Thursday May 24th, 2012

The exercise:

Write about something or someone that is: cursed.

This late posting is brought to you by a 11pm to 2am trip to Penticton's hospital and back to make sure everything is okay with Kat and the baby. I'm glad to report that all is well.

Mine:

Terry returned to the table wearing a scowl and the imprint of a hand on his right cheek. The boys nudged each other in the ribs as he retook his seat, undeterred by his muttered threats.

"I think that one might have knocked a tooth loose," Terry said as his tongue examined his dental work. "She swore like a sailor and hit like one too."

"Maybe she was really a he," Harold suggested, much to the amusement of everyone at the table whose name was not Terry. "Maybe next time you ought to make sure before dropping one of your lines, huh?"

"I don't understand what's going on tonight," Terry said, pausing to take a significant taste of his beer. "I've never had any trouble picking up two or three broads in one night. But this... I can hardly get five words out before they unload on me!"

"I warned you about Wendy," Ben said with a solemn shake of his head.

"And I told you that was a load of horse crap," Terry countered.

"All the same," Ben said, shrugging slightly, "I don't think it's ever a good idea to part on bad terms with a curse-wielding Gypsy."

5 Comments:

writebite said...

Cursed

There is a place hereabouts where you do not wish to live.
They say it is cursed.
It is a place where the white man landed and took over, displacing the local indigenous community. What exactly became of them, no one is really saying, but it has left a stain, so it seems. It paved the way for things to come in this world.
The people who come here to stay think it will be a paradise until things go wrong.
If they are together, they break up.
If they are female, they become cancerous.
They’re told it’s “the curse”.
“The sins of the fathers...” and all that.
Someone pays the price.
Maybe it’s the water, or the air, or the incessant insects that bite, or the transient nature of the place - not being conducive to long-term security an’ all.
Or maybe...

Iron Bess said...

@Marc - glad to hear all is well, that kind of thing can be super scary, most especially because you just don't have control.

Ah those gypsy curses, they can be bad for the health!

@Writebite - great visuals, you make it sound like somewhere I would rather not be.

Here is mine....Cursed

Joy and wonderment just oozes out of my body and puddles around my feet like a warm soup of glowing pudding as I stand wriggling my bare feet in the soft grass and stare at my newly purchased property. I can actually feel the acreage returning my feelings of wellbeing through waves of nourishing delight. We are meant for each other this bit of land and I. It has been waiting for me to come along to love it, to nurture it, and revel in it. A small rabbit hops up to stand on its hind legs and get a better view of my face, its little whiskers twitch as he inhales my scent, then he hops over to a tall dandelion green and begins to eat, he only flicks his ears as I laugh out loud.

Cursed, that was what the locals had said about my little bit of paradise. “You won’t be wanting anything to do with the old Cainson property it’s evil,” my realtor had told me. He had protested all the way out to the For Sale sign during that first ride here, had refused to even drive onto the property, and wouldn’t step one foot out of the car. But I had known from the moment my eyes had rested on the faded, old picture posted on his window, that when my feet hit the ground and I had walked onto the soil my body will understand that I had come home. The fact was that it had been a mutual love-fest between me and my land.

That night after my bewildering desire to see the place I had a dream where I offered one thousand dollars and had been accepted. The next day, somewhat disconcerted, I had verbally stated my offer of a thousand dollars, unable to look him in the face while I said it out loud. It had been accepted with alacrity, there was no haggling, or quibbling. Unbeknownst to me the realtor had been instructed by the owner to take any offer even if it was only for a dollar. News had spread like wildfire through the small hamlet that the Cainson property had been sold. Any time I had left my motel room the locals would stop and stare, the realtor said they were waiting for me to either die of a heart attack or have a satellite drop on my head. He said that in the past anyone even showing signs of interest in the place had suffered a plethora of bad luck such as flat tires, bed bugs, car wrecks, shingles, loss of employment, and even death. Mostly they had run from the area as if the very hell hounds of Satan were after them.

So here I am, only a week after getting lost and pulling into Edenville by accident, the proud owner of two hundred and fifty acres of Shangri-La. I am sitting in the long grass leaning back against an old apple tree and leaking joy into the earth. I inhale deeply and smell the sweet scent of apple blossoms and clover. Peace is invading my soul and infusing my careworn heart. Jenny Abelson, recent city dweller, has returned to the countryside to be healed.

Morrigan Aoife said...

@ Marc - I'm glad to hear all is well! I'll get back with you on the prompt....

Morrigan Aoife said...

On a white pillow made from the finest silk lay the blood red stone of the House of Celine Demure.

Examining the ruby through its plexi-glass containment I watched as its many facets reflected the florescent lighting that shined from above. The cut was exquisite and the clarity was among the brightest I had ever seen. The gem was a picture of perfection and I ached to possess it.

I pressed my nose against the glass searching for hidden security measures but it wasn’t long before my interest started attracting the wrong kind of attention. A security guard walked over. I smiled.

“Beautiful isn’t it?” I said in an attempt at making polite conversation.

He sniffed and replied “Yeah, it’s a pretty trinket. But I wouldn’t want any part of it. The thing disposes of anyone who wears it.”

Trinket! I thought to myself, I was so agitated at his lack of appreciation for such a unique piece of art that it took a moment for the other things he said to sink in.

“Disposed of?” I said aloud, though I was speaking more to myself, than to the ignorant fool standing next to me.

He shrugged, “That’s right Miss. A series of mysterious accidents, the ladies get their tickets punched long before the train is due.”

Overlooking his uncouth idiom, I steadied myself before asking my final question “How long did they live?”

At this the guard smiled, exposing a small dimple and a row of gleaming white teeth. “Less than a day dear, if I were you I wouldn’t try it.”

Marc said...

Writebite - eek, sending shivers down my spine...

Iron Bess - yeah, this whole lack of control thing seems to be coming up a lot during this experience. Valuable lessons being learned.

Very intriguing. Could be the start of a mystery or stand just as it is. Nice one.

Morrigan - thank you.

Hmm, less than a day, huh? Worth the risk? :)