’d finally feel complete. But that spot in our center isn’t a hole to be filled. It’s a paradise that’s been inside us all along, just waiting to be discovered.

When you’re dealt The Lovers card, perhaps it’s time to assess your own feelings of deficiency and inadequacy, or your sense of loss, absence, or lack. What flaw is the very thing that makes you beautiful? What’s missing, sure, but more importantly, might it be tucked deep inside you all along in some unrecognizable way? Are there values you crave from other people, places, or things, but no matter how much you consume, you’re left insatiable? What’s so “free will” about waiting for your destiny to arrive? Could you actively choose to forge a path that diverges from the ruts that have been laid out before you, even if your defiance will surely lead to fallout?

One man’s right is another man’s wrong, which is why our existence is such a beautiful disaster. It’s why love is so messy. It’s why everything feels so broken all the time. And why it’s so difficult to break through the polarity to understand the nuance.

So with all that said, let’s peel back another important layer of Toby’s backstory that pairs well with his Counseling Session from last episode.

6 | The Broken

At first, Toby lumbered up his apartment building stairs. But three flights up, a thought affixed itself to the pit of his stomach and began its pull. His plodding steps turned to swift hops turned to two stairs at a time. Nights like tonight deserved their just dessert. He deserved the Box.

Not opening the Box was the most important promise he’d made after the procedure. He promised the doctor in their final session, promised the Clinic when he signed the waiver, promised that sweet nurse with hopeful eyes, and promised the orderly with the industrial strength tape who gave him an inauspicious side-eye. It was a promise he would repeatedly promise himself again each and every time he broke his promise. Just as he would again on a night like this.

Toby reached his apartment and carefully unlocked the door. He crept in quietly so as to not disturb Pam, even though she slept through everything. He opened up the hall closet, and just as he’d done dozens of times, reached to the high shelf, tipped the moving-size cardboard container toward his shoulder, and shifted it down to the floor.

He kneeled down and scanned the evidence of his previous mutiny: the very official 8” x 10” label with the very official Sicada Inc. seal and the very bright bold red letters that declared, “UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHALL YOU OPEN THIS BOX,” sliced in half by the very obvious four-inch slit through the industrial strength tape just wide enough for a couple of boney fingers to slip into on these very vulnerable nights.

Toward him, he gently pulled the Box he’d promised he’d never open — but since it was already open now, he promised once again that this — THIS — would be the very last time that he would reach inside. The rest of the box contents were a non-issue. He had no recollection of what he packed in there the week before the procedure and didn’t care about any of it. Well, except for this one thing. He always remembered and couldn’t forget this one thing.

So he slipped two boney fingers inside and retrieved the envelope that always waited so patiently for him. He walked to the couch and slumped into his spot. The worn paper was soft like a baby blanket, both comforting and shameful, having held onto it all these years. Technically, the envelope was a letter he had mailed to her. His old house address was in the upper left corner and “Return to Sender” was scribbled hastily in all caps on the front.

But she had opened it, ever so carefully.
And she had finally written him back after months of going dark.

He lifted the top flap of the envelope. He ignored the letter he’d originally mailed to her — which he refused to read ever again — and carefully pulled out her letter, very slightly yellowed with age and stained. For years he had kept it crisp and protected, except for the one night when he had two-for-one too many down at Nick’s…

He had walked ten blocks for take-out and ten blocks home to eat it. After pounding down seven-eighths of a tub of Imugi #9 from House of Sineui, he snuck the envelope out of the box. Filled up to his sockets with sticky rice, Scotch, and disgust, he had crumpled the letter and tossed it in the trash with the near-empty take-out container. An hour later though, guilt forced his hand to rescue the sad ball of paper, smudged with Korean barbecue all over the left side. So after smoothing it out and wiping it down with the kitchen sponge, he set it out to dry on the window banquette. The next morning, he remembered how excruciating it had been to muster up enough courage to ask Pam to fold it up, put it back in the envelope, back in the box, and back on the high shelf. He was far too ashamed to do it himself. She, of course, was livid that he had opened the box in the first place. They didn’t speak for the rest of the day, which didn’t settle well because she had been so kind when he did dumb things.

Barbecue-stained edge in one hand, his eyes poured over the letter’s paragraphs. He allowed the twisted curls of adorable penmanship to cascade and caress him with waves of nostalgia. Her little o’s for i-dots, j-dots, and periods made the pages sparkle as if the sun glinted across her words at just the right angle. He allowed certain phrases he had memorized to drift into focus. “We had something almost unbearably inseparable.” “Remember that day at the orchard when that 6-year-old with the sticky caramel fingers accidentally called you Dad?” “I think about those afternoons at the bookstore, you were such a dweeb. But the sweetest one and that’s why I picked you.” And of course his favorite, “I was lost and you found me.”

He rested on the small tokens of kindness she graciously gifted him before he allowed the remaining bombs to explode with their painful shrapnel: “I had no idea you were capable,” “pain that left me gasping for air,” “not your charity case,” “you left me with no choice.” And the gut punch: “you’re right, you’re just like him.” Her little o-dots morphed into the fat teardrops that he had watched roll from her eyes in those last minutes together, impossible to ignore—as hard as he’d tried—the night he got up out of the bed, put on his clothes, grabbed his overnight bag, and walked out her back door for the last time.

As her letter reached the end of the page, the onslaught of her accusations was an excruciating lineup of the worst criminals, all standing in front of a merciless executioner. Her final sentence was the rattle of gunfire.

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I were you, especially once you come to grips with what I used your money for.”

She didn’t even sign it. She left it at that. It was as if she was running on empty the entire letter, and she gave out and let the car drift off of a cliff. These were the bitter dregs at the bottom of what was once a full cup of relationship. Maybe it wasn’t ever full. Maybe it was on E the entire time. And so obviously because he siphoned every last drop for himself.

