Cursed |
Issue 7
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“I give up!” he declared, throwing his books into his locker and slamming the thin, metal door closed with such a loud clank that all the 6th graders in the vicinity flinched at the out-burst.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Jason! What’s the matter?” Brad asked, concerned. Jason sighed, exasperated, and let his forehead fall against the red metal locker door, again, with enough noise as to send every 6th grader in the halls scurrying quickly and quietly away from the two 8th grade jocks and their problems. “For all of last year, and all of this year, Brittany…” “Brittany Daniels? From Mrs. Roper’s class?” Brad interrupted. “Yes, Brad. Duh! You think I’d be thinking about Brittany Luna from PE? She’s in the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. Obviously, Brittany Daniels!” Jason told him. “Oh,” said Brad. “Anyways,” Jason started, “you know how she was always, like, asking me for help with stuff, and, like, asking me to pass Jennifer Greene notes for her- who was, like, only, one seat away- all the time, and stuff?” “Yeah,” said Brad. “Anyways,” Jason started, “so I asked her to the Halloween Dance, and she said she’s, like, Mormon, and her parents think Halloween is ‘a day for the Devil’ or something. So, like, anyways, she turned me down, dude!” Jason cried. “That sucks,” said Brad. “Yeah, man,” Jason said, “I’m totally giving up. Nothing ever works out for me. I think I’m, like, cursed!” Brad shook his head and said to Jason, “Cursed? What do you mean ‘cursed’? You mean like… |
DAVID NANCE
won 2nd Place of the Fiction Writing Contest. He is a fiction writer, navy veteran, former ESL teacher, husband and father. |
“Five hundred years ago, there was a sleepy hamlet on a once well-traveled, Old Roman road that ran between Marseille and Tuscany, with a few shops, houses, and an inn. For centuries the forest slowly encroached upon the road until, eventually, great boughs arched across from both sides, creating a green canopy overhead. As the forest got older, the roots began to create bumps and cracks in the stonework where grass grew up and out into the dim light.
Travelers would hesitate before turning down the dark and lonely road, so the Dancing Dog Inn was not very busy nor prosperous, and the tiny hamlet around it turned stagnant in commerce and activity. A young man named Simon worked at the Dog, assisting the blacksmith and doing odd chores. He served as farrier, pounding out horseshoes and nails. He made thin metal bands that were nailed to wooden planks to form buckets. He repaired broken wheels on carts and carriages. And in the small hours he was free to pursue his pleasure, Simon played the lute and sang and prayed to the stars to brighten his life with a beauty to love.
The Moon was a tiny sliver of ice in a cloudless sky the night Simon knew his prayers were finally answered, for, as he strummed his lute he sang:
‘O Angels, will you send me a maiden both lovely and fair?
Please, Angels, won’t you hear me, and grant my lonely heart’s prayer? ’
And at that moment, a warm breeze blew from some dark place down the quiet road, rustling leaves, and stirring the air. Above the trees a star fell straight down, and appeared to settle at a distant point in the middle of the road. A final note of Simon’s song still hung in the air when it was replaced by a faint clatter and rumble. Almost holding his breath in anticipation, he stared at the darkest spot in the tunnel of trees over the Old Roman road until the dark spot became lighter.
In disbelief, Simon rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and whispered, ‘Could it be? ’
As if God struck a match, the light spot in the darkness blazed into bright white. And all at once Simon saw clearly a snowy pair of stallions drawing a fine, white carriage. The gait and pace of the horses was clumsy and odd. From the moment they came into view, until the moment the carriage rounded into the driveway of the Dancing Dog Inn was painfully slow. All that while Simon’s curiosity raged. His heart fluttered, his ears burned, and his hair stood up on his neck.
The sleepy hamlet was immediately awoken by the noisy clank and clatter of iron hooves and wooden wheels bouncing on cobbled stones. The innkeeper, Mr. Brown appeared first in the yard, with an iron-wrought lantern with blue and gold glass. The coachman reined in the white stallions with a booming ‘Whoa!’ that brought many and more villagers, shopkeeps and other curious parties out into the once-quiet night. The murmur rose and spread from house to house, shop to shop. They all wanted to know who had come into town so late and unannounced.
‘Good evening,’ Mr. Brown called up to the coachman, who only nodded a greeting in return. Mr. Brown waited for more of a reply, and after an uncomfortable length of silence, cleared his throat and made to speak again. Before a sound could escape his lips, the carriage door burst open and a man of great stature, wearing a dark cape and robe, descended from the carriage and approached Mr. Brown in three long strides. With no mention or glance to any of the many others milling at the edges of the Dancing Dog Inn’s yard, the stranger said:
‘Good sir, I am but a humble merchant in need of two modest rooms for this night, and perhaps one night more.’
