Sarp Sozdinler
The year my brother stole a car, I tried to shuffle my tarot deck so quietly that Mom wouldn’t hear the luck of our heritage rearranging itself. The cards stuck together like a bunch of misfits so my hands just made flat, clapping sounds in the dark. Mom was sleeping on the sofa with her shoes on, arms dangling from the sides, and every so often she’d mutter a name that was neither mine nor my brother’s, prolonging her vowels. I wanted to tell her there’s nothing to worry, that it’s only the wind rattling our house, not my brother, not the sheriff that asked about him, not the landlord that ratted on us, but the words felt heavy in my mouth, stones I’d have to spit out one by one. My brother called from some county where the grocery stores all closed at six, then said, Can you pull a card for me, mijo, any card, Just tell me if I’m coming home. I flipped the deck, my hands sticky with sweat and hope. I drew the Hanged Man, but I lied and said, The Chariot, you’re on your way, you’ll be just fine. I stayed up all night, listening to the house breathe in and out, the slow leak of something important from under the front door, and I promised myself that next time, I’d learn to shuffle better, so the cards would come out clean, honest, easy, nothing left stuck together.
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Sarp Sozdinler has been published in Electric Literature, Kenyon Review, Masters Review, Fractured Lit, Flash Frog, HAD, and Maudlin House, among other journals. His writing has been selected or nominated for anthologies including the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Wigleaf Top 50. He’s currently at work on his first novel in Philadelphia and Amsterdam: http://www.sarpsozdinler.com