Remorse crashed through him in a full-body shudder, and he almost crumped up the letter again. But he knew he’d dumpster dive to get it back, so might as well avoid climbing aboard that shame train. He folded the letter and carefully placed it back in the envelope so it could rest in peace next to his own letter, which knew was filled with half-hearted apologies and full-blown excuses. Here lie two broken people who could’ve made a whole, he thought. Two jagged pieces who could’ve applied a balm of amnesty to their sharp edges. Like the golden veins in the kintsugi pots — imperfections, mistakes, childhood bullshit so tenderly bestowed with a second chance to shimmer when they caught the light.

He quietly walked back toward the hallway closet, back to the Box. He tucked the envelope through the four-inch tape slot and heaved the Box back to the top shelf. His fingers rapped it softly like an old buddy. “That was the last time,” Toby promised in a half-hearted whisper. As he did each and every time.

1. Synchronicity of the Week: As I was typing this up on the couch, my main squeeze was playing old ‘90s singles on the CD player, one of which was “Your Favorite Thing” by Sugar. This song was featured in one of the most ridiculously bonkers sketches from the MTV ‘90s comedy troupe show The State. This guy (played by Michael Ian Black) falls so in love with his toothbrush, and they spend all their time together, but eventually, he realizes he has to let his toothbrush go to see if their love is meant to be (spoiler alert: the toothbrush returns!) Anyway, the story and the lyric and that weird TV memory from nearly 30 years ago coalesced beautifully in my brain, so that’s why it’s up there.

   This week, I also received THIS AMAZING CICADA by Tyler Thrasher from one of my besties of friends as if she knew a hint of Cicada symbolism would appear in this week’s episode.

2. References:

   Toby’s favorite restaurant “House of Sineui” is a reference to the Korean oral “Myth of General Sineui” in which Sineui tries to cheat death and isn’t successful because, well, you simply cannot do such a thing.
   
   Kintsugi is the Japanese art of mending broken ceramic vessels with lacquer and gold pigment — a practice that dates back to somewhere between the 15th and 17th century, depending on various legends. It’s “the art of embracing damage,” which might be my favorite combination of words ever. Learn more about kintsugi and the philosophy of wabi-sabi (the beauty of impermanence and imperfection) from “The Nerdwriter.” Hint, hint, major themes to come here (also where I picked Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms quote at the top of this episode).

3. Next time: In our next episode, we finally reach a pause point when progress is met with the stiff tug of The Chariot’s reins.

   Read on...

Last episode, Toby unlocked Extreme Bummer Mode as he recalled his childhood emotional trauma. This brings us to the next Tarot card in the deck, The Hierophant. First off, that’s a weird word you don’t hear every day. It’s a combo of the Greek words for “sacred” and “reveal.” The traditional Hierophant archetype represents a teacher, sage, philosopher, religious leader, psychotherapist, healer, and mentor — someone with a finger on the pulse of deep, spiritual wisdom and ancient texts who’s willing to divulge these secrets to a mortal who could use a bump to the insight bone.

In traditional Tarot imagery, The Hierophant is represented by a pope or high priest. Note that the Latin word for high priest is pontifex: “the maker of bridges.” Symbols often displayed on this card include the mark of the divine trinity (god-man-spirit / sky-earth-underworld), as well as a key, emblematic of unlocking wisdom for others to glean. The Hierophant — similar to The High Priestess — is usually flanked by his temple’s two pillars.

There’s another intriguing aspect of The Hierophant, which makes it one of the more nuanced cards in the Major Arcana. In Greek Mythology (and in Tarot decks that stray from the more stereotypical Rider-Waite Euro-laden symbolism), The Hierophant is often associated with Chiron, a half-man/half-beast centaur. This creature is the paradoxical, dual-natured crossroads where the civilized intellect meets the wild subconscious — the clash of unyieldingly rigid dogma and instinctually elusive spirituality.

According to the Greek myth, Chiron was an immortal who started off as an ancient healer but was wounded by a poisonous arrow and never recovered. He selflessly taught wisdom until he eventually sacrificed his immortality so another god could live. This “wounded healer” embodies empathy learned through pain. He is the “unsolvable problem:” he can heal others, but, tragically, cannot heal himself. His insatiable thirst for students, mentees, and other wounded souls is what drives him onward.

Chiron is also a major player in Astrology. Represented by a key-shaped glyph, astronomically Chiron is a comet that orbits near the paths of Saturn and Uranus. Astrologically, Chiron represents the “wounded healer” in our natal chart (a map of the solar system at the exact moment of your birth, which lends insight into your personality, motivations, and traumas to overcome). When you draw The Hierophant Tarot card, consider the wounds in your own life, and identify both the intellectual knowledge and intuitive medicine that will lead to your healing. (For bonus points, find out where Chiron sits in your natal chart.)

Last June, I published my first full Bonesick comic, The Bad Apple. I always wanted it to say so much more than I could squeeze inside eight panels. So with the Hierophant Tarot archetype, my opportunity finally arrives!

To all my readers who already met Sully, welcome to your deeper dive.

5 | The Counsel

Once The Bickersons finally left in dejected silence, Sully grabbed their empties from the bar. He left the watery pattern of broken rings as a little homage to the couple’s epic blowout. The thin guy, Paulo, had begged Sully to take sides — as his patrons often do. Sully restrained himself to probing questions and astute observations only. This approach was crucial on “Personal Jesus” two-for-one-Tuesdays when patrons got particularly sauced. The thicker one, Jesse, was probably in the right, but it’s best to let ‘em hash it out themselves. Such is the thankless job of the career bartender.

Guitar, synth, and piano pulsed from the dance floor. Sully sang along under his breath, I’m taking a ride with my best friend. The bar door opened again, and Sully glanced up from washing the glasses in the underbar sink. He met the familiar and despondent gaze of his old pal—a courageous soul who’d been to hell and back again. “Tobias, good to see ya, my man. You look like you could use a drink, eh?”

“Yep. Pour yourself a shot on me, too.” Toby slumped into his regular stool at his regular bar, Nick Roman’s: a quick five flights of stairs plus fifty-five steps away from home. The bar was dark and moody mixed with a kaleidoscope of pink and orange from the dance floor in the corner. The shimmer and throb of synth and bass—along with the giant preserved oak tree in the center of the space—gave the bar its life.