Murmurs continued, and Mr. Brown gulped. It was evident by the stately appearance of the two white horses, the gilded adornment that fringed the fine carriage, and the regal bearing of the stranger, that he was not merely a humble merchant. But Mr. Brown did not address these inconsistent points in the stranger’s deception. Instead, he obliged himself to meet one dishonest remark with another:
‘You are welcome, stranger, to room and board. I am Mr. Brown, proprietor of the Dancing Dog. Unfortunately, in this busy season, all of our basic rooms have been let out, and only the fourth floor’s apartment which is usually reserved for members of royalty is all that is available at this time.’
Murmurs continued, and Mr. Brown gulped once again, in the longer than necessary pause, as the tall, wealthy-looking stranger surveyed what appeared to him to be every yokel in town, staring at their conversation, as if they had not seen a traveler in their lives.
Simon slowly pushed his way through the throng, and came to stand a few paces behind his master, the innkeeper, who was nervously jiggling his lantern, causing bluish-green shadows to dance across the stranger’s face, changing the perception of his expression from anger to elation , and back again to anger every second.
At last, he rolled his head back and bellowed a thunderous laugh, ‘AH HA HA HA,’ he roared. Very well, very well, good sir.’ And turning back to the carriage he spoke but one more word. It was a word that no one in the sleepy, little hamlet had ever heard before, but instantly was beheld as magic, for only a few seconds after the stranger had spoken it, a tiny and beautiful angel appeared at the door of the carriage, bathed in starlight, stilling the jiggling lantern, and hushing the murmuring townsfolk, until the only sounds that could be heard were the snorts of the two white stallions, and the crickets chirping by the gently flowing brook in the forest.
The stranger clapped his hands loudly, and strode up beside the angel.
‘Ah, yes,’ he began, ‘this is my lovely daughter,’ and the noble stranger spoke the magical word again. Like hearing the voice of God, Simon only registered some sweet lullaby of a word that he couldn’t begin to pronounce, nor imagine clumsy letters forming.
‘I trust,’ the stranger continued, ‘these,’ clearing his throat, ‘royal apartments have bedding for two, and allow for the privacy befit a young lady from her father.’
‘Oh, yes, m’lord,’ Mr. Brown said. ‘The apartments are two adjoining bedchambers which share a hearth, separated by a den- most comfortably furnished- and a master suite, which shares the hearth of the den. I’m confident you will be most com…’
‘Quite right. Quite all right, Master Brown,’ the stranger interrupted. ‘Please have your servant fetch the chest in rear of mine coach, and deliver it to our rooms, as well as sending up as much hot water as will fill two baths.’
‘Uhm,’ Mr. Brown choked, ‘I’m quite sorry to report the apartment’s bathtubs…had to be…sent out for repair. However, we do have lovely bronze basins in….’
‘Quite all right. Quite all right, good Master Brown. Just bring the luggage and water posthaste. I’m weary from the road, and seek only to rest now. And please oblige mine coachman with his requests, if you would. Now we shall retire. Floor four, you say?’ asked the stranger.
‘Yes, m’lord, yes. Right this way,’ Mr. Brown said, leading the stranger and his daughter down the cracked cobblestone path to the Dancing Dog. ‘Please watch your steps in the night, m’lord, m’lady,’ Mr. Brown said, stumbling, himself, as he went along. ‘Simon, grab the chest for his lordship, and bring it upstairs,’ he called over one shoulder.
Travelers would hesitate before turning down the dark and lonely road, so the Dancing Dog Inn was not very busy nor prosperous, and the tiny hamlet around it turned stagnant in commerce and activity. A young man named Simon worked at the Dog, assisting the blacksmith and doing odd chores. He served as farrier, pounding out horseshoes and nails. He made thin metal bands that were nailed to wooden planks to form buckets. He repaired broken wheels on carts and carriages. And in the small hours he was free to pursue his pleasure, Simon played the lute and sang and prayed to the stars to brighten his life with a beauty to love.
The Moon was a tiny sliver of ice in a cloudless sky the night Simon knew his prayers were finally answered, for, as he strummed his lute he sang:
‘O Angels, will you send me a maiden both lovely and fair?
Please, Angels, won’t you hear me, and grant my lonely heart’s prayer? ’
And at that moment, a warm breeze blew from some dark place down the quiet road, rustling leaves, and stirring the air. Above the trees a star fell straight down, and appeared to settle at a distant point in the middle of the road. A final note of Simon’s song still hung in the air when it was replaced by a faint clatter and rumble. Almost holding his breath in anticipation, he stared at the darkest spot in the tunnel of trees over the Old Roman road until the dark spot became lighter.
