The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Fiction Short Story

by Kurt Kirchmeier

The Hard Way

Momma says it's like a trade: personal possessions in exchange for good luck spells. She brings home all sorts of stuff, from jewelry to picture frames to crystal figurines. She says that by just handling them she's adding strength to their original owners' auras. But I know better.

Just last week, I saw old man Murdock collapse right on his sidewalk. One second he reached for the paper, the next he was laid out flat atop the dead people section. Momma took several items from his fancy brick house, so by rights he should have lived a whole heck of a lot longer than three more days.

I knew Momma didn't cause his death or nothing, that it was probably just old age is all, but it still got me thinking. When I asked her about it, she said there must have been a kink in the spell, or that maybe a conjurer more powerful than her had some sort of vendetta against the old man and used a magic counter to hers.

Like usual, Momma sold the items—four silver candleholders and a couple other odds and ends—to a pawnshop the very next day.

She uses most of the money to buy magic powder—(which for some reason she snorts up her nose) and then hides whatever's left in a tin box underneath the floorboards in her bedroom. Pulled up a whole corner of the carpet just so she could. I'm not supposed to be privy to that little secret, I know, because she always waits till she thinks I'm asleep before she stashes it there. If only she knew just how good I am at pretending, and how I'd learned to walk without making a single floorboard creak.

When we still lived with Daddy, we kept all our money in the bank, like regular folks do. Even back then Momma wasn't really no different, except she wore a dress at night instead of a black jumpsuit, and only used her magic powder when she figured no one was watching. Sometimes I miss Daddy so bad I want to cry. It wasn't right how Momma packed me into the car and carried me off without even telling him where we were going.

Sometimes I want to call him, but we haven't even got a phone no more. I almost told Momma we should use some of that money beneath the floor to get one hooked up, but then she'd know I was snooping. Besides, she wouldn't let me call Daddy even if we did have one.

"Daddy doesn't understand about your Momma's magic," she'd say.

When I tried telling her I didn't understand neither, she looked at me with sad eyes and patted me on the head. "You will when you're older, Jenny, when you're older." The way she said it, it almost sounded like she didn't really want me to understand, like maybe her magic wasn't exactly what she always said.

I started getting suspicious and decided to follow her out one night, which is how come I found out that old man Murdock was one of her clients. She climbed in through his window, cursed a blue streak when her pant leg caught on a nail poking out from the sill.

Though I already knew about her line of work, about how she ended up in possession of other people's things, I never realized they weren't giving them over of their own free will. I remember thinking about that as I sat there in the bushes, how it didn't seem quite right, how it didn't fit with all the stuff she told me.

I thought she'd climb back out the window, but instead she came through the door. I'm pretty sure she wouldn't have even seen me otherwise.

"Don't you ever get it into your head to follow your Momma ever again," she'd said. "You hear? It ain't safe for a little girl to be out on the streets this time of night."

When I asked her how come she didn't just knock and explain to Mr. Murdock about the magic and how it'd help him, she shook her head. "Folks don't know what's good for 'em. He'd have never even listened to your Momma, let alone let her in the door. Sometimes you just gotta do things the hard way. Ain't no gettin' around it."

I started thinking maybe Momma didn't know what was best, neither. Daddy did, though; Daddy always knew. That's how come I'm standing here at the bus station.

Momma got dressed in black and went out again tonight, so she doesn't know where I am. She also doesn't know about my ticket or the money missing from the tin box. I don't much like carrying myself off without even telling her where I'm going, but there wasn't no way of gettin' around it. Sometimes you just gotta do things the hard way.


About the Author
Born and raised in the Great White North, Kurt comes from a large family of two brothers and five sisters. He currently resides in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan with his wonderful fiancée, a moonstruck cat named Prophet, and a three-year-old bonsai tree that he's been attempting to resurrect from the dead. Kurt's fiction has appeared in Alien Skin, Quantum Muse, and Reflection's Edge, and is forthcoming in Beyond Centauri, The Sword Review, and Raven Electrick.