Sully scanned the Scotch lineup and grabbed the Macgoodstuff. “Thank ya, friend. Occasion?”

“It’s that time of year.” Toby sighed with frustration as he glanced up at the Beefcake calendar that hung up on the wall behind Sully, next to an old camping lantern rigged so it never turned off.

Sully followed his buddy’s sight line and winced. “Ah yes, the Abandoversary.” He’d been Toby’s late-night confidant for at least a decade now. Their relationship had been further calcified by Sully’s sponsorship during Toby’s SkinFree therapy and transition. Sully had been so relieved when Toby agreed to the arrangement, especially considering that Sully quit the program just a couple weeks before the Procedure. The two dug through Toby’s psychological sludge on a regular basis, but with no real progress.

Sully pushed Toby’s drink across the slick wood and lifted his own shot glass of Scotch with a sturdy, “Sehha!”

Toby raised his glass to meet his friend’s. “To terrible fathers,” he toasted and drained the glass in a single swig.

“Two-fer Tuesdays?” Sully suggested, his hand on the bottle next to them.

Toby pushed his glass forward. “You know it. Just leave the bottle; I have off tomorrow.”

Sully raised his eyebrows, “Really now? Out for good behavior, are we?”

Toby shook his head and took a sip. “Nah, there’s some sort of big restructuring project going down. Tomorrow’s an all-hands meeting for managers and up. My boss said I shouldn’t bother though.”

Sully crossed his arms and leaned on the back counter. “You cool with that?”

“No choice.” Toby shrugged and recovered the thread he wanted to pull on tonight. “Sully, you think bad apples are forgivable?”

Clearing the slate for their session, Sully gave the bar a thorough wipe-down, and topped off his pal’s glass. “Sure, bud.”

“It’s just…well, people say they forgive, but they’ll never forget, right? They’ll just resent you indefinitely.” Toby took a long pull from his drink.

“We talkin’ they, or we talkin’ you?” Sully counter-posed.

Toby cracked a smile. “The whole lot, I guess.”

Sully leaned forward on the bar. “Sounds to me like you’re really askin’: are bad apples forgettable?” After Toby mumbled a non-response, Sully rubbed his beard and continued, “The way I see it? You one-hundred percent atone for your sin, your mistake, you’d want folks to remember all that, right? Witness your full circle, 360-degree transformation?”

Toby set down his glass and pondered Sully’s point. He continued, “What if there’s no way to atone? What’s done is done. Still forgivable?”

Sully asked, “Let me ask you then, is this about what your dad did or about what you did?”

Toby paused a beat before he lobbed back, “Aren’t they one and the same?”

“Is that how you see it?” Sully asked as he walked down to the end of the bar to retrieve a stack of pint glasses one of the servers had dropped off.

With his Scotch raised again, Toby toasted, “Yep, to a bushel of bad apples! Toss ‘em!”

Sully returned to his post with the pint glasses and began to wash them out one by one. “Not to mix metaphors… and, um, no offense…” Sully gestured toward Toby’s skeletal profile. “…why cut your nose to spite your face?”

Toby shrugged, “None taken. I get it. This SkinFree life was supposed to be a fresh start.”

Sully interrupted, “And yet, here you are, yet again, on March 13th like all the other March 13ths, drink in hand, talkin’ to my sorry-ass face.”

Toby swirled the last sip inside his glass and considered the definition of insanity. He tried one more angle: the cold truth. “Sully, if I forgive him. He gets off scot-free. What he did to me, to my mom—they still won’t let me near her, by the way, if you can believe it—it’s like I’m giving him a free pass to ruin lives.”

Sully nodded. “Following.”

“But then, same goes…” Toby lowered his voice, “…for me.” He stared into the dregs of Scotch in his glass and continued, “Sully, I don’t deserve a free pass. I deserve to be forgotten. Wiped off the face of the earth like I never existed. Just like him.”

Sully considered Toby’s conundrum. He rubbed the faded snake that coiled around his forearm—an old habit he’d developed over years of dropping knowledge. “First, my friend, I’m sorry about your mom. So she’s still up at State?” Toby nodded. Sully continued, “That’s shitty, man. Seriously. I’ve got a question though.” Toby raised his gaze.

“What if your dad’s out there somewhere, and he doesn’t need your forgiveness? He’s paid his dues. He’s moved on. He’s even…” Sully paused and looked Toby square in his eye sockets, “...forgiven himself.”

Their mutual stare was interrupted by a cacophony that barreled through the bar’s front door. Sully turned his attention toward the noise.

The ruckus pulled up to the bar’s end in a grand spectacle of fluster and flamboyance. “SULLY, I GOT BOY PROBLEMS!”

“Oof, looks like my next session’s already here.” Sully glanced back to Toby who had already pulled out a twenty and placed it next to his empty glass. Sully grabbed both and said, “Thank ya, friend. Same time next week?”

Toby nodded, slid off the barstool, and made his way to the door, dragging more in tow than the burden he’d arrived with. He thought to himself, “‘Addition by subtraction,’ they say.” He pushed the glass door without looking back.

From the corner of his eye, Sully watched Toby leave. He held a finger up to his next client, “Just a moment, hon. I’ve gotta make a call. I’ll start your drink.” He walked toward the liquor line-up and pulled whiskey and a hot pink liqueur. He placed the bottles on the bar, grabbed a martini glass, crouched down, and picked up a beige cordless phone tucked way back underneath the bar. As he stood up, he glanced to the DJ, who was also the bar’s owner Nick, and gestured to turn down the volume just slightly. Sully extended the antenna, tapped a single plastic button, and cradled the phone on his shoulder while pouring the brown and pink liquids into a shaker filled with ice. 

“Hey. Yeah, it’s Sulaiman. … Good. But, hey B? Our boy is real dire straits. … I’m not sure what to tell him. You think he’s— … Hmmm, I guess you could. … No, he’s off tomorrow surprisingly, so—. … I dunno, he didn’t say anything about that …”

Sully mumbled affirmatively while he threw three cherries into a martini glass. His concern melted into a fit of laughter. “Shit, you know me too well, girl! Wounded healer. You crack me up … You too, please let me know. …’Night, B.”