In disbelief, Simon rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and whispered, ‘Could it be? ’
As if God struck a match, the light spot in the darkness blazed into bright white. And all at once Simon saw clearly a snowy pair of stallions drawing a fine, white carriage. The gait and pace of the horses was clumsy and odd. From the moment they came into view, until the moment the carriage rounded into the driveway of the Dancing Dog Inn was painfully slow. All that while Simon’s curiosity raged. His heart fluttered, his ears burned, and his hair stood up on his neck.
The sleepy hamlet was immediately awoken by the noisy clank and clatter of iron hooves and wooden wheels bouncing on cobbled stones. The innkeeper, Mr. Brown appeared first in the yard, with an iron-wrought lantern with blue and gold glass. The coachman reined in the white stallions with a booming ‘Whoa!’ that brought many and more villagers, shopkeeps and other curious parties out into the once-quiet night. The murmur rose and spread from house to house, shop to shop. They all wanted to know who had come into town so late and unannounced.
‘Good evening,’ Mr. Brown called up to the coachman, who only nodded a greeting in return. Mr. Brown waited for more of a reply, and after an uncomfortable length of silence, cleared his throat and made to speak again. Before a sound could escape his lips, the carriage door burst open and a man of great stature, wearing a dark cape and robe, descended from the carriage and approached Mr. Brown in three long strides. With no mention or glance to any of the many others milling at the edges of the Dancing Dog Inn’s yard, the stranger said:
‘Good sir, I am but a humble merchant in need of two modest rooms for this night, and perhaps one night more.’
Murmurs continued, and Mr. Brown gulped. It was evident by the stately appearance of the two white horses, the gilded adornment that fringed the fine carriage, and the regal bearing of the stranger, that he was not merely a humble merchant. But Mr. Brown did not address these inconsistent points in the stranger’s deception. Instead, he obliged himself to meet one dishonest remark with another:
‘You are welcome, stranger, to room and board. I am Mr. Brown, proprietor of the Dancing Dog. Unfortunately, in this busy season, all of our basic rooms have been let out, and only the fourth floor’s apartment which is usually reserved for members of royalty is all that is available at this time.’
Murmurs continued, and Mr. Brown gulped once again, in the longer than necessary pause, as the tall, wealthy-looking stranger surveyed what appeared to him to be every yokel in town, staring at their conversation, as if they had not seen a traveler in their lives.
Simon slowly pushed his way through the throng, and came to stand a few paces behind his master, the innkeeper, who was nervously jiggling his lantern, causing bluish-green shadows to dance across the stranger’s face, changing the perception of his expression from anger to elation , and back again to anger every second.
At last, he rolled his head back and bellowed a thunderous laugh, ‘AH HA HA HA,’ he roared. Very well, very well, good sir.’ And turning back to the carriage he spoke but one more word. It was a word that no one in the sleepy, little hamlet had ever heard before, but instantly was beheld as magic, for only a few seconds after the stranger had spoken it, a tiny and beautiful angel appeared at the door of the carriage, bathed in starlight, stilling the jiggling lantern, and hushing the murmuring townsfolk, until the only sounds that could be heard were the snorts of the two white stallions, and the crickets chirping by the gently flowing brook in the forest.
The stranger clapped his hands loudly, and strode up beside the angel.
‘Ah, yes,’ he began, ‘this is my lovely daughter,’ and the noble stranger spoke the magical word again. Like hearing the voice of God, Simon only registered some sweet lullaby of a word that he couldn’t begin to pronounce, nor imagine clumsy letters forming.
‘I trust,’ the stranger continued, ‘these,’ clearing his throat, ‘royal apartments have bedding for two, and allow for the privacy befit a young lady from her father.’
‘Oh, yes, m’lord,’ Mr. Brown said. ‘The apartments are two adjoining bedchambers which share a hearth, separated by a den- most comfortably furnished- and a master suite, which shares the hearth of the den. I’m confident you will be most com…’
‘Quite right. Quite all right, Master Brown,’ the stranger interrupted. ‘Please have your servant fetch the chest in rear of mine coach, and deliver it to our rooms, as well as sending up as much hot water as will fill two baths.’
‘Uhm,’ Mr. Brown choked, ‘I’m quite sorry to report the apartment’s bathtubs…had to be…sent out for repair. However, we do have lovely bronze basins in….’
‘Quite all right. Quite all right, good Master Brown. Just bring the luggage and water posthaste. I’m weary from the road, and seek only to rest now. And please oblige mine coachman with his requests, if you would. Now we shall retire. Floor four, you say?’ asked the stranger.
‘Yes, m’lord, yes. Right this way,’ Mr. Brown said, leading the stranger and his daughter down the cracked cobblestone path to the Dancing Dog. ‘Please watch your steps in the night, m’lord, m’lady,’ Mr. Brown said, stumbling, himself, as he went along. ‘Simon, grab the chest for his lordship, and bring it upstairs,’ he called over one shoulder.