Eight of Swords
Some Tarot-Inspired Flash Fiction
There were whispers on the breeze that night, loud enough to hear but too faint to understand. One could infer their meaning, though: bad times were ahead.
We'd sat among them but we're not of them because we believed we were better. But those who whispered were older than us, wiser, more rooted, though impossible to pin down.
The whispers cut through our defenses like swords because even quiet voices can become harsh and loud when there are enough of them, and these voices were legion.
Whispers like swords became thoughts that raised swords, and blood spilled in our little village until there were more dead than living.
The way out was to follow the water, blindfolded and bound, guided only by our wet feet.
That’s all I got today. Protect yourselves. Mind your triggers.