The Eyes On The Walls

The hallway is lined with playing cards, walls of black and white and red. There is no discernable pattern, no order to the rows and columns that hide the walls. Faces are across at faces, the suicidal King, the black-haired Queen.

Some cards are flipped over, backs exposed. The designs are intricate, as extravagant as the curlicues and flourishes on tarot cards. They are images of vines and spirals and tiny buds.

You walk along slowly, looking to see if any of them are different, but the faces remain the same, the numbers do not increase above 10 or decrease below 2. You can imagine the feeling of the cards beneath your fingers, while they are pristine you imagine soft edges, bent corners, cards that have seen smoky pubs and logwood cabins and rainy days. Memories emerge from their corners and niches, some better than others.

You squint at the cards. Is the Jack smiling here? Has the suicidal King closed his eyes? Is the Queen weeping at the sight? The cards seem more morose, more tragic as you continue. This cannot be all there is.

You avoid the eyes on the walls as you continue down the corridor. You have not noticed that the most often occurring card is the 2 of hearts. 

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Art by Anonymous

The Magic Eight

The magic eight is only reference in the apex of superstition. On All Hallow’s Eve, when the black cat crosses one’s path, when a child wanders beneath a ladder, when one steps on the cracks in the sidewalks, one will go out of their way to see the magic eight.

It has been here for as long as anyone remembers. Even the gray-haired, deaf, pearly-eyed cannot remember a childhood without it. It has always been there, they say, and it always will be.

There is some speculation as to when it appeared. Some say a former neighbour left it behind long ago. Others insist it has always been there, it was born from the land.

And why eight? Why not seven? Why not nine? OR the unlucky thirteen? The magical, fairy tale three?

Touching the magic eight leaves some feeling cold, others warm. But each will come away with a new perspective. New eyes. The neighbours with the strongest of practical streaks insist it is electric shock. Nothing new about it. 

Most days the magic eight is ignored. Unseen. Strangers will point and ask questions. That? Just the magic eight. No, it’s always been there. Nothing lucky about it.

Yet, when the wind blows harshly, when the waves on the shore are capped with white, when the rain lashes hard against the small rickety houses on the hill, when the knife has slipped in the kitchen and blood is running over the tiles, when death stands over one’s bedside, someone will always be sent to the magic eight.

Deep down, no one questions the magic of the eight.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Art by Anonymous

Secret Destinations

“The boat departs at midnight,” the captain says. “It’s a cold journey, tonight. Bundle up.”

The wind is cold as a ghost’s breath across the deck, whistling in the sails. The lanterns flicker with it.

You depart with no suppositions about your destination. The journey alone is an adventure. There is a map of stars above your head, continents of constellations, the river of Orion’s Bow.

You are among others as you stare into the mist, then, as the mist dissipates, at the large dark mountains, like the backs of sea beasts rising above the water. These kindred spirits marvel with you over the sweet taste of the air, over the star studded surface of the water, over the tiny lights appearing in the mountains like candles.

The captain has vanished to the top deck. He is little more than a shadow against the light. You wave and, after a moment, he waves back. There are refreshments, timed exactly when the passengers begin to get hungry: champagne in glasses with coloured flutes, confections of cream and sugar and jam, and spices too exotic and strange to name.

Soon you forget that you are headed for a destination at all. The night reaches their pinnacle, and as it wanes, as the dawn bleeds over the mountains, the strange question re emerges. But there is no use wondering. The mist seeps across the lake once more. The captain has all but disappeared. But the ship shows no signs of stopping.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Art by Anonymous