“Ah sir,” spoke the Pandit “will you hear my story of woe.”
Hans Tuosist had come to fifty second street in the hopes of finding his missing button, and since class loomed back at Lehman College, he had little time for the romantic humming of the road.
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It had been very kind of him to take us in during a raging snowstorm on Christmas Eve, but I wish Joel would shut up about it. We’d been travelling along the edges of Białowieża Forest, trying desperately to get home to see family, when the car had broken down.
There was no mobile signal, of course, so we’d sat in the car, after the inevitable argument, shivering. Then, like the light of the Angel Gabriel, twin beams of a 4×4 had sliced through the blizzard, and Joel had been out in the road, waving his arms, trying to get a lift. Fortunately, the driver had stopped.
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My mother tells me my middle name should be misfortunate. She blames it on my being born on Friday the 13th, sliding into the world feet first, causing her intense pain, which she still remarks on today.
”AS IF ITS MY FAULT I DIDN’T ASK TO BE BORN”
I had the misfortune to have very curly brown hair and green eyes, unlike the rest of my family. Mother is still convinced that I was swapped at birth.
”SURELY SHE CAN’T BE SERIOUS!”
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Just give up, mun, person and writer and all and sundry between the two. You, it, this, you’re inadequate, selfish. I lurch right to the queue for the Food Bank at the back of St. Anthony’s, straight across the dual-carriageway to the Gospel Hall Foodbank. And, let me say, unlike the ‘reality’ twittering of commentators false and knowing usually, but tossed in not at all accidentally or innocently, for their and not our benefits, actually mate it is at max 2 plastic bags of tinned food and some toilet rolls once a week. It is not every day. It is but once a week. First, humiliate yourself asking at the dole office for a written piece of paper saying you are useless before you are sanctioned to stand in line.
‘Fuck, Why in hell do we take this?’
‘Totally right. The UK is one of the richest countries in the whole world. I don’t understand. What happened to a caring local community? The welfare state used to step in.’
‘The post industrial, gig economy, zero- hours neoliberalism of the UK. Gov. com. is what happened. Doesn’t need mass workers. We are redundant. The UK is London, its money-markets, its £200.00 expense-account lunches and bonuses and all in thrall to the relentless burning up of the planet’.
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There was a dame sitting at the bar. She was attractive and alone. I decided to take a chance. I slid onto the stool next to her and asked if she wanted a drink.
‘My name is Alice’ she said, ‘Alice Fortune. Miss Alice Fortune.’ I noticed her beautiful smile as she shook my hand.
As our fingers met, I felt something pass between us. My sixth sense was screaming at me but I took no notice, I was hooked.
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This was it. I’d had my share of bad luck. After decades of caring for my ailing parents and alcoholic husband, then losing all of them, one by one, it was time to put myself first. Midlife, I decided, would be a new beginning. The mid-point of a novel, after all, isn’t the end of the story, but the moment the protagonist takes charge of their own destiny.
Where better to kick-start a change in fortune than Las Vegas?
“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!” Nina slurred, and we all clinked glasses.
“Don’t look now,” she shout-whispered into my ear. “Hot guys, by the Blackjack table.”
I cringed. “We’re old enough to be their mothers!”
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The novel, set in an indeterminate ‘past’, concerns love across the social divide. The hero is a wealthy (en)titled gentleman in love with a serving girl from a local tavern. The girl’s mother opposes the match. Chapter three, where the plot thickens, was the point at which the novel had been set aside, mainly for lack of a discernible plot.
Unfortunately, the planets were not fully in alignment for Melinda Thistlethwaite’ s most recent flirtation with the arts. She was confident, however, that she would eventually achieve success, once her talents had coupled with artistic destiny.
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‘Find the killer of my daughter.’ Beauleigh Williams’ breath came in more pants than a filly at the Derby. ‘Where you gonna start?’
‘Motive,’ I replied. ‘Did she have any enemies?’
‘She had a boyfriend. He was my enemy. The rat wasn’t good
enough for her. He’s not good enough for a female rodent, come to that.’
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Audio Reading of “The Misfortune Business”.
“Hey everybody, welcome to the Ba’al Ze Club,” Lucifer stood centre stage, immaculate in a red top hat and tails, his hands raised in greeting. “Hades’ favourite nightspot for all you tortured souls.”
He went on: “Tonight we have a fantastic lineup for you, but first I want to give a big satanic greeting to our star-studded audience. Can I have a spotlight, please guys?”
A spotlight panned around the audience, stopping at a table near the stage.
“Nixon is in the house, ladies and gentlemen,” Lucifer roared. “Let’s give a gigantic hand for Tricky Dicky, who is joined tonight by one of our recent arrivals… Henry KISSINGER.”
Kissinger looked nonplussed, sputtering, “But I got the Nobel Peace Prize.”
“Sure, you did, Henry,” Lucifer laughed, “But if you look behind you, we have Alfred Nobel, the famous humanist and weapons manufacturer. We love a bit of hypocrisy in hell.”
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PROMPT for deadline Thursday midnight, 14.12.23.
TASK: ‘Misfortune’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘misfortune’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.
Homework to be in by midnight, Thursday 14th December 2023.
Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 17.12.23, Discovery Room, 1st floor, Central library. Finish at 3.30pm.
Contact Us for submission details