Allegories of the Tarot Read Free

approaching vehicle,
I stopped walking and stuck out my thumb.
    Max gazed up at me, titling his head quizzically.
    “Don’t worry, boy,” I said. “The next one will be all
right. I promise.”
    ***
    A Pushcart Prize nominee and an active member of the
Horror Writers Association, Peter Giglio is the author of five novels, four
novellas, and he edits a successful line of books for Evil Jester Press. His
works of short fiction can be found in a number of notable volumes, including
two comprehensive genre anthologies edited by New York Times Bestselling author
John Skipp.
    ***
    THE MAGICIAN
    The Intern's Story
    By Lon Prater
    Hansom Haddix nudged the antique pickup’s
three-on-the-tree column shifter back into third. The transmission shrieked
like a circular saw cutting through knotty wood. The big truck shuddered, but
somehow kept right on zooming down the red clay Georgia road. We were on a
mission, the infamous white-haired photographer and I.
    I just didn’t know what it was.
    “So why this location, Mr. Haddix?” It was my first day interning for the aged photographer. I wanted him to know
he’d made the right choice, picking me from all the applicants. I hoped no one
from the college had called to let him know I had dropped out soon as I finished
my photography elective.
    “Someplace lucky,” he said. “And call me Hansom.”
    Hansom won awards and worldwide fame for his body of
work. Many believed he crossed the line from technical skill into Fine Art with
his Faces of the Fallen photo essay on homeless vets.
Having just turned eighty-two at the end of 1982, he wasn’t getting any
younger, nor was he expected to do too many more shoots. Which is why I applied
the moment I heard about the chance to spend the summer working with him on his
next project in the boonies of Southwest Georgia.
    What I hadn’t expected was to spend the first day of
summer trundling out to a bingo parlor in the boonies with a man so far off his
rocker he made that Pink Floyd movie seem positively sane by comparison.
    “Fairies,” he told me for the fifth time, “love to be
around enormous swings of luck. The moment someone’s fortune changes, good or
bad...It’s like candy to them.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “But they don’t like a lot of flashing lights and fuss,
so you’ll never find one in a casino or a dog track. You have to stay small
time. Au naturel is the only way to catch one.”
    I made a face as I considered that.
    Hansom’s laugh brayed out like a big horse. It was
jarring to hear that robust laughter pealing out from such a narrow-framed old
man. “Not naked.” He brayed again. “Just in a natural state. Do I look crazy enough to go around shooting pictures butt naked?”
    I grinned back at him, not as relieved as I’d hoped to
be. “Sure hope not.”
    Around dusk, we pulled up in front of the Hoot ‘n’ Holler
Bingo Parlor in a little farming town too small to mention. I kicked as much of
the red dirt as I could from the soles of my shoes and carried the tripod and
other gear inside while Hansom spoke with the staff.
    He apparently did not mention fairies to them. That must
have been a special flavor of crazy he was only sharing with me. Had to admit,
other than his weird Tinkerbell fixation, the old guy’s faculties were sharp as
a tack.
    “Where do you want me to set up?”
    “Back there.” Hansom nodded his head toward the far end
of the parlor. He leaned in close enough that I could smell the Chicklets gum
on his breath.
    “Fairies can’t see into corners,” he breathed.
    “Of course not, Mister—I mean, Hansom.”
    The regulars poured in between six and seven. They
greeted each other with loud, rattling coughs. Ordered greasy
food from the short order grill in back. Set up their pink-haired Troll
dolls and colored daubers in meticulous arrangements.
    We waited most of the night. There were plenty of missed
shots that would have been fine for any of the human-interest slicks. A palsied
woman with a