December horoscopes


Oh geez.

I guess you’re looking for the monthly horoscopes we provide here at Writer’s Block. Sadly, there is not much to be read about your future other than the immediate one you’re trying to bridle right now.

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the Master astronomer/star-seer can’t be present today. She is currently occupied spearheading a crusade against the false imputations of the so-called thirteenth zodiac sign that has people all riled up these days. She packed her diviner’s toolkit (telescope, star map, crystal ball and a copy of Gypsy Accent Daily) and left. When I asked her what to do about the horoscopes she muttered something along the lines of “The final reckoning is at hand! Those astronomers have received their last horoscopes! The stars spell blood for astronomy!”

I’m just guessing, though. I couldn’t her hear through all the gun-cocking and whatnot. Point is, you’ll have to make due with me this month. Taro, the diviner’s apprentice.

Please, don’t leave yet. I’m still learning, I know, but I’ll try my darn best to bring you your accurate horoscopes. The cosmic observatory is filled with dusty books, papers, dice and other coin-toss substitutes. The answers you seek for are right here, I just gotta find ‘em, is all.

Oh, geez. Bear with me on this one. Some of this may be translated from Hungarian. Or Moldovan. Or whatever these moon runes over here mean.

Here goes nothing:



The air outside gets colder, but the walls of your house will get warmer. Expect mice.

Whatever happened to those scribbles at the back of your brain? Did you crumple them up, toss them around and leave the ideas incased by your forgetfulness? Pick one up, any of them. Try to unpack what’s inside, and find in its contents a new home. Share it with the world—It’s the season, after all.

Go through your bookshelves. Not the crisp one, but the musty one (AN: The original text may have two meanings, as musty and childhood are apparently interchangeable in Old-Albanian. Figures). Delve into the books of your past, and carefully scan the pages for dried leaves. Touch them, inspect them. Trace their tips back to their stems, and tell the road’s story. It’s still worth telling.


I can smell your financial discontent from here. It’s like your breath: Chocolate and salt. Shreds of aluminum foil. Orange wrappers. Loneliness. The sickness you feel is not your fault, but your duty. Be sure not to pick up that phone when it calls you again.

Spend your energy on adventure, spend your money on nothing. You will encounter an Indiana Jones-y, flimsy rope bridge on your way. You may not be Indy, but you’ll cross it nicely. Remember that easy does it in a balancing act.

However sturdy your footing might be, remember that the floor is covered in corks, cans and bottle caps. Tip-toe, or you might slip.


You’re Batman.

But for goodness’ sake, dress like a normal human being. The pants go over your underwear, and don’t believe people who tell you they didn’t notice.

Each morning will find you with the weight of volition slung around your neck. Luckily, the yoke is bipartite and fueled by dynamicity. Grab your Robin by the collar and throw him in your Batmobile. You’re on a mission.

There’s violence in your house, so be sure to turn that red into a hue of passion. Or is that spaghetti sauce? Anyway—oh geez this won’t get out, will it?—tired, blue winds waft through your room, and they’re pining for a change. Allow yourself to ride its current, and you will decide which sea you will end up in. The rain will take you home, slowly, but unscathed.

You’re Batman, after all.


There’s a hole in your kitchen where your culinary excellence used to be. Don’t worry, it’s still your shoe size. Even better, there’s room for growth. Try to imagine the dishes you’ve created, and put them on a scale. Fill up the other side with the dishes you haven’t made. Now effectuate a balance.

A remembrance fills up your cup. Dry soil and seeds in your windowsill, a world of potential unreached. Spend your imagination on reentering this plane, and it might not yet be too late. Ashes and soil may look alike, yet they indicate very different elements. The ash came from fire, with its ignited nicotine and tar residue. The soil came from the earth, dry and hard, a ground of symbiotic workings between burials and breeding. Together, they are lives unlived, and thoughts unthought. Feed the earth with your ashes, and the world will be greener when you wake.


Consider the power of the mistletoe. Fueled by promiscuity, colored by the lush green of hopeful winters, and unapologetic like my mother smashing the door in my face when I come home for the holidays without a grandchild again. Oh, well.

You harness the obtuse powers of this unkind leaf. One side warms, and the other chills. Keep your eye on it, or it might just turn on you. You know, like being disinherited by papa for not taking on his clown’s mantle in the circus, even though you were never meant for a role such as that because your severe lactose intolerance does not go well with a full-time profession which involves a lot of cream pies to the face, especially not when—

…Err, wrong book. My apologies. I did think my diary sounded familiar. Anyway, your real horoscope actually does read something about love. It’s all a bit hazy, and quite a hassle to translate. There’s not much text left in this box, either.

So, eh, just be careful around love. And stuff. Throw away your smartphone or something. Solves about 90% of all love problems.


The air hangs thick with peril. Boarding your windows won’t do, nor will nailing shut your doors do you any good. You can hole up beneath the covers of your bed, but the monster will find you regardless. It will tear the sheets from underneath you, and drag you into its fiery maw, hell’s fitful flames licking at the soles of your feet while it laughs its guttural, croaking, apologetic and desperate laugh.

Your ex is coming for you.

You pull up your defenses on every social media page you own, and block everything. As you put away your phone, exhausted, it slips from the table and strikes a few strings of the guitar that was lying there. A perfect harmony for an E minor. Remain vigilant, for the sad chord you play might attract a more welcome passer-by. One that might not have been too cuddly with your sister once.

…Hold on, this one has to be my diary. I thought I picked the right one for sure this time—err, nope. This is definitely my sign. Yikes.


