The Curse of Love by Wayne Fowler cursed objects writing prompt entry Artwork by cleo85 at FanArtReview.com |
Everyone in the whole Parrish knew one thing about growin’ up poor. An’ it din’t matter none if it was back in the old times, or fresh into the twentieth cent’ry. A poor boy would not be marryin’ nobody who could cook worth a lick if he couldn’t somehow manage ta put victuals on a table fit to feast on, an’ then leavin’ enough for samwiches for the week. He could be purdy as a horse’s patoody, nigh ta charmin’ the witches, but a poor boy… he’d be eatin’ from a trough all by hisself could he not feed a fam’ly. And ever’ poor boy in the Parrish knew it. Did not much matter whether such edibles was hard work growed, long hours toiled for, or outright stoled. Food was food, long’s it came reg’larly. There were two brothers nearly raised themselves who lived out by the swamp down by the river. One, the youngest, did not like the idea of eatin’ his own cookin’ all his life. Bein’ virtually in the swamp, he figured it would be easy enough ta catch up alligators. Ever’body knew that alligator meat was good eatin’ – tasted like chicken. An’ their hides made fine boots an’ such. A man could live high on gatorin’. All he really had to do was avoid snakes. Older brother was terrified of snakes and would not hunt gators, or even venture into the swamp to fish. He wouldn’t even gather crawdads to sell for bait. The older brother came in one evening after having been gone several days trying to hunt a deer – to no avail. “Oh, hey,” the younger brother said. “I gotcher things out’n the shed. I got married while you’s gone. An’ well, bein’s how I’m married now, well, like we agreed some time back. Yer the one’s gotta move out.” Among the stuffs set into the shed was a trunk left by their mother. Deep in the mulligrubs, the older brother inventoried his possessions. The trunk contained nothing of value: tablecloths, doilies, and quilt. Things a man had no use for. As he began to fill the trunk with his own useful things, he noticed a tiny package tucked into a corner. It was an elixir bottle wrapped in a paper. Neither brother could read very well, but he made out enough to know that it was the very bottle passed down from great-grandmother, to grandmother, and on down to his own mother. It was a half-full bottle of love potion supposedly concocted by none other than Marie Laveau. The story was that women would feed it to a man, and then he couldn’t resist her. The homeliest old maid could catch any man she set her eye upon with but a teaspoon in his drink. All she need do is to be the first he set eyes upon. Family lore, though, was that it was cursed, that every marriage was doomed. But as were all before him, brother was wont to pay too much heed for tomorrow. The note read: Into the breach Set you your reach Into your bed He must beseech But as it is said Thou rather be dead Well, anybody could figure that meant a wedding. And it didn’t matter none who was poor. The brother pocketed his prize and went to sleep out in the shed dream about marrying the prettiest daughter of the richest man in the Parrish. A teaspoon into her sweet tea and he would never again have worry about swamp snakes. That very next Sunday Social, he managed to get near said debutante, as he referred to her. But to spike her drink? He had not quite resolved the main issue. Until suddenly the opportunity arose. A young lad carrying a burdened tray of iced tea drinks started out toward a group of young women, one of whom was the lucky maiden. Careful not to cause the tray to fall, the brother managed to splash a glass of water onto the tea bearer’s trousers in a quite conspicuous and embarrassing place. The boy would be truly mortified to have approached the women in such a condition. He gladly passed the tray of drinks to the brother. Behind a tree, he resolved the dilemma of which cup to spike by teaspooning into all of them, laughing himself silly as he emptied the bottle. “Tea, my ladies?” he offered. The target, being the most refined and most gracious, allowed the others first service, taking the last for herself. Brother positioned himself mere feet before her, locking onto her eyes. Just as she began to sip, the man’s garments were ripped to shreds by the reaching, grabbing, and snatching hands of six nubile, if on the poor and plain side, of society’s available maidens. Barely decent, brother ran for his life, chased by six demanding suitors. The river only a quarter mile distant, he ran for his life. Diving into the dark, murky slough was his only escape. Sadly, he was never seen again. The debutante, as brother referred to her, soon married a young man clever enough to have brought her a poor boy sandwich.
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Wayne Fowler
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