The story should be no more than 4000 words.
Deadline: 21st July 2013
AM
Monday, June 24, 2013
Heirloom
After two or so hours they had buried the last one, tamping down the dry friable soil which wouldn't quite cling together.
Audrey stood up and bent away from her outstretched hands as she slapped them together noisily.
The red dust whipped and twisted around her in unpredictable clouds and she turned her head this way and that to protect her face. She looked back down to Paul still sitting on the ground and saw that one of the heads had already pushed its way back up through the ground. Paul looked despondent.
'It's just what it does Paul. We know that now and it's not necessarily a bad thing.' Audrey forced a positive singsongy lilt into her voice.
'How can any of this not be a bad thing?' He got up off the ground and patted the back of his jeans. Audrey walked over and grabbed his arm, wrapping both of hers around it and pulling herself into his body. With her head against his chest she could smell the day on him, the landscape, the heat and fear.
She stared at the ivory head, no bigger than an egg, now proud of the surface. The crudely carved yellowing and expressionless face was turned upwards to the sky but it would follow the arc of the sun they had learned, it sinking once again beneath the soil when the day ended and the sun disappeared behind the mountains and below the distant horizon.
This place was new. Nearly two hundred miles west from Socorro and a hundred more from home. They had chosen it from the book and Paul had a good feeling this time he said.
They returned on State Route Seventy Seven and headed home, south west to Globe on the shimmering blacktop.
Paul was at the wheel, silent and contemplative, a familiar mood for him after the burials. Audrey hung an arm over the top of the car door letting the warm Arizona air wrap around her fingers. Her wrist would jolt backwards from time to time as the wind met the full force of her closed hand, and she playfully tried to push against it.
Paul spoke.
'I'm not sure I can do this for much longer Aud.' he turned his head meeting her eyes with an intensity. She saw his desperation, the guilt and loss had changed his face, remapped the wrinkles which once exaggerated a beguiling sparkle in his eyes.
'I know baby,' she said sliding a hand across his leg. 'We can do this though, together yeah?' She squeezed his leg to emphasise her point, show her love and hide her doubt.
Paul curled his hand around hers and lifted it to his mouth, kissing her fingers.
Audrey smiled. 'We've managed to lose three of them.'
'Are you counting that one,' Paul said gesturing behind him.
'Yes,' said Audrey hesitantly.
'It may come back Aud, I don't think we can be so sure this early. At least wait until we're home then we'll know.'
'You said you had a feeling earlier and I feel that too. I know the first two came back initially but that was before we found the book. We know what to do now and they will stay buried. And if they don't we'll just try again until they do.' She lifted the seatbelt up and over her head, turning her body towards him.
Paul shook his head. 'You make it sound so easy, Jesus. Like a fucking treasure hunt or something.'
Audrey frowned and squeezed his leg again. 'Hey, do you think I don't know how serious this is? But what choice do we really have. No one can help us Paul. We are utterly alone and I'm so frightened, we have to get on with this now, find Ellie and get as far away from here as we can.'
'But we'll never forget what we've done.' Paul was choked.
She unclipped the seatbelt that was still around her waist, and threw her arms around him wanting to shelter every inch of him in her embrace.
Paul slowed the car and turned into the gas station.
***
Audrey's aunt had died four years ago. In her will she had left a wooden box, an heirloom that belonged to and had been in their family as long as anyone could remember. Her uncle had brought it to the funeral telling Audrey that he wanted to pass it on now not knowing when he would see her again. Audrey wasn't around that much he'd said.
When asked, Audrey's mother knew very little about the box, just remembering it as a ornament in the family house. It remained locked but even as a curious child it never held any mystery for her she recalled, and she never knew what was inside.
With the dark wooden box, Audrey's uncle had given her a silver coloured key which was tarnished and pitted with age. When Audrey first held it, the fine electricity of its metallicness made her fingers tingle and when she slid it into the latch that secured the box it released the mechanism without a sound.
The day after the funeral she had opened the box and seen for the first time the six ivory statues wrapped in a heavy dark linen cloth. A few hours later Audrey's uncle was killed by a hit and run driver a couple of blocks from his house. Paul's father died the same evening of a massive heart attack and their twelve year old daughter Ellie after leaving for school the next morning, had not been seen now for nearly four years. A terrible thing had come into their lives.
Their grief had initially overwhelmed any thought that the heirloom was responsible, but as they gradually returned to normal life following the investigations and searches, bad things continued to happen and it was Paul who first raised the possibility and the coincidence. That their lives were being destroyed.
