Write by the Cards: Day Twenty
A Moment of Strength
If you’re new to The Rebel MFA Way, welcome! This is my daily work for my Write by the Cards: 30 Day Challenge that I’m hosting. Learn more here. Scroll down to the end to see my behind-the-scenes commentary and source material.
Despite their doubts, the character found strength in {draw a card}.
The thing about knowing how the world ends? No one wants to hear it.
And by "no one," I mean my manager, who is currently waving a clipboard at me like she’s swatting a fly. The fly being me.
"Just stick to the forecast, Cassia," she says, her tone teetering on the edge of exasperation. "Clouds, rain, maybe a little wind. You know, normal stuff."
Normal stuff. Sure. Because nothing screams "normal" like the gory premonition I had this morning of half the city underwater. I close my eyes for a second, trying to push it down—the broken windows, the screaming, the sky the color of bruises. It’s still there, lodged in my mind like gum under a shoe.
"I’m just saying," I reply, biting back the urge to snap, "that the pressure drop isn’t a typical pattern. We should prep for something bigger."
Her sigh is long and dramatic, the kind that fills up a room. "Cassia, this isn’t The Weather Channel. It’s Channel Nine at Noon. People want to know if they should grab an umbrella for the weekend barbecue. Not your… doomsday poetry."
Doomsday poetry. I almost laugh, but the pit in my stomach is too heavy. I look past her to the window. The sky is still deceptively calm, a pale, fragile blue. But I can feel the storm building, its weight pressing against my chest like it’s daring me to warn someone.
I grab my jacket instead.
•••
Outside, the air feels charged, the kind of electric humidity that makes your skin itch. A single crow perches on the streetlamp across the parking lot, staring at me like it knows something I don’t.
"Not today, Poe," I mutter under my breath, pulling the zipper on my jacket all the way up. The crow doesn’t flinch.
It’s not the first time they’ve followed me. The crows, I mean. Or are they ravens? I never got around to figuring that out, too busy trying not to lose my mind. They always show up before the worst of it, like little black harbingers of "told-you-so." And no one notices them but me.
I shove my hands into my pockets and start walking, trying to shake the unease. The visions started a few years ago, little flickers of things before they happened—a car crash here, a heart attack there. At first, I thought it was just anxiety. Or bad luck. But then they got sharper. Louder.
And now? Now I know that telling people doesn’t help. They don’t listen. Or worse, they do listen and then blame me when it happens anyway.
I turn a corner and nearly trip over a crack in the sidewalk, catching myself on a lamppost. The crow—or raven, whatever—has moved. It’s sitting on a trash can lid now, closer.
"Subtle," I say to it.
It cocks its head, as if to say, Neither are you.
•••
By the time I get home, the sky is starting to unravel.
It’s subtle, the kind of shift you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it: a tinge of gray edging out the blue, the clouds knitting together like a too-tight sweater. But I see it. Of course I see it.
My apartment greets me with the familiar whine of the radiator and the smell of burnt coffee. I dump my bag by the door and flip the switch on the lamp, but it doesn’t come on. Power’s out. Again. The universe clearly isn’t done screwing with me today.
I wander into the kitchen, where the crows—ravens?—have followed me. Not physically, thank God, but in the form of the little stained-glass ornament hanging in my window. It’s been there since I moved in, a gift from my landlord, who called it “charming.” Charming, sure. If your vibe is gothic omen chic.
“Okay,” I say out loud, aiming my voice at the ornament. “What’s the plan here? Do I just wait for the flood, or do I start building an ark?”
The glass, predictably, doesn’t respond.
I grab a cup from the cabinet and fill it with water from the tap, trying to shake the feeling creeping up my spine. But it’s there, crawling like static: the pressure drop, the heavy air, the storm in my chest that’s been brewing since the vision hit me this morning. I take a sip, but the water tastes like copper.
That’s when the knock comes.
It’s three sharp raps on the door, the kind that mean business.
I set the cup down and creep toward the peephole, my bare feet sticking to the linoleum. Through the fisheye lens, I see a man I don’t recognize—tall, dark jacket, face partially obscured by a hood. Something about him feels off. Not in a stranger-danger way, exactly. More like… déjà vu.
Against every instinct screaming don’t, I open the door.
“Cassia,” he says, like we’re old friends. His voice is low and calm, and there’s something unsettlingly steady about the way he looks at me, like he’s staring straight through my skull.
“Do I know you?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small and glinting—a shard of glass. No, not glass. Crystal. It catches the dim light like a tiny, fractured star.
“I’ve been sent to help,” he says, holding it out to me.
“Sent by who?” I don’t take it.
Again, no answer. Just that steady gaze, that calm voice. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you? The flood.”
The way he says it makes my skin crawl. I glance past him at the hallway, half-expecting to see more crows—or ravens—lining the banister. But it’s empty. Just him and the shard in his hand, gleaming like it knows something I don’t.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” I ask, nodding at the crystal.
“You’ll know when the time comes.” He presses it into my hand before I can protest, his fingers cold against my skin.
And then he’s gone. No goodbye, no footsteps down the hall. Just gone, like a gust of wind swept him out of existence.
•••
I don’t sleep that night.
The crystal sits on the coffee table, catching the faint glow of candlelight. I stare at it like it might start talking, half-expecting it to say something cryptic or sarcastic. It doesn’t, obviously.
Outside, the storm is finally making itself known. Wind howls against the windows, and rain lashes the glass in erratic bursts. The streetlights flicker, casting jagged shadows across the walls.
I think about the man at the door, his steady voice, the way he said “inevitability” like it was a promise. I think about the vision—the flood swallowing streets, buildings, people—and the way my warnings always go unheeded. I think about how tired I am, carrying the weight of knowing.