Sully grabbed the phone from his shoulder, tapped another button, pushed down the antenna, and placed the phone back underneath the bar. He gave Nick a thumbs up and allowed the heavy lyrics to sooth him. He threw a few more liquid ingredients into the shaker, grabbed the glass of cherries, and clocked into his next session. 

1. Synchronicity of the Week:
   I wrote The Counsel story slice a little over a week ago, then this past Friday, I watched Episode 6 of HBO’s mycelium masterpiece The Last of Us, which featured a cover of Depeche Mode’s “Never Let Me Down Again” by Jessica Mazin.

2. References:

   The opening lyric is from “Condemnation” by Depeche Mode. Between both of my fathers, the trifecta of Music for the Masses, Violator, and Songs of Faith and Devotion were in heavy rotation. The Singles 86-98 cd became the soundtrack to my life starting in my emo-teens, through college, and through post-grad. Yada yada, I’d definitely be at Nick’s “Personal Jesus” two-for-one Tuesdays.
   
   The “Macgoodstuff” could be famed Macallan Scotch whisky, but is really my incredibly subtle nerd-nod to MacCutcheon, an easter egg predominantly featured throughout the show Lost, but also on other JJ Abrams’ and Abrams-adjacent shows like Fringe and Once Upon A Time.
   
   When they toast, Sully says “Sehha,” or صحَّة , which means ‘health’ in Arabic and in some regions is said colloquially as a wish for good physical, mental, and moral wellness.
   
   The oak tree in the center of the bar is a reference to an old favorite watering hole in my university town, Paul’s Club. The true irony is that, since I graduated, they moved the bar (AND the tree) to a location down the street. That location? The shoe store where my dad worked and the last place I saw him.

3. Next Time: We’re really diggin’ into the bowels of Bonesick now, so don’t pack away those emo-pants just yet. Next episode we ask, “Is it better to have loved and lost than to never have opened your raw, beating heart up to another vulnerable human at all?”
   

   Let's find out...

So between the dreamscape of The Reboot, the mystery of The Alchemist, and the theological throw down of The Chaplain, we’ve been wandering around Esoterica quite a bit, so let’s bring it back down to earth. It’s time to meet The Parents.

3 & 4 | The Empress & The Emperor

In Euro-traditional Tarot, we’ve arrived at the cosmic mother and father archetypes. The Empress embodies the wildly creative, nurturing, fertile soil and capricious climate that give rise to The Emperor’s seed manifested — a bounty eventually harvested and distributed via the tools and methods of law and order. The Empress is the nutritiously raw ingredients to The Emperor’s precisely measured contents inside of a package with dietary info and a UPC label on the side.

The Empress also symbolizes the erotic essence of Venus, the embodiment of passion, sexuality, and the arts, while The Emperor is represented in Mars — strong and battle-ready, like a five-star general who relies on logical intellect and authoritarian action.

And to return to Greek mythology for a second, recall the High Priestess's link to the goddess Persephone. The Empress and Emperor are her parents, Demeter and Zeus. Zeus tricked Persephone into joining Hades in the Underworld where she decided to stay half the year, while Demeter spent that half in maternal grief, mourning her daughter (which, in mythology, symbolizes our season of winter). Both of these regal archetypes can indeed go dark. A heartbroken maternal figure can turn cold and barren just as a provoked father figure can turn rigid and self-righteous.

When you draw The Empress, consider whether forces in your life are roots that act as nurturing sustenance or restraints that keep you tethered. Is there some idea floating around in the womb of your imagination that begs for birth? And if you pull The Emperor, take note of the law and order around you. Is the structure in your life essential scaffolding or a stifling prison? Are you locked in or locked out?

From day one, I knew there’d be some mommy and daddy issues in the Bonesick universe. As I developed this following story slice and Tarot diptych, however, I felt much less confident in my path. It was bound to happen!

I’m trying to dig my way through the parental tropes and clichés. But there’s a very slight autobiographical thread here too, which makes this key plot point in the story a vulnerable one to boot. I’m trapped between waiting for my Empress — the creative, organic growth of my imagination — and shackled to my Emperor — falling prey to story writing over-architecture.

After two and a half weeks of waiting for Zeus’s lightning to strike, I just gotta ship this. I accept that this is mega-draft mode. I’ll tinker over time to make what I see in my head work on paper, but let’s start here and see how she lands.

3 & 4 | The Parents

Toby had worked late again, the standard eight-hour day wasn’t even an option anymore. When Pam hovered into the living room he had checked out, a slump on the couch, television on, comedy series Season 5, which he’d already watched countless times. His glare was more vacant than usual. “You seem particularly somber tonight,” she interrupted. 

“March 13th,” Toby mumbled.

“Ah.” Pam sat down on the couch. She gave the anniversary some air before she prodded, “Feel like talking about it?”

Toby shrugged. “Eh. What’s to talk about? Every year, I’ve felt the same way. I don’t know why I thought flaying my skin off would make a difference.” He scanned his body for the wound that festered somewhere much deeper than The Procedure could reach. 

Pam scooted in a bit. “I’m all ears and limbs over here. Lay it on me.”

Toby took a big gulp of air, but swallowed it whole. He returned to the politically incorrect hijinks unfolding on screen. He felt much more satisfied picking at the wound without an audience.

Pam had her work cut out for her.

“Toby, it hasn’t yet been a year; this is going to take a while. Remember what the doc told you? ‘Addition by subtraction,’ right?”

Exasperated but still locked to the screen, Toby continued, “Pam, you know that never made any fucking sense. What’s more to subtract?” He waved his hand over his shell of a frame. 

Pam snuggled in closer to Toby, two of her three tentacles grazed his forearm. The sensation spread through the conductive Polyacetylene like a tranquilizer. He felt the knot in his chest loosen, his iron doors reduced to folds of gauzy fabric. His glossy stare solidified into focus; he shifted from television to tentacles to the face of his friend. 