You’ve been staring at a blank canvas for a while now. Either untouched, or so unfinished that you might as well call it blank—it doesn’t matter. The paint in the pot has run dry. Tear your eyes from the canvas, and look outside. A different palette of white shows the unseen perspective, the missing ingredient. And as a natural well which never truly runs dry, there is still life water underneath the skin of dried-up residue. You’ll have to delve through the layer to get to the treasure. But in this case, what costs energy, will repay itself with energy. (AN: and hey, if you can make a nice painting out of it, or something, you might just sell it for some serious moolah. It’s not the end-all be-all goal, I know—but wouldn’t it be nice?)

Remember that the comfort of your house is fueled by the love you allow in. When someone knocks on the door, feel free to let them in. But keep the door open for too long and your plants might shrivel, the cat might flee, and your plumbing might freeze. But you won’t be frightened by that. Your imagination will allow you to carry your bed with you, wherever you go. Just make sure that you’re not in it alone. (AN: take that as you will)


The conclusion has to be drawn that your leash is too long. Your parents, caretakers, lovers—they’re being dragged along as you’re running around the block. But what for? Surely, it’s not because you want to see what’s around the corner that badly. The scenery doesn’t get taken in just like that; it allows itself to be taken in at a very slow, very natural (AN: overly dramatic) tempo. No matter how fast you’ll go, the world won’t slow down, and the leash will eventually yank you back. Before you get to that point, make sure that you know the colors of your neighborhood by heart. You’ll need them.

The opposite, however, is also quite true. Once you slow down too much, take in too much of that scenery, the extending leash will go click and you’ll be the one that’s being dragged along. The best place to walk is near the one whose holding that leash for you.

Look for your leash-carriers, stick close to them, and most importantly, remember to return the favor to them.


Green-felted tables pave your way. You walk bow-legged, a mobile Atlas under the weight of your winnings. The smell of your favorite liquor pulls at your nose, and leads you from the path. Momentarily distracted, you sit yourself down at the table with the liquor smell. Your hand reaches for the dice, and casts them down with the spin that has won you so many games. But where the dice land, the green felt turns out to be more leathery, more slithery, and definitely more moving than you think it ought to be. Suddenly, you realize that tables don’t usually move, and that liquor doesn’t usually smell. You want to get up, but the felt-table path has disappeared. The only things left are a hissing noise behind your ears, and two sharp snake eyes in front of you.

You wake up at home with a bitter taste in your mouth. A look in the mirror reveals that your locks aren’t golden anymore, and your teeth not to be pearls. At least the weight has completely evaporated from your shoulders, even if it wasn’t the kind of weight you actually wanted to lose. On that note, you could work on that, too. (AN: hate the universe, not me)


There are holes in your vision, holes in your teeth, holes in the knees of your jeans. You’ve worn down your bones, ground to dust what should have kept you up. Trying as you might, you bounce and tumble your way through the early winter days, their unkindness tinging your skin with icy kisses. Then, through the haze, a warm glow sings to you like a kind-hearted siren. You reach the island and strand upon its rocks which are unlike any other you’ve ever felt.

Soft, warm, huggable, the island is a bed—your bed. It embraces you. But through the fog, distant lights travel over the horizon. The lighthouses of the world are looking for you. But don’t be mistaken, they are the true sirens. Devour you and rend you to bits they will—no matter the amount of wax you put in your ears.

You are caught at the crossroads, doubting. Which one is the real siren, the bed, or the world? The latter you’ve tried, and see where it has gotten you. You don’t have to trust the bed, its softness, its unwilling to release, but what you could do is give it a shot.

The lighthouses will still be there when you wake.


So, those previous ones went quite well! Not too many hiccups. Master would be proud. I hope. Now, let’s see for the next one…

…Oh, my. Quite the classic over here, we have. You’re in luck, Aquarius! My orb reads the following:

You will meet a tall, dark stranger.

Oh, that’s juicy! So what else does it say?

…That’s it? The big kahuna? Talk about an anticlimax—this could hardly be considered a useful horoscope. Master wouldn’t put up with this, and neither will I. Time to roll up the sleeves on this one.

What you don’t know is that I have a visual representation of said “tall, dark stranger”, shown to me through the glass orb. I couldn’t tell you in words. What I see could hardly be translated from the information contained in the galactic ley lines. Only through the use of advanced technology can I show you the picture in my mind’s eye. Now, the stars shall guide my hand over a digital drawing board. Even though I will be blindfolded (wouldn’t want those pesky senses getting in the way) the picture you see here is completely accurate.



Now, that you can work with. In case you might know this particular person, be kind and guide him toward your nearest Aquarius. You will be much appreciated, I’m sure.


You vault over the last hurdle and sprint for the finish line. In the moment you land, the world slows down, and you get a rare chance to look around as if nothing would be affected by it. The other contestants are nowhere near as close as you had pictured them to be. If you wouldn’t know any better, you’d say that you were the only one occupying a lane, the other seven completely empty. Somewhere in the back your adversaries might still be, but then again, they might not be.

In your mind hangs a limestone of a question which slowly begins to drip. Who were those people? Were they even my adversaries in the first place? Have I outrun them, or am I the last one left on the track? Why are the hurdles scattered so unevenly? Which ones did I jump? Which ones did I miss?

As the thoughts drip on, the world recovers its original tempo. The finish line comes closer. You can smell the fireworks, feel their blows against your eardrums. The feeling is frightening, but happy. The answers might not all lie beyond that finish line, but a few of them might. Maybe you’re just lucky like that.

And with that, this month’s batch of horoscopes comes to a solemn conclusion. And just in time—I think I can hear Master’s footsteps coming up the stairs, now! Wait, does that mean astrology wins? Astronomy has been defeated?

If so, whoopee! I’m getting solid food tonight! …maybe.

In any case, until we meet again!


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