Bad to Worse

Short story about a superstitious woman and the things she endures after moving into a new home.

Standing on the top rung of the rickety old ladder, Beatrice nailed the rusted horseshoe above the front door to her new home. Straightening her arthritic spine, she admired her handiwork.

"Very nice," she announced to the light breeze. "No bad luck shall enter this place." As she waved her hand with a flourish, the ladder began to teeter.

Trying to correct her balance, Beatrice leaned forward; despite her best efforts, she toppled heavily head over heels onto the concrete porch.

She lay on the ground for several minutes, pain emanating through her right hip, then she began to smile. "Very nice," she snickered. "No bad luck shall enter this place." She slowly rose from her prone position as a slight moan escaped her trembling lips. "I guess it got me because I'm still outside."

Looking up, she realized she was standing directly beneath the ladder that had caused her to fall.

"Oh, Lord! No!" she gasped and lurched toward the white-washed porch railing. Her lungs clamoring for air, Beatrice, gulped down the lump in her throat. Her stomach rumbled as she stared with frightened emerald eyes into the unkempt boxwood. As the woman's heart rate decreased and breathing began to return to normal, Beatrice heard a sound coming from the bushes. She watched curiously as the waxy green leaves vibrated softly.

Suddenly, a black behemoth pounced from the foliage, clawing and scratching at the woman's face and hair.

The cat hissed and screeched. Beatrice flung her hands to her cheeks for protection but the gesture did little to deter the animal.

Screaming until she was thoroughly hoarse, Beatrice was finally able to wrap her long fingers around the feline's collar. She ripped the red leather from its neck, the golden tag glinting in the sunlight sported the name, LUCKY.

A long, mournful mewl rumbled in the cat's throat, his yellow eyes dialated ominously and he turned, slinking from the porch, into the boxwood and up into the massive oak tree just feet away.

Beatrice raised a finger to her aching forehead. Bright red blood streamed down her wrinkled features.

Fumbling her way into the house, she ambled her way down the hallway and into the master bedroom. Plucking the antique hand mirror from her nightstand, she stared at the claw marks; two deep gashes on her forehead, a smaller one across the bridge of her nose and her bottom lip was horrendously disfigured. The front of her pale blue shirt was soaked a dark crimson.

Salty tears intermingled amongst the red trails and embedded themselves within the cuts and scrapes. Beatrice howled in pain, dropping the antique mirror at her sneakered feet.

"Oh Lord! No!" she wailed as blood droplets fell onto silvery shards of glass.

Sitting and rocking back and forth for several agonizing moments, Beatrice looked around the room. She still had boxes to unpack, pictures to hang; there were so many things yet to do.

Shuffling to the gleaming white bathroom, the injured woman doctored and dressed her wounds gingerly. Thank goodness she had alcohol and Band-Aids. Changing into a comfortable old t-shirt, Beatrice made the long journey to the kitchen, throwing her soiled blouse into the trash.

Winded and weak, she decided a short nap was in order. She needed a little energy to continue her day. Settling into her recliner, Beatrice shifted her weight from one side to the other. Picking up a magazine, she flipped through a few shiny pages, only to put it down again.

Hearing thunder, she glanced out the large picture window to see flashes of lightening. It began to rain lightly, getting steadily heavier as the minutes ticked slowly.

Beatrice became uneasy; fidgety. She could not get comfortable. Removing a rabbit's foot from her pants pocket, she rubbed the length of its softness absentmindedly with a scratched thumb as she hit the television remote Power button with the other.

An old rerun of Hee-Haw filled the wide, flat screen. Closing her eyes lazily, a smile played across her lips at the familiarity.

Roy Clark and Buck Owens sang: 

"Gloom, despair, and agony on me. Deep, dark depression, excessive misery.
If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.
Gloom, despair, and agony on me!"

Brows furrowed and her reddening, scratched nose wrinkled as water drip, drip, dripped into her dark blonde, gray-streaked hair.

"Oh, Lord! No!" Beatrice grumbled at the leaking roof.

Author's Note

Please give an overall review on this comical short story. Thank you!

Reviews

[roarke]

things can always get worse, and then it rains. Comedic Irony is like playing with a live grenade, but then, that's half the fun, right? I would also describe this as a "moment" and I like moments. Life is about observing the quirky moments instead of watching time tick by. Nice stuff.

[MelissaAndres]

Thank you, Roarke! I appreciate your kind comments. This short story was just a silly little thing that I put together. When it rains, it pours, huh?

[roarke]

that's when you turn the silly little thing into a Kraken.

[MelissaAndres]

You bet, Roarke!