Audrey believed it and took the box of statues to a thrift store. She had been keeping them in a cupboard under the stairs and the first time it took her three weeks to realise they had returned to the house. She had dismissed the strange incident as a moment of misrememberance; whilst imagining herself removing the box and delivering it to the Salvation Army, she hadn't actually done it. The second time the box returned Audrey hid until Paul came home and he found her shaking and incoherent sitting among some old furniture in the garage.
They had found the book after a a couple of years during another attempt to dismantle the box. Paul had inadvertently pushed something and the base had fallen out revealing a secret compartment. Inside was a small clothbound book which held the answers Audrey and Paul had been seeking.
***
'Hey, do you want me to take over for a while?' Audrey stretched her arms above her head and let her hand drop to the back of Paul's neck which she stroked affectionately.
'No, I'm fine,' Paul replied. 'We've just passed Sharton, so only another half an hour now.'
'I can smell it, can you?' Audrey looked behind her to the rear of the car.
'Yeah, a bit. I don't think it ever quite disappeared from the last one.' Paul briefly took his hands off the steering wheel and grimaced. 'I want to change the car when this is over.'
'Definitely,' said Audrey. 'I was thinking, are these people really random? I know the book says it must be the first person we see after the burials but I can't help feeling it knows, is influencing us in some way.'
'You mean are they chosen by something, someone other than us?'
'Yes. Perhaps they are bad people Paul. Maybe, that is why we are being made to do this.' There was a desperation in her voice.
Paul turned to Audrey and smiled. 'That would help baby wouldn't it.'
Audrey began to sob. 'Yes,' she said covering her face with her hands. She looked at Paul. 'I just want Ellie back.'
Paul stroked her hair away from her eyes. 'I know honey and we will get her back whatever it takes.' He looked in the rearview mirror. 'Whatever it takes.'
By Darren Seeley
Audrey stood up and bent away from her outstretched hands as she slapped them together noisily.
The red dust whipped and twisted around her in unpredictable clouds and she turned her head this way and that to protect her face. She looked back down to Paul still sitting on the ground and saw that one of the heads had already pushed its way back up through the ground. Paul looked despondent.
'It's just what it does Paul. We know that now and it's not necessarily a bad thing.' Audrey forced a positive singsongy lilt into her voice.
'How can any of this not be a bad thing?' He got up off the ground and patted the back of his jeans. Audrey walked over and grabbed his arm, wrapping both of hers around it and pulling herself into his body. With her head against his chest she could smell the day on him, the landscape, the heat and fear.
She stared at the ivory head, no bigger than an egg, now proud of the surface. The crudely carved yellowing and expressionless face was turned upwards to the sky but it would follow the arc of the sun they had learned, it sinking once again beneath the soil when the day ended and the sun disappeared behind the mountains and below the distant horizon.
This place was new. Nearly two hundred miles west from Socorro and a hundred more from home. They had chosen it from the book and Paul had a good feeling this time he said.
They returned on State Route Seventy Seven and headed home, south west to Globe on the shimmering blacktop.
Paul was at the wheel, silent and contemplative, a familiar mood for him after the burials. Audrey hung an arm over the top of the car door letting the warm Arizona air wrap around her fingers. Her wrist would jolt backwards from time to time as the wind met the full force of her closed hand, and she playfully tried to push against it.
Paul spoke.
'I'm not sure I can do this for much longer Aud.' he turned his head meeting her eyes with an intensity. She saw his desperation, the guilt and loss had changed his face, remapped the wrinkles which once exaggerated a beguiling sparkle in his eyes.
'I know baby,' she said sliding a hand across his leg. 'We can do this though, together yeah?' She squeezed his leg to emphasise her point, show her love and hide her doubt.
Paul curled his hand around hers and lifted it to his mouth, kissing her fingers.
Audrey smiled. 'We've managed to lose three of them.'
'Are you counting that one,' Paul said gesturing behind him.
'Yes,' said Audrey hesitantly.
'It may come back Aud, I don't think we can be so sure this early. At least wait until we're home then we'll know.'
'You said you had a feeling earlier and I feel that too. I know the first two came back initially but that was before we found the book. We know what to do now and they will stay buried. And if they don't we'll just try again until they do.' She lifted the seatbelt up and over her head, turning her body towards him.
Paul shook his head. 'You make it sound so easy, Jesus. Like a fucking treasure hunt or something.'
Audrey frowned and squeezed his leg again. 'Hey, do you think I don't know how serious this is? But what choice do we really have. No one can help us Paul. We are utterly alone and I'm so frightened, we have to get on with this now, find Ellie and get as far away from here as we can.'