 “Like doc said, walk me through it. AH—“ she held up one tentacle to his open mouth, “I know you’ve recounted it a thousand times. Maybe this time you’ll find that door he mentioned? Isn’t it worth a try?”

Toby rolled his eyes and reeled his memory back to his childhood home.

—

It was an unseasonably warm afternoon for that time of year, so his mom was in the backyard preparing garden beds, turning crusty leaf bits and other compost from last year into the soil with a cultivator. Toby loved watching her in her element, bits of dirt and straw tucked throughout her auburn curls. He distinctly remembered that he snuck up behind her that day with a trowel. Or no, maybe a spade. He handed it to her and said something cheesy like, “a Garden Queen needs a scepter.” She laughed and told him a Queen needs her Prince’s help before the King gets home. It wasn’t hard to tell which dimmed the light between them: the dark clouds rolling in from the west or the foreboding gloom of his father’s return.

After helping his mom clean up, Toby escaped to his bedroom to draw until his father came home. It was dark out when he heard the muffled force of the front door announce his father’s arrival. His mood was black and rigid, as expected. Toby could sense it in the absence of greetings between his parents. And when the silence was dismantled by a series of hushed exchanges, Toby knew better than to step out of his safe cocoon to ask what was for dinner. With an ear to the crack of his bedroom door, he gathered they were arguing about the Church again. “As of today, we’re officially down to 175—” he heard his father say, “—from over two thousand just a year ago.” He must’ve been talking about the congregation, or rather what was left of it.

“Stuart, that’s all the more reason to stay,” he heard his mother answer, thick with exhaustion. Toby knew she had repeated these eight words too many times to count.

Eventually, his parents collapsed into an uncensored war of words. From time to time, Toby caught poetically Biblical bits and pieces, “a shepherd tending to his flock” and “throwing seeds onto rocky soil,” but nothing that amounted to any sense of confidence that his family wasn’t headed toward certain disaster. He heard his father shut down the battle with a defiant growl, “I’m needed elsewhere! End of story!”

And then nothing.

Toby crawled into a deep cave of blankets and his favorite stuffed toys. His stomach rumbled, but he knew his mom would have to slip a plate of food into his room later that night. Sleep needed to carry him until then. He closed his eyes and thumbed through the piles of anxiety to find a soothing image that would pull him away from this stark reality. There it was: their living room, sunlight poured in from the east, wood blocks scattered the floor, two men in harmony, their voices curled through the room like incense, his father hummed along with the alto as he prepared a Sermon, his mother rested her head on his shoulder waiting for the timer to announce that her breakfast casserole was ready. Of course this wasn’t a lived memory, but Toby played with it often enough that it felt like his own. He allowed the sunlight, the music, the scent of potato and cheese to hold him until he drifted away. He hoped they’d pull him far enough from images he couldn’t control.

But he was just a boy. Too vulnerable to hide for long.

The record scratched to a halt.

The living room went black.

The silence was broken by a roar, like an old muscle car, annihilation announced its approach and screeched to a halt at their doorstep.

Right on time.

Toby stood at the open front door with his mother, the winds teased their hair and bedclothes.

Three bolts of lightning and blinding headlights stripped away any sense of sanctuary. They were exposed, vulnerable.

They had watched his father gather things into a suitcase.
They had listened for a word of solace that this was all just temporary.
They had waited for a tearful embrace.
They craved just one goodbye.

They received none of these things.

The man that was a father and a husband climbed into his future without them, without even a glance back, as if they never even existed.

A clap of thunder startled Toby to consciousness. He tried to blink away the wind and the suitcase and the headlights, but the residue of his nightmare remained. Toby sat up in his bed. He glanced toward the door, but saw no plate of food waiting for him.

He knew the end had come.

He knew down to the thick of his core that the morning would dawn only darkness. 

—

Forehead in hands, Toby scraped at his bare skull with the tips of his fingerbones. “Pam, I just don’t get it. How could a father just up and leave his family like that?” With a swift stroke of his hand, Toby swiped away his childhood bedroom, his sad little house, that terrible spring, his father’s departure, and his devastated mother. He sighed, “Day One: I should’ve shoved that man’s memory into a trash compactor.” 

Pam shifted and asked with the utmost care, “So you don’t think he’s worth all this fuel you give him?”

Toby lifted his head with a jolt. “Nope. Sure don’t.” Then dropped his head again. “Yet here I am, pumpin’ away like he’s gonna drive me to some awe-inspiring destination where the point of all this finally dawns on me…some utopian land where I don’t feel like a lost cause, where I wasn’t just…discarded.”

Pam added, again, as tender as she could, “It’s a terrible thing to feel discarded, isn’t it?”

Toby shot her a dreadful, hunted look. Her comment, a pickaxe to very thin ice. “Yep, you’re right, Pam. I’m just like that asshole. Cut from the same shit-stained cloth. The apple rotting away right there under his shadow for all eternity.”

Abruptly, Toby arose from the couch. “I need to get out of here. I’ll be down at Nick’s.”

Pam nodded and floated behind him, holding vigil till he walked out the door. So much work still needed to be done. Toby’s indomitable sponsor, Sully, would have to pinch-hit this one. With the soft click of the latch, she shuddered at the thought of everything that awaited this lost boy.

1. Synchronicity of the Week: Nada! My synchie guides pushed me out on my own to create this one. “You’ve had enough fish biscuits; it’s time to do a solo dive,” they told me. Neat!

2. References: The lyric at the beginning is from Hozier’s “Take Me To Church.” I remember watching the video in the middle of the day at my old job and being gutted, trying to hide the pools in my eyeballs.

   The “rocky soil” mention is from the Bible’s Parable of the Sower.

3. Next Time: When your mood goes dark and your emotions get the best of you, it’s best to take up counsel with a neutral party. Two-for-ones are optional.

   Drink up!

