Round and round and round and round. The card-stock had been laminated, but badly, the edges fraying and catching against the ridges of his fingerprints, peeling away like old, dead skin. He could have done a better job himself; he liked laminating things. It made him feel organized, as though he had control over one tiny portion of his life, the bit encased in thin sheets of plastic. Still, his fingers traced the circle on the card. Unending, undulating, even. Horace had bought the deck of tarot cards on a whim, tried a few readings, concluded he was no psychic and never would be. But there was something about this card.

The design was brightly colored, almost tacky (something Horace never had a problem with, perhaps unfortunately for the people around him), with a bright blue sky, clouds with fat little angels, and, in front, a wheel. Strange symbols crawled along the edges of the wheel, and it almost looked more like some kind of arcane compass than an actual, working wheel. He sighed. Perhaps the meaning was close enough that it didn't really matter which it was. On top sat a small man: a devil in some cards, a sphinx in others, and normal in yet other decks - riding the wheel serenely. The Wheel of Fortune: A name reserved previously in his mind for game shows, so much so that he'd never given thought to the actual meaning of those words. It turned and it turned and the ups became downs and the downs looked up.

Somehow it was fitting. And maybe that was a little dramatic of him, but Horace had already had a few beers and he was feeling a bit dramatic. This tarot card in particular felt like a reminder of change, sudden and yet inevitable. He was here in Ashdown, no longer in Florida, no longer with him, not in Oklahoma, not in the woods out back behind his childhood home. He had friends; he wasn't alone; Horace had a job, classes, a car... Everywhere he'd gone, the good had been so, so good until it became bad, Horace thought. His life had been cycles of ups and downs; it turned and he was tied to it. buoyed aloft by the high points and trampled by the low. Surely there was a point in a person's life where they'd been underneath that wheel one too many times, bones broken, bleeding, and yet forced up again. It was exhausting and unstoppable. And he'd considered it - stopping it all. But the good was so, so good, and he'd made a promise to keep trying, not forever, but just for a bit longer, until he couldn't stand it anymore. But no matter how his wheel turned, fear and apprehension remained carved into his bones: the certainty of that fall, of the weight and trample.

Right now, it felt as though he was at a high point. He laughed, he allowed himself to flirt and make silly jokes, had movie nights and stared out at the stars for no other reason than that they sparkled. Still, he knew. Horace knew it was coming. He was just waiting for the wheel to turn. But, until then, maybe he could be a turning force for someone else's wheel, a push upwards, a stopped in their eventual decline. That sounded nice. He laughed a little and opened his desk drawer. The deck was placed carefully inside, the Wheel of Fortune on top, a reminder. Sighing, Horace got up and went to grab another beer.