'But we'll never forget what we've done.' Paul was choked.
She unclipped the seatbelt that was still around her waist, and threw her arms around him wanting to shelter every inch of him in her embrace.
Paul slowed the car and turned into the gas station.
***
Audrey's aunt had died four years ago. In her will she had left a wooden box, an heirloom that belonged to and had been in their family as long as anyone could remember. Her uncle had brought it to the funeral telling Audrey that he wanted to pass it on now not knowing when he would see her again. Audrey wasn't around that much he'd said.
When asked, Audrey's mother knew very little about the box, just remembering it as a ornament in the family house. It remained locked but even as a curious child it never held any mystery for her she recalled, and she never knew what was inside.
With the dark wooden box, Audrey's uncle had given her a silver coloured key which was tarnished and pitted with age. When Audrey first held it, the fine electricity of its metallicness made her fingers tingle and when she slid it into the latch that secured the box it released the mechanism without a sound.
The day after the funeral she had opened the box and seen for the first time the six ivory statues wrapped in a heavy dark linen cloth. A few hours later Audrey's uncle was killed by a hit and run driver a couple of blocks from his house. Paul's father died the same evening of a massive heart attack and their twelve year old daughter Ellie after leaving for school the next morning, had not been seen now for nearly four years. A terrible thing had come into their lives.
Their grief had initially overwhelmed any thought that the heirloom was responsible, but as they gradually returned to normal life following the investigations and searches, bad things continued to happen and it was Paul who first raised the possibility and the coincidence. That their lives were being destroyed.
Audrey believed it and took the box of statues to a thrift store. She had been keeping them in a cupboard under the stairs and the first time it took her three weeks to realise they had returned to the house. She had dismissed the strange incident as a moment of misrememberance; whilst imagining herself removing the box and delivering it to the Salvation Army, she hadn't actually done it. The second time the box returned Audrey hid until Paul came home and he found her shaking and incoherent sitting among some old furniture in the garage.
They had found the book after a a couple of years during another attempt to dismantle the box. Paul had inadvertently pushed something and the base had fallen out revealing a secret compartment. Inside was a small clothbound book which held the answers Audrey and Paul had been seeking.
***
'Hey, do you want me to take over for a while?' Audrey stretched her arms above her head and let her hand drop to the back of Paul's neck which she stroked affectionately.
'No, I'm fine,' Paul replied. 'We've just passed Sharton, so only another half an hour now.'
'I can smell it, can you?' Audrey looked behind her to the rear of the car.
'Yeah, a bit. I don't think it ever quite disappeared from the last one.' Paul briefly took his hands off the steering wheel and grimaced. 'I want to change the car when this is over.'
'Definitely,' said Audrey. 'I was thinking, are these people really random? I know the book says it must be the first person we see after the burials but I can't help feeling it knows, is influencing us in some way.'
'You mean are they chosen by something, someone other than us?'
'Yes. Perhaps they are bad people Paul. Maybe, that is why we are being made to do this.' There was a desperation in her voice.
Paul turned to Audrey and smiled. 'That would help baby wouldn't it.'
Audrey began to sob. 'Yes,' she said covering her face with her hands. She looked at Paul. 'I just want Ellie back.'
Paul stroked her hair away from her eyes. 'I know honey and we will get her back whatever it takes.' He looked in the rearview mirror. 'Whatever it takes.'
By Darren Seeley
Curse
The goblet arrived on a Tuesday, by Thursday they were certain there was something very wrong with it. The condition of the piece was exactly as the agent had described; mint. The problem wasn’t in the goblets physical appearance, it was the goblet itself, it was different. Even Mistress seemed unsure of her new acquisition. She would look at it with a slight purse to her lips but she wouldn’t touch it, even when her fingers would absent-mindedly caress the other inhabitants of the Victorian mantle, they never strayed close to it. Could she sense the same difference in it that they could? Whether she could or not wasn’t clear but she hadn’t named it yet and the rest of them had been named within minutes.
Its essence was all wrong. It was dark and somehow sinister; it was something none of the others had ever come across. The average antiques essence was uplifting and loving which was to be expected considering the origin of the essence was the adoring former owners themselves. Upon their passing the essence of the owner was imbued into their favourite item and that love and adoration lingered in them still. The dark essence in the goblet didn’t feel like anything formerly human; it felt like…evil.
