Prompt: "May you be three seconds too late, at the worst possible moment."


“I’m no’ in the habit of cursin’ folks,” said Shayde. She was educating some younger folk who had made assumptions about magic in her general direction. “With magic, ye tend to get what ye give. Spread evil, get evil come to you. Spread good, luck leads yer path.“

Half of them had made disapproving faces at this. What was the point of magic if you couldn’t curse people who obviously deserved it?

"But,” said Shayde, sensing her waning audience, “when I do curse someone, I not only make sure they earned it, I make sure it’s a one time thing. Fer instance. Feller jus’ last week. You remember ‘im, Rael.“

"Ah yes. He misgendered the both of us, assumed we were in a physical relationship, loudly speculated about our obviously varied fornicating processes and then suggested a threesome.”

The assembled juniors gasped. “And he didn’t have a fan?“

The mirrored fan was an essential part of a Professional Insulters’ basic kit. They proved that -well- it wasn’t personal.

"Na, this guy was strictly freelance. So I put the Eye on ‘im an’ said, ‘May you be three seconds too late, at the worst possible moment’.”

Stunned puzzlement.


“What kind of curse is that.”

“Fer want of a nail, me lovelies,” said Shayde. “He missed the last ship home.“

"The Intermittent voyage to Argo,” explained Rael. “Travels only when there’s enough passengers and cargo to make it worthwhile. Our mutual quote-unquote ‘friend’ missed it by three seconds. And the next one is due to set off…?“

"Next sunday week.”

“As a result, he’s been fired from his job, lost his housing, his funds are next to zero and he’ll have to start all over again from scratch.”

It sunk in. Their audience winced, “Oooooohhhh…"

[Muse food remaining: 0 (fic war prompts, 0). Submit a promptAsk a questionBuy my stories!]