2 | The High Priestess

In traditional Tarot, the High Priestess archetype is the embodiment of both feminine divinity and intuitive wisdom—the former exuded by the archetype’s robes, Hathor-inspired crown, and surrounding temple, the latter symbolized by the moon. But she is also the flow beyond the binary masculine and feminine, the balance of yin and yang, the mediator between the dark and the light. She’s both the veil that shrouds esoteric mystery and the hand that lifts the veil to reveal our capacity to tap into our own instinctual knowledge. Black and white pillars that flank her sides symbolize this “both/and” concept, in which contradicting truths can live in harmony with one another (hmm, what could that be like?!). To me, she embodies a persona that paradoxically holds authority over vast, spiritual wisdom and yet shuns authority altogether, breaks the rules entirely, and gifts that wisdom to we laypeople. When you draw this card, it means there are signs and synchronicities everywhere. It’s high time you pay attention and follow the crumbs to a deep wisdom waiting to give you everything you’ve ever needed to know.

Another symbol that frequently accompanies the High Priestess is the pomegranate, a fruit packed with seeds that make it appear bejeweled with garnets of blood. The pomegranate plays a huge role in the Greek myth of Persephone’s kidnapping by Hades to the Underworld where she willingly becomes the Queen of the Dead.

I imagined the character you’re about to meet very early on, as I sketched out the Bonesick universe nearly a year ago now. I’ve been timid about how exactly she’d play out with Toby and the gang, not to mention how she’d look. I wanted to be sure. But after I reconnected to the High Priestess symbolism and mythology during my New Moon adventure last month, I discovered there’s absolutely no one else who could step into the role. And screw being sure!

So here she is…

2 | The Chaplain

Calling it a night, she had almost reached the institute’s back door when hickory filled her nostrils. She paused, did a quarter turn to the left, and walked toward the library instead. Home would have to wait.

She had a sneaking suspicion he’d be there. Sure enough, at one of the wood tables, stacks of thick ancient books surrounded the old man, fifty years her senior at least. A marigold flicker from the nearby fire danced across his furrowed expression, all folds and eyebrows. She approached him and whispered, “Stu…? Big midnight oil vibes in here, what’s up?”

“B’trix, hello.” The old man barely gave her a glance. “Listen to this: ‘Do not make sexual advances unless you are given the mating signal.’” Stu read aloud from one of the open books that surrounded him. “Do not take that which does not belong to you unless it is a burden to the other person and he cries out to be relieved.’”

“Hmm…” B’trix nodded along. “Brushin’ up on Satanism, I see.”

The old man continued with purpose. “B, I had no idea they had these rules! And this: ‘Do not harm little children. Do not kill non-human animals unless you are attacked or for your food….’”

B’trix interrupted, “Well, I’d argue about the food part. C’mon now, Stu, what are you doing? We went over this a hundred times.”

“I know, I know, B. I just—how can I not know all this?” he gestured to the book piles. “If I don’t understand these people, what they believe in, I’ll just sit there like a naive idiot.”

“Stu, Stu, this is 101 stuff, man. You learned this back on the first day! You’re just there to listen, remember?” B’trix urged. “The more you know, the less you’re … there. There for them.”

He grumbled and slammed the book closed. “B’trix, I honestly don’t think that’s the best approach for everyone here.”

She closed her mouth and took a deep breath. Practice what you preach, girl. “Ok, Stu, let’s start over. You said you’d feel like a ‘naive idiot.’ Tell me more about that.”

Stu took a breath himself and continued. “I’m just afraid I’ll offend someone with my ignorance. I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing and make it worse. I’m going to get canceled, I know it.”

B’trix chuckled to herself. “Stu, I hear you. Remember though, you were selected for good reason. All these books…” She lifted the thickest one and smoothed her hand over the spine, leaving a long dusty smudge in its wake. “…there’s a good reason they exist. They’re important to these people.”

“Exactly!” Stu stood up exasperated.

“But for us? They’re anchors.” B’trix tossed the book to the ground, and its thunder filled the entire library. Stu sat back down. She continued, “As much as knowledge has gifted us with progress and enlightenment, it just as easily holds us back. There’s always more to learn. And more. And it’s relentless. The power of learning possesses us to the point where we no longer trust our instincts. When you chain yourself to the word, the rules, the laws, the proverbs, the platitudes—there isn’t any room left for nuance.”

“Nuance.” Stu echoed softly.

B’trix looked at Stu very carefully. Stu looked at the fire, dying now into embers. Trepidatiously she added, “I know you haven’t been in the Room yet. But trust me, the Room is one hundred percent nuance.”

Stu dropped his shoulders and rubbed the deep creases in his forehead. “No, I understand.” He paused for a few minutes. B’trix let the darkening library fill with silence. Then Stu spoke again, “Is this one of those ‘the rules are: there are no rules’ scenarios?”

B’trix’s laughter broke the heavy quiet into lighter pieces. “It really doesn’t make a whole lot of sense that there’s a giant library here full of religious texts, does it?”

“Temptresses! I’m like a kid in a candy store in here!” Stu stood again and began to pile up the books that scattered the table. He looked over at the fireplace. “Wow, it got dark in here. Do you have a light by chance?”

B’trix felt a spark shimmer deep in her chest, an old memory began to burn there. “My mentor told me something years ago when I was in your shoes, maybe it’ll help you too. She said to me: ‘The role of the chaplain is to hold hands in the dark, not to search around for a flashlight in order to find the light switch.*’”

Even in the shadow and shape, she could sense that Stu lifted his head to meet her gaze. Not typically one for awkward displays of affection, B’trix mustered up the courage, reached out, and grasped the old man’s hand in hers.

1. Synchronicity of the Week:
   I think I used up my syncro a month ago when I initially came up with this project, hesitated to move forward when I mentally tripped on the High Priestess card, and then pulled the High Priestess card moments later in a reading.

2. References:
   The phrases Stu recites in italics are from The Eleven Satanic Rules of the Earth by Anton Szandor LaVey courtesy of The Church of Satan, rules that surprised me too when I first read them.
   

   *The phrase B’trix recalls from her mentor is directly quoted from one of my all-time favorite writers, , who inspired this Tarot card and character role. You can read more about Mari’s experience as a volunteer chaplain here. And then this piece of hers is likely the pomegranate seed that was planted in my head long before Bonesick was even a thing. You’ll definitely see the echo in B’trix’s pontification.