This was sensed most strongly by Swig who had the misfortune of being the goblets closest neighbour. Swig was a Victorian hip flask with an intricately carved silver base and lid and a facetted glass body. Circa 1858 the flask had been passed down through the Cutler family line until Mistress had procured it from a car boot sale in Stevenage. Previously charged with delivery of Dutch courage to soldiers in many wars and then to warding off the cold on frosty morning hunts, Swig now spent his days basking in Mistress’s love. Next to Swig was China; China was an antique plate bearing a hand painted scene of Loch Lomond. The plate had been stolen from the Duke of Durham sixty years earlier and had been so loved by its liberator that he had been clutching the plate to his chest as he’d taken his last breath.
The carriage clock encased in ebonized wood and known as Tick Tock came next. Tick Tock had been won by its owner after an extremely bitter and acrimonious divorce settlement. All the good fortune that had been bestowed on the owner since that victory she’d attributed to the delightful little clock. And then, finally, there was an inkwell Mistress had named Inky. Inky contained no essence; they suspected it was a knock off. Mistress didn’t have anyone else in her life so she gave them all her love and they loved her right back.
It was early evening the first time they sensed a startling change in the goblet. Mistress was rushing about the flat excitedly, already on her fourth change of outfit, when the dark essence they were growing accustomed to turned malevolent. The others grew fearful when they realised the malevolence was directed towards Mistress, trying to allure her to it. The essence meant to harm her.
Panic erupted along the mantle as they helplessly watched the goblet work its dark magic. Either the goblets sinister allure wasn’t strong enough or Mistress’s ministrations to making up her face proved too distracting but to their relief the allure went ignored. Their fear for Mistress abated when, after a final inspection in the full length mirror and a muttered prayer, she left the flat. The malevolence turned on them and if silver, glass and china could’ve trembled they would’ve. They tried to project the love that always made Mistress sing to neutralise it but the dark essence was too powerful. They were hopelessly outgunned.
When Mistress returned her excitement had been replaced with misery. Her shoulders were bowed and tears had created blacks tracks of mascara down her plain face. This saddened them; they didn’t like Mistress to be unhappy. After banging about in the kitchen Mistress came out with one of her Waterford crystal glasses filled nearly to the brim with white wine. This saddened them as well, whenever Mistress drank from her Waterford she was always very cross with herself in the morning.
She sat on the couch facing the fireplace and looked at her antiquities, the things she loved most in the world, as she took big mouthfuls from her expensive glass. They tried to cheer her with their love but her attention was locked on the goblet. The essence within it stirred, once again intent on alluring her to it. The same helpless panic raced along the mantle.
Eventually she stood on slightly unsteady legs and neared the fireplace. They projected love even harder, trying desperately to distract her from the evil before her. All efforts stalled and disquiet filled the others as Mistress poured the pale gold liquid into the goblet. She was going to drink from the goblet! They didn’t know what would happen if she did, just that it would be very, very bad.
In a perfect example of the love they harboured for Mistress, China forced his essence around and around the plate until it wobbled out of its holder and fell to the ground at her feet.
In an instant Mistress forgot the goblet as she fell to her knees in tears and gathered the three pieces of China into her hands. She wailed and clutched them to her chest as though she had lost a loved one. More black tracks stained her face but she was safe.
Swig marvelled at the sacrifice China had made to save Mistress.
The full extent of his sacrifice became clear the next morning when Mistress placed a well glued together China back into his holder. They could detect no essence in the plate, China was gone.
It was almost a week before the thing in the goblet tried again to lure Mistress into its trap.
Once again Mistress had left the flat in a state of anticipation and returned dejected. This time though the Waterford Crystal stayed in its cabinet and Mistress poured the white wine directly into the goblet. Panic gripped Swig as her fingers curled around the ornate base of the goblet and the thing within almost vibrated with malice.
The goblet neared Mistress’s lips and Swig knew he had to save her. He loved her too much to let whatever evil was in that goblet harm her. As Tick Tock pleaded for the goblet to stop Swig forced his essence as quickly as he could to the top of the flask. He toppled and then fell forward. His front hit the mantle and his lid popped out and hit the ground. The rest of the flask teetered then followed. Before Swig hit the ground, Mistress dropped the goblet, its contents splashing her legs as she leapt forward and grasped the flask mid fall. Her foot came down on Swigs lid and she lost her balance. She fell, her head cracking against the oak coffee table as she went, until she landed flat on her back.
Swig fell from her hand to settle next to her hip and the empty goblet rolled into the wall.
Swig was triumphant. He had saved Mistress.
Tick Tock was strangely un-jubilant from her post above them.
There was quite a lot of blood oozing from beneath Mistress’s head. It flowed along the hard wood floor and pooled around Swig, coating the flask. He was going to need cleaning once Mistress woke.