And then, I make a decision.
I grab the crystal, its sharp edges biting into my palm, and head for the door. The storm welcomes me with open arms, wind tearing at my jacket and rain soaking through to my skin. The crows are there—three of them now, perched on the streetlamp like they’ve been waiting.
I hold the crystal up to the sky.
“You want me to do something? Fine. Show me how to stop this!” I shout, my voice barely audible over the wind.
For a second, nothing happens. Just the storm, the crows, and me, a lone figure yelling at the universe. And then the crystal glows.
•••
The glow starts faint, just a pulse of light inside the crystal, like a distant star trying to find its way home. But then it grows, spilling golden streaks across the storm-blackened street.
I tighten my grip, the edges of the crystal pressing into my skin. “Okay, I’m listening,” I mutter, though I’m not sure if it’s meant for the crystal, the storm, or the crows still perched above me like judgmental gargoyles.
The light spreads, forming a map in the air—no, not a map. A memory.
It’s the flood, the one I’ve seen a dozen times before, playing out like a cruel movie projected onto the rain. Streets submerged. Screams swallowed by water. Glass windows shattering as the waves surge through, carrying pieces of people’s lives with them. A doll. A shoe. A photo album.
But this time, there’s something new.
A single building stands against the tide, barely holding, its rooftop lit by a flickering red sign: SAFEHOUSE.
I don’t recognize the place, but the message is clear. There’s a way to help—not to stop the storm, but to guide people through it. To give them a chance.
The crystal’s glow fades, leaving me alone in the rain with nothing but my breath and the sound of the wind.
•••
Back inside my apartment, I pull out my laptop, fingers trembling as I search for anything that matches the building I saw. It takes hours—scouring maps, street-view images, archived articles—but I finally find it: an old warehouse on the edge of the city, abandoned years ago and converted into an emergency shelter during the last big hurricane.
I grab my phone and dial every contact I’ve got. Newsrooms, city officials, old coworkers—anyone who might have the power to spread the word.
“Cassia, you’ve got to stop calling me with this stuff,” says Greg, the primary anchor from Channel 9, his voice heavy with irritation.
“It’s not stuff, Greg. This storm isn’t just some drizzle with bad PR—it’s going to swallow half the city, and there’s a safehouse that no one knows about because it hasn’t been used in years. You’ve got to—”
“Goodnight, Cassia.”
The line goes dead.
I toss the phone onto the couch, resisting the urge to hurl it through the window. The anger burns hot in my chest, but beneath it is something colder, sharper: helplessness. I did everything I could. Again. And no one listened.
The crows are back, this time tapping on the window with their beaks. I glare at them. “What? Want me to grab a megaphone? Rent a billboard?”
One of them flutters to the ground outside, cocking its head like it’s waiting for me to follow.
•••
It’s almost midnight by the time I reach the warehouse. The storm has escalated, sheets of rain making it nearly impossible to see, but the crows—yes, definitely ravens—guide me like black arrows cutting through the chaos.
When I get there, the place is barely recognizable, its metal walls rusted and covered in graffiti. The SAFEHOUSE sign from my vision is dark, hanging crooked above the entrance.
“Great,” I mutter, kicking the door open. Inside, the air smells like mildew and abandonment. There’s no power, no supplies, nothing remotely resembling safety.
But the crystal glows again, faint and steady, pointing toward a dusty generator in the corner. I roll my eyes. “Sure, let me just fire this up. Because obviously I know how to restart ancient machinery.”
Still, I try. After a few frustrating minutes of yanking cords and flipping switches, the generator sputters to life, and the red SAFEHOUSE sign buzzes overhead. It’s dim, but it’s something.
“Now what?” I whisper.
And then they come.
•••
At first, it’s just a handful of people—stragglers drenched to the bone, faces etched with panic. They stumble in, some clutching children, others holding makeshift bags filled with whatever they could grab. Then more arrive. Dozens. Hundreds.
They look at me like I’m some kind of savior, but I’m not. I’m just the woman who saw it coming.
Someone asks, “How did you know this place was here?”
I don’t answer. Not because I can’t, but because the answer doesn’t matter. What matters is that they’re here now, alive.
As the floodwaters creep closer, I stand in the doorway, watching the storm rage. The crows are gone, their work done, and the crystal lies cool and dim in my pocket.
For the first time, the weight of knowing feels like something else. Not a curse, but a purpose.
•••
When the storm passes, the warehouse is battered but standing. The floodwater stops inches from the entrance, like even the universe decided it had done enough damage for one night.
I step outside into a world transformed. The streets are quiet, littered with debris, but there’s a strange kind of peace in the air, like the city itself is catching its breath.
The first rays of sunlight break through the clouds, and I take the crystal out of my pocket. Its edges glint in the light, cracked but whole. I hold it up to the sky, letting it catch the sun one last time, before tossing it into the floodwater.
It sinks without a sound, and with it, the weight lifts.
For the first time in years, I don’t see the next disaster waiting on the horizon.
All I see is the morning.
Behind-the-Scenes Commentary
The myth of Cassandra is so fascinating to me as it feels pretty timeless — especially for women. We are forever forecasting and predicting things but no one cares to listen. I wanted to write a brief story that explored that in a way I see often lately — weather and environmental warnings that people don’t take seriously. If this had been a longer piece, I would have wanted to go in a different direction — a la Don’t Look Up but I’ll be honest and tell you I don’t have the emotional capacity at the moment for that kind of story.
So this will have to do.
Source Material
The Wise Writer Within Oracle by Megan Barnhard