Kiss It For Luck

Kiss It for