If he’d had Tick Tock’s vantage point he may have registered her vacant eyes staring unseeingly at the ceiling. But he didn’t so all he knew was that soon she would awaken. He had saved her.
***
Swig stood on a shelf in an antique shop but he wasn’t alone anymore. He could feel another presence within the silver and glass walls of the hip flask. Instinctually he knew this new comer entering the flask had been made possible by Mistress’s blood but it wasn’t Mistress he sensed. Her presence would’ve been light and airy possibly even smelling of Lillie’s. This presence was black and oily and it closed around his essence like a warm hand. Swig recognised it as the presence that had inhabited the goblet but he no longer feared it.
It had power. It was intoxicating. It promised him release.
Swig embraced the darkness and bided his time. Soon someone would drink from him and then he would be released. Soon.
Around him the other essences cowered in fear.
By Dayv Metcalfe
The Test
The music box had been my Great Great Grandfather's. He had packed it carefully when his German family emigrated to Australia. It had made it through the sea voyage and the rough journey along cart tracks to the Ballarat Goldfields. It had sat on a little table of a modest home, the front of which was a shop that sold general goods. Often customers, tired miners and the wives of tired miners would pause to listen to its soothing melody and ask "What is that?"
"The music box." My Great Great Grandfather would say. The customer would linger for a few moments, then depart with a slight smile, back to a life of extreme hardship, with little hope of riches.
The Gold Rush continued, some great discoveries were made, and wonderful riches were accumulated by the few. There was also great sadness and poverty. For those that suffered, a trip to the general store for bread or milk was a moment to escape, for always, the tinkle of music would reach their ears and take them away, even for a moment.
One day, the door banged open, and in came a prospector with wild eyes. Onto the counter he slammed a gold nugget, as big as a child's hand, glinting heavily.
"Eureka! At last! More gold than I could ever hope to find! I am rich!" My ancestor looked on in surprise. No one had ever displayed their good fortune before.
"This nugget is three pounds in weight! It was the first among many to be unearthed and I am saved!" The Miner looked about the shop, and behind through the door into the house. "The sound of your music box has kept me going when at times all I wanted to do was die. The Sweet melodies follow me to my diggings, and rest me to sleep. This nugget is yours! With one condition, I must have the music box, It symbolizes my good fortune, it symbolizes me! I must have it! Where to is the music box?"
***
160 years later, the music box sat on a table in front of myself and my Son. We both regarded it silently but I could feel him burning with questions. The silence suited the moment, until my Son could stand it no longer. "What happened!?" With a heavy sigh, I related the rest of our family legend. Tapping my fingers on the music box, a music box I had never opened.
***
"The music box was my fathers." My Great Great Grandfather replied. "On its drum are the notes of Amadeus himself. I cannot give you the music box, it represents me and my family, my family before, and my family to come."
The newly rich prospector grew scarlet, and shook with indignity. His swarthy looks, dark hair and beetle brows marked him as a Welshman. In his rage his dialect burned. "Where to the music box!? Here is a nugget worth thrice your shop! Worth a thousand times your Music box isn't it! It must mean more to me than you! I have found a fortune because of it!"
The German in my ancestor came to the fore. He was a short man, and had a shock of magnificent blond hair that at times glistened like a golden crown. It made him seem taller, and when he approached the Welsh miner he did it slowly, letting his controlled anger build with each step. The Welshman diminished as the German spoke slowly and deliberately, his own dialect escaping - the only indications of anger.
"Dass is not your music Box! Das music box is mine!"
***
I looked at my Son, I remembered how I felt when I was told the story, the feeling of elation that one of my family had stood his ground, stood by his principles even with an offer of wealth. I wondered how he would regard the Music Box when the story was finished.
***
The Welshman looked upon the tough little German. At last, the outraged miner picked up the nugget and hurled it, it struck the cheek of our ancestor, leaving a peculiar scar. "Look You! Curse your music box! Curse all that hear the melodies on its drum, curse the hand that opens it! Curse you German, keep the music box and the nugget, and curse you."
For months our ancestor searched for the Welshman, for he wanted to return the valuable gold nugget. Until he had returned it he said, he could not open the music box. "Whilst we hold the nugget, the curse lives!" He said it to anyone who would ask to hear the music of Amadeus Mozart, and soon, people forgot the music box, and the General Store became another General Store which declined in tune with the decline of the Gold Rush.