3. Next time: It’s time to meet the parents.

   Let's go!

1 | The Magician

Remember when I mentioned that The Fool is like Frodo Baggins from The Lord of the Rings? Well, The Magician is like Gandalf the Grey. Playing the role of a messenger from the gods and a guide for wandering souls, this archetype has the ability to summon power from the natural elements of air, fire, water, and earth. On an admirable day? This power is leveraged for favorable resourcefulness and guidance. On a bad day? Questionable intentions may lead to incendiary manipulation. Magician be up to noooo good. When you pull this card, it asks you, “What subconscious desire should you bring to fruition, and what natural tricks can you work with to manifest it?” (Bonus question: “Will you use that power for good or evil?”)

The main symbolism in the traditional Magician Tarot card features all four natural elements, oftentimes represented as such:

• Air is represented by a sword and symbolizes mental power and action.

• Fire is represented by a wand and symbolizes creative imagination and inspiration.

• Water is represented by a cup and symbolizes emotion and love.

• Earth is represented by a coin-shaped disc marked with a pentagram and symbolizes natural materials.

Other symbols include the infinity symbol or ouroboros (snake eating its tail) which symbolize wholeness and the infinite interconnectedness of the universe. The background is often a barren landscape and the Magician is performing at a crossroads. With one hand pointing to the sky and the other pointing to the earth, the Magician personifies the ancient Hermetic axiom, “As Above, So Below.” In short: life in the material world around us is an avatar of the universal mystery beyond our understanding. The Magician is the conduit between those realms.

Whew. Ok so with all that meta swimming around in your brain, let me introduce a mysterious character and story slice in the Bonesick universe. See if you can spot the way I incorporated traditional symbolism in a new way.

1 | The Alchemist

“…the full moon became like blood, and the stars of the sky fell to the earth as the fig tree sheds its winter fruit when shaken by a gale.”
(Revelation 6:12-13, ESV)

—

The doctor took a quick sip of cold cafeteria coffee that, oddly enough, paired well with three fingers of High West Double Rye from which he snuck gulps in between shifts. It had been a perplexing day. The soft piano plinks of “Pink Moon” that sparkled from his record player wouldn’t even smooth out the edges. To pile onto the day’s typical challenges he found himself fretting over a thick envelope his assistant placed on his desk. Despite a thousand tasks that should’ve taken precedence, his curiosity gnawed at his willpower. He sliced it open, its contents all the curiouser.

From the envelope, he pulled out an old letter from his clinic addressed and written to a candidate from decades ago, a Polaroid photograph of what appeared to be a teenage couple who looked more bewildered than in love, and another letter handwritten by someone he could only assume was the sender—no return address, of course. The correspondence was predominantly formal, but the doctor could sense an underlying frustration. Or perhaps he just assumed the writer was upset because his line of business was often quite upsetting.

The doctor hadn’t a clue as to how these three items connected to one another. The candidate was long dead. He didn’t recognize the couple in the photo. The letter’s writer was certainly well aware of the unconventional services offered by his clinic, but they completely refrained from referencing either of the envelope’s accompanied items. Was this a game? Some sort of puzzle?

“I simply have no time for these shenanigans,” the doctor huffed aloud.

His assistant lightly rapped at his office door, left slightly ajar, and poked her head inside. “Well, that’s good because we’re going to need you to see this.” She lifted a manilla folder of brain scans, tipping them toward the hallway behind her. “It appears as though we can’t turn back on this one, but you’re the judge, jury, and, well…” she trailed off.

The doctor sighed, “Let me take a look.” He stuffed the handwritten letter back into the envelope, away from any prying eyes. He grabbed his glasses and followed his assistant into the hallway.

Before she even finished sliding the first scan into the lightbox, the doctor eagerly pointed up toward the top and tapped on the scan. “Indeed. Right here, see?”

“That’s what we caught too,” the assistant commiserated. And then she added as more of a statement than a question, “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

He took off his glasses, looked her square in the eyes, and in a soft hush he whispered, “Yes, but I can fix it. Prep the candidate, please.”

1. Synchronicities of the Week:

   A. I started this story the moment I had the whole Tarot idea, and shortly thereafter, I received this Goodreads notification in my email:

   

   B. While drawing The Alchemist card last weekend, I listened to Lil Yachty’s new deliciously sonic album Let’s Start Here, which just so happens to feature a song called “The Alchemist.”

   

2. References: “Pink Moon” is a song by Nick Drake and legend has it, the lyrics are a nod to the 6:12-17 passage from The Bible’s Book of Revelations. I also love the connection of Nick Drake’s lyric “Saw it written and I saw it say” to the Arabic phrase “Maktub” frequently mentioned throughout the book The Alchemist—which translates to “It is written.”

   The quote “Magic is science we just don’t understand” is paraphrased from sci-fi author Arthur C. Clarke (i.e 2001: A Space Odyssey).

3. Next time: I introduce a character I’ve been hesitant to fold into the Bonesick universe. But it’s time.
   

   Here go we ...

Here’s the challenge.

Beyond just some quick notes and daydreams, I have nothing officially plotted for this story structure. For the sake of keeping this exercise fun, I’m totally winging it. I’m a ‘pantser,’ but ‘plantser’ in training. So you and I are on this wild ride together now, and the first card in the deck is exactly the kind of magic dust we need.

Ok let’s get our esoteric nerdery on and reboot this thing!

0 | The Fool

To kick things off proper, we start with card zero, The Fool, which traditionally features a young person at the razor’s edge of a mountain or crest or cliff, carrying a satchel of some kind, fresh-faced, perhaps a bit naive, but excited for something new. Think Frodo Baggins from Lord of the Rings, and you’ve got yourself the quintessential Fool archetype. The label isn’t so much disparaging, but encouraging. Drop all of our hangups and venture into the unknown for the sheer thrill of adventure?! We should all be so lucky! When you pull The Fool card, you could probably use a fresh start with as little baggage as possible. All you need are the clothes on your back, maybe a toothbrush, some Lembas bread, plenty of courage, and a service animal to keep you company.

