LGBTQ+ Short Story Narration - YA, M/F Dialogue, Dramatic
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (US General American - GenAM)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
side flash by cc rain, read by nick monteleone. a witch cursed you. you must touch lightning to see your lover again. at first you mope about it, lie on the couch and put cold cloths on your forehead. you watch reality tv shows eat ice cream straight from the tub. that's the first week. then you grow tired of self pity and you grow weary of the workings of curses. his name is edmond. you write it on the underside of a dusty brass sphere from the thrift store down the block. a weather vane is harder to find. but after several days you track one down in a junkyard. hopefully no one minds that you hop the fence. the shed behind the house contains edmund's woodworking supplies. you grab wire and nails from his toolbox, then drag the sphere and weathervane into your front yard. the sky is blue and cloudless and you flip it off before setting to work. mumbling curses beneath your breath. she's the secretary from a local law firm and she used to stare suspiciously when you and edmund first moved in. but over the years she's become something close to a friend. you can feel her watching you from the porch but you studiously ignore her. do you know what you're doing? alton? she says in an exaggerated stage whisper, summoning lightning. you say you've tied your weather vane to the top of the big old fir tree wires trail downwards from it in a long metal braid. their ends wrap around the sphere in a wonky embrace. some part of this will surely do the trick. mrs cafferty looks at the contraption with an arched eyebrow, pushing her glasses down low on her nose. did edmund get cursed by a witch? yes. actually, how did you know? oh, they love abstract things like lightning. mrs taffety says her rocking chair creaks in the wind. she bobs in and out of view like a sailboat. it's all about the poetry of the curse. you see, it has to be something with a metaphorical meaning. well, i'm glad i could be a good metaphor. you go to hammer a nail deeper into the wood but miss and hit your thumb instead, a stream of swear words bubbles into the air from the porch nearby mrs taffer laughs. i won't break the curse. she says it's scientifically unsound, but more than that you're thinking about this all wrong. you give her a placid grin that means go away. now, please and continue hammering at the tree. the weather forecast says thundery showers by early evening, it's agony to wait until nightfall. you stand by the tree and impatiently tap your fingers on your thigh. the clouds gather drops of rain soaked through the plush of your pajama pants. you wait and you wait. lightning strikes the weather vam. it smells like an egg gone bad or a melted laptop drive. electric sparks crackle down through the web of wire for a second. you see edmund's silhouette on the steps of your house. he reaches out of hand. you reach for the brass, fear your breath tense and tight in your chest. the weather vane explodes shards of metal rain down on your front yard. patches of grass burst into flame. you fall to the ground covering your head with both arms. when you eventually uncurl yourself, the tree is in ruins. more importantly, edmund is nowhere to be seen. oh **** you say out loud and go knock on mrs taffy's door in the living room. she shoes you to an armchair and makes a cup of tea. her hair is wrapped in foam rollers and her bathrobe is printed with pictures of cartoon dogs. she sits across from you and folds her hands on her lap. you'll need to call someone about that tree. she says i don't care about the tree. calm down elton. no point in yelling. she's right. you apologize sheepishly and take a sip from the cup in your hand. lavender and lemon. pour it at the perfect temperature. i meant what i said, mrs cafferty continues. you're thinking about this all wrong curses are simple to remove. you just have to shift your perspective. well, how do i do that? you say aware that you sound foolish for a man closer to 30 than 25. well, i'll ask you again. missus taffer says, was edmund cursed by a witch, you think for a moment? oh, you say, i mean, i guess i was the one who was cursed, not him. mrs taffer takes a sip of her tea. there you go. she says, look inward, not outward. that's often the answer. would you like some cookies to take home? you have long wondered if mrs taffy was a witch in her younger days. you leave her house with a box of white chocolate chip cookies and sit on the front steps. the storm has subsided. the air smells heavy and clean and the grass is dotted with puddles of rain. the tree is split in half. your weather vane lies melted in the center of the trunk. you stare up at the twilight sky, no lightning to be seen, but you rub your palm steadily over your thigh, pressing down on the plush of your pajama pants. edmund bought you these pants. he says you look cute in them even though you think they're not really your color. a faint crackle the friction of skin against fleece. the hair is stand up on the back of your neck. when you look to one side, edmund sits beside you on the steps, just a silhouette. but as you stare at him, details fill themselves in hunched shoulders, gray shirt, blue jeans with a hole at the seam short hair earrings, pimple at the base of his chin. he reaches out of hand again. you take it static electricity snaps where your fingers touch.