***
My Son was lost in thought. Finally he asked not about the music box but the gold nugget. I felt a eerie sensation slink up my spine. He was still young, just fifteen, of course a gold nugget was more interesting that a curse on a music box, but a great regret leapt upon me when I looked into his eyes, perhaps I should have given it a year or two before telling him the family story. He was a dreamer, and like all dreamers he didn't know what he wanted and was subject to whims and fascinations that were placed in front of him.
"The nugget disappeared, we don't know what became of it. Thrown or sold." I tried to end it there, but he could not shake the thought of the precious gold nugget.
"What if it is in the music box?" It was the question I had dreaded, for temptation had found a place to rest and I feared it would win its battle.
"No, it can't be in there. Don't you remember what I have told you? The music box is cursed, it hasn't been opened for generations! Don't you fear the curse of the Welshman?"
"That's just a story!"
"So is the gold nugget." He ignored me and picked up the box.
"It's heavier than it looks!" he gave it a rattle. "There's something inside, did you hear?!" I grabbed his hand to still his next move.
"I'm warning you Son, if you open that box great misfortune will come your way." My tone was harsh and angry and he pulled back, seemingly ashamed.
"I'm sorry, I won't open it, but what if?"
"No what ifs. Open it and be cursed."
That night, I lay sleepless in bed by my wife. The hours passed slowly, the witching hour especially, and just as I thought my Son was saved, a soft music reached my ears. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, in the simple picked notes of an intricate and clever music box. A rendition of Piano Concerto no 21, so incredibly beautiful, I paused to listen to the exquisite melodies before weeping. My son, was the first in a line of five sons to have failed the test. He was cursed, but not because of the fictitious Welshman and his curse but because he put the idea of gold before the lessons of his fathers. He was greedy, and I was certain he would lead a life of disappointment because of it .
By Andy Parker
"The music box." My Great Great Grandfather would say. The customer would linger for a few moments, then depart with a slight smile, back to a life of extreme hardship, with little hope of riches.
The Gold Rush continued, some great discoveries were made, and wonderful riches were accumulated by the few. There was also great sadness and poverty. For those that suffered, a trip to the general store for bread or milk was a moment to escape, for always, the tinkle of music would reach their ears and take them away, even for a moment.
One day, the door banged open, and in came a prospector with wild eyes. Onto the counter he slammed a gold nugget, as big as a child's hand, glinting heavily.
"Eureka! At last! More gold than I could ever hope to find! I am rich!" My ancestor looked on in surprise. No one had ever displayed their good fortune before.
"This nugget is three pounds in weight! It was the first among many to be unearthed and I am saved!" The Miner looked about the shop, and behind through the door into the house. "The sound of your music box has kept me going when at times all I wanted to do was die. The Sweet melodies follow me to my diggings, and rest me to sleep. This nugget is yours! With one condition, I must have the music box, It symbolizes my good fortune, it symbolizes me! I must have it! Where to is the music box?"
***
160 years later, the music box sat on a table in front of myself and my Son. We both regarded it silently but I could feel him burning with questions. The silence suited the moment, until my Son could stand it no longer. "What happened!?" With a heavy sigh, I related the rest of our family legend. Tapping my fingers on the music box, a music box I had never opened.
***
"The music box was my fathers." My Great Great Grandfather replied. "On its drum are the notes of Amadeus himself. I cannot give you the music box, it represents me and my family, my family before, and my family to come."
The newly rich prospector grew scarlet, and shook with indignity. His swarthy looks, dark hair and beetle brows marked him as a Welshman. In his rage his dialect burned. "Where to the music box!? Here is a nugget worth thrice your shop! Worth a thousand times your Music box isn't it! It must mean more to me than you! I have found a fortune because of it!"
The German in my ancestor came to the fore. He was a short man, and had a shock of magnificent blond hair that at times glistened like a golden crown. It made him seem taller, and when he approached the Welsh miner he did it slowly, letting his controlled anger build with each step. The Welshman diminished as the German spoke slowly and deliberately, his own dialect escaping - the only indications of anger.
"Dass is not your music Box! Das music box is mine!"
***
I looked at my Son, I remembered how I felt when I was told the story, the feeling of elation that one of my family had stood his ground, stood by his principles even with an offer of wealth. I wondered how he would regard the Music Box when the story was finished.
***
The Welshman looked upon the tough little German. At last, the outraged miner picked up the nugget and hurled it, it struck the cheek of our ancestor, leaving a peculiar scar. "Look You! Curse your music box! Curse all that hear the melodies on its drum, curse the hand that opens it! Curse you German, keep the music box and the nugget, and curse you."