And this is where we meet our dearest pal, Toby, and our very first story slice…

0 | The Reboot

One full minute past 8 o’clock, Toby shoved his boney fingers toward the triplet beats of the alarm on his nightstand. He managed to knock over one pen, a cup that contained a swallow of water, and two books — one about a boy looking for treasure in the desert that Pam recommended and one about a boy who stole a famous bird painting from a famous museum that Toby decided to read instead. He also bumped into an old bottle of hand lotion for extra dry skin, rendered useless since The Procedure about a year ago — an odd echo of the old times.

In the space next to him, Toby heard Pam stir. He lifted his eye mask and surveyed the damage all over the floor. “Sorry. I was having that dream again,” Toby whispered over his shoulder.

“The canyon?” Pam softly muttered.

“Yeah.” Toby stretched and pushed the nest of blankets to his left. He sat up and dangled his SkinFree legs over the bed’s edge, gazing absently at the clean, slick plastic compound that coated everything from toes on up. “I was just so close to something. And… and there was a signpost this time: the bridge was out. I don’t remember there ever being a bridge or a sign before. So what’s next? What do I do? Climb? BASE Jump? Teleport? I’m just stuck there. It’s maddening.”

“Maybe you’ll find out next time.” Pam stretched her soft tentacles and slunk out from under the blankets. “Or maybe the mystery is the point; have you ever considered that?”

Pam was Toby’s resident therapist, sage, and roomie all rolled into one plush, pink blob. He spotted her in the back alley shortly after he was released from the clinic. She was hiding amongst bags of old produce, a stack of pallets, a pulverized chest of drawers, and a urine-soaked loveseat. In a life that felt most certainly real—more alarmingly visceral despite how The Procedure altered everything about his viscera—Toby was almost sure that Pam, with the one closed eye and three fuzzy tentacles, was not real. But he asked her to stay with him just the same.

“I suppose the obvious answer is that it’s an opportunity for a do-over, which considering…” Toby sheepishly waved his hand over his skeletal frame, and then confided, “but in the dream, standing there on that precipice, right at the very edge, the world so cavernous, beckoning to swallow me whole, it feels more like an ending than a beginning.”

“If we’re philosophizing about your death, can I have coffee first?” Pam pleaded as she floated toward the kitchen. Toby stood and followed her, feeling only mildly miffed because, while she teased him at the right moments, he trusted Pam would never ridicule his most serious concerns.

In truth, Toby had been given an opportunity for a do-over. But no one had actually prepped him for what to do next. After The Procedure, the only instructions he’d received were as follows:

1. How to care for the substance they called “Detagozamia”—the new polycarbonate compound that replaced his skin.

2. A stern warning to never open the cardboard box that came home with him.

3. Touch base with Pam or his sponsor, Sully, if he experienced any of the mild side effects. 

4. Contact Sicada Labs Tech Support if he experienced any of the serious side effects.

Toby searched for any trace of side effects as he scanned the contents of the canyon dream, permutations of which had been on repeat since The Procedure. Fear coiled its way around his guts, nestled deep inside this so-called protective shell. 

Pam prepared a kettle of water, and Toby winced at the shrill whine of coffee beans grinding down into tiny bits. She suggested, “What about a sabbatical?”

“Pam I was just off work for half a year! Honestly, I’m lucky I wasn’t canned.” Toby recalled his last day at the clinic. He’d recovered much faster than most Candidates; his doctor chalked it up to sheer willpower. And it was true, Toby just wanted to get back to work. The morning he walked into the hallowed doors of Nüch’s grocery division headquarters, snaked his way through the tunnels of cubicles, and knocked on his boss’s office door, it was like nothing had changed. The man slapped Toby on the back and dumped a manilla folder into his arms—a bloated mess of paperclips, sticky notes, and an acre of dead pulp from the northwoods. Thank God you’re here, I never knew what to make of this project. Of course, you’ll need to hustle. Check your email, I forwarded it all back to you. And that was that. Toby returned to his cube, dusty but just as he left it, and got to work. He ordered lunch in, then dinner, and left after everyone had gone home; the first of many late nights to come.

Pam chuckled under her breath, “Lucky… yeah.”

Toby rolled his eyes, “You don’t get it. That’s fine. But this week my boss told me I was the only one he trusted in the entire office. He’s counting on me.”

Pam let the soft tumble of bubbles hitting metal take over the conversation as she considered Toby’s current stage of the process. It was standard for Candidates to cling to a few old habits as they navigated these strange waters, but this was a little much. She decided to change the subject. “What do you want to do today?”

Toby considered his Saturday free time, wide open like the canyon in his dream. “I’ve got some vinyl to organize?”

The whistle of the kettle punctuated Pam’s relief, “Brilliant, I’ll help.” Pam left the pour-overs to Toby and retreated into the living room, four walls packed with shelves and cubbies stuffed with records. She flipped through a crate on the floor, Toby’s heavy metal collection, waiting to be cataloged. She eyed a record still resting on the player: Lesley Gore Sings of Mixed-Up Hearts. Pam pushed a button and the vinyl began to spin; she dropped the needle in place, three songs in. Gentle notes from some variety of idiophone instrument filled the room. Lesley’s incandescent voice mingled with wafts of dark chocolate and clove. Minutes later, Toby walked in with two mugs.

They sat and sipped. Unable to shake it, Toby tongued the ragged edge of his dream as if it were a chipped tooth. Something about it felt solid, much sturdier than his waking life. But it was broken too. If this Procedure wasn’t the fix, what options were left? The dream dissolved into an empty cavity he dared not touch. Not yet, he shuddered and took another sip.

1. Synchronicity of the Week: My February “tarotscope” from The Moon Studio dealt The Fool card to my inbox yesterday:

2. References: The “fools rush in” quote is from An Essay on Criticism by English poet Alexander Pope circa 1711. The “angels lie” lyric is from the Slipknot song “Snuff.” The two books Toby knocked over are The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho and The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. Highly recommend them both.

3. Next time: There will be blood of Biblical proportions.

do you believe in magic?