For months our ancestor searched for the Welshman, for he wanted to return the valuable gold nugget. Until he had returned it he said, he could not open the music box. "Whilst we hold the nugget, the curse lives!" He said it to anyone who would ask to hear the music of Amadeus Mozart, and soon, people forgot the music box, and the General Store became another General Store which declined in tune with the decline of the Gold Rush.
***
My Son was lost in thought. Finally he asked not about the music box but the gold nugget. I felt a eerie sensation slink up my spine. He was still young, just fifteen, of course a gold nugget was more interesting that a curse on a music box, but a great regret leapt upon me when I looked into his eyes, perhaps I should have given it a year or two before telling him the family story. He was a dreamer, and like all dreamers he didn't know what he wanted and was subject to whims and fascinations that were placed in front of him.
"The nugget disappeared, we don't know what became of it. Thrown or sold." I tried to end it there, but he could not shake the thought of the precious gold nugget.
"What if it is in the music box?" It was the question I had dreaded, for temptation had found a place to rest and I feared it would win its battle.
"No, it can't be in there. Don't you remember what I have told you? The music box is cursed, it hasn't been opened for generations! Don't you fear the curse of the Welshman?"
"That's just a story!"
"So is the gold nugget." He ignored me and picked up the box.
"It's heavier than it looks!" he gave it a rattle. "There's something inside, did you hear?!" I grabbed his hand to still his next move.
"I'm warning you Son, if you open that box great misfortune will come your way." My tone was harsh and angry and he pulled back, seemingly ashamed.
"I'm sorry, I won't open it, but what if?"
"No what ifs. Open it and be cursed."
That night, I lay sleepless in bed by my wife. The hours passed slowly, the witching hour especially, and just as I thought my Son was saved, a soft music reached my ears. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, in the simple picked notes of an intricate and clever music box. A rendition of Piano Concerto no 21, so incredibly beautiful, I paused to listen to the exquisite melodies before weeping. My son, was the first in a line of five sons to have failed the test. He was cursed, but not because of the fictitious Welshman and his curse but because he put the idea of gold before the lessons of his fathers. He was greedy, and I was certain he would lead a life of disappointment because of it .
By Andy Parker
Monday, June 3, 2013
Story Idea 6
The heirloom was cursed...
Deadline: 23th June 2013
AM
The story should be no more than 4000 words.
Deadline: 23th June 2013
AM
Jimmy Hunter
I could have sworn it was 1984 when I went to bed. I had been at school that day, I remember Jimmy Hunter gave me a handful of dried magic mushrooms in a matchbox. I had eaten them before maths. In maths, I performed graffiti on my textbook. Spirals and double helix's, fractaling down to a giggling and wicked Donald Duck. It was awesome. By the end of the maths lesson, I thought we were all in a cartoon. Outside seagulls spiralled and double helixed around the green playing fields. Above my head and around they flocked in rhythm to the mewling screaming children. I got a little irritated by my peers, was I Donald Duck? Should I throw A Donald Duck type hissy fit?
I walked around and around that lunch break, I'm sure I did. I remember faces up close, "Look at his eyes!" I'd snort laughter at their disbelief, a couple of adult faces, Mrs Jump was one, were giving me the once over. Jimmy Hunter was nowhere to be seen.
Towards the end of the lunch break, I had a gang following me. They'd copy my every move, If I looked up at the sky so would they. When I put my hands on my hips they copied the motion, giggling and congratulating themselves. I plucked from the field a blade of grass, a perfect creation, held up close it looked like a tiny green sword, God's sword, God's army of swords! Look how many there were! I made a gesture across the field. "Wow." I said. Behind me 20 kids said w-oow, gesturing, then erupted, each with their own tiny green sword.
Mrs Jump and another teacher were pacing behind the strange happening. They couldn't quite figure out what was going on. The bell rang and my gang disbanded in hilarity, leaving me to wonder, what was going on? I was sure it was 1984. What should I do, I remember thinking that, what to do immediately? Go to class? I think it was Geography. Mrs Jump was walking close, dangerous, question at the ready, hands behind back. What should I do? What would Donald Duck do?
"Hiya Toots! We are in 1984 right?" My address and question flummoxed her, and she attacked.
"How dare you! All I ever see you do is dawdle around. Drag your heels. Stare at God knows what! Nothing! Come to my office after school! Now get to class you, you prat."
I was sure I was 15, and it was 1984, but something else lay within me. It spoke of leaving school, of working, of marriage and children, of heart break, love and frustration, and experience. I wasn't going to let this woman talk to me like that.
"Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, don't be like that Mrs Jump!" She went crimson, and took two angry steps to me before I held up the blade of grass and barked, "Get Back!" She stopped suddenly, uncertain, then furious, not just the bluff type, real fury, with ears pricked up. Tardy students looked on agog. This was cool.
"Are you on drugs?"
"Aw Phooey!" I made a dash for it, around the front of the school out onto Longmead road, I snatched a quick look back at Mrs Jump watching me apparently depart, there was a palpable menace to her, and a cunning I had never seen before. I doubled back to the main entrance, and into Mrs Marr's Geography class.
I was ten minutes late. I got a frown from Mrs Marr and sniggering from the students. Someone drawled, W-oow and there was further amusement. I sat down, still feeling like a cartoon. I immediately began to doodle the double helix and spirals over my textbook. I remembered this moment, Mrs Marr was pointing out the features of a glaciated valley, she would say 'Moraine' in a moment, and she did. I was absolutely sure this was 1984. In the middle of my complex doodling was a face. Abstract, shadowy, but defiantly Mad Max, from the second film.
All faces looked up at a tap at the door, in the pain of the window was Mrs Jump. She momentarily looked like Margaret Thatcher, the Spitting Image interpretation, but her snarl was all American Werewolf in London. I turned to the class and said:
"I'm just here for the gasoline." I made a face, a slight face, but it seemed to work because they cheered. Outside Mrs Jump contorted and her teeth bulged out and sharpened. She said something, something like:
"Stay on the road, Keep clear of the moors." Then something else, something like 'lads' but her body had changed and words weren't words but howls. I knew what to say.
" Queen Elizabeth is a man! Prince Charles is a faggot! Winston Churchill was full of shit! Shakespeare's French! The giggling ceased, not because of what I had quoted but because the door had splintered and an enormous beast entered the classroom. I gave it both barrels of a sawn-off shotgun that came from my pencil case, and from the back of the class room the swish of a razor sharp metallic boomerang came, it snipped a couple of pieces of student off, before embedding itself in the muzzle of Mrs Jump.
I turned to face the class triumphant, expecting jubilation, high praise, but there was silence. Utter quiet. Every eye was on me with mouths a perfect O. Outside, a little raggedy boy grunted, his hair was a mess and he was wearing a loin cloth. He jumped up to look for his boomerang before, fading.
"He just punched Mrs. Jump!" Someone commentated.
This was not a dream. This was 1984. Mrs Marr groaned. Mrs Jump got up from the floor and also groaned then whispered something in The Geography teacher's ear. What had just happened? Mrs Marr left the room, Mrs Jump, took a step towards me, this time calm and worried. She wasn't aggressive at all, she was being kind, there was something wrong with me. Was there? Blood was filling her mouth and I could see her swallow, but when she spoke bloody tendrils threaded her lips. "Don't panic, sit down."
I did sit down, I felt like I was about to cry. Some terrible juxtaposition was upon me, was I in 1984 or was I something else? Absently, I picked up my pen as Mrs Jump quietly ordered the students out of the room. No one was sniggering this time, most of the faces were ashen. When they had left, she knelt down to look at me eye to eye. I continued the spirals, the double helix, and I introduced a treble helix, they danced together like tropical fish, and led to a face. Jimmy Hunter's.
"Please tell me, step by step, what you have done today. Don't worry, I know something is wrong and I want to help." I smiled at her.
"I gave him, I mean Jimmy Hunter gave me magic mushrooms which I ate whilst I, I mean he was still there."
"Jimmy Hunter gave you magic mushrooms?"
"A match box full, dried."
"Where is Jimmy Hunter?" A suggestion of shrewdness seeped back into her face.
"I'm here, no, Jimmy Hunter went home." She noticed my drawings and paused to watch. The flow was moving away from Jimmy Hunter's face, and the complex doodles were beginning to outline someone else's. Mrs Jump's hand grabbed my wrist, forcing me to stop. With her other hand she snatched my pencil away and broke it.
"Jimmy." She said. I looked up at her in shock. "It's okay, you've had an episode. Your mother is on the way, she will take you home and put you to bed."
Was I Jimmy Hunter? I looked at my hands, what were all those feelings that seemed to evidence I was someone else, that had lived half their life? I looked at Mrs Jump very carefully. She did look concerned. I let her lead me away. Outside my mother (was she?) took me by the arm and to home. She made me a cup of tea and put me to bed.
I awoke to the dawn chorus. Black birds especially seemed to fill the moment birds truly own. In the mirror I saw me, that face. It was me wasn't it? Did I have to go to school or work? I was sure it was1984 yesterday, but today, was I 15 or 45? Footsteps ascended the stairs. It was either my mother or my wife. I shivered and dressed.
By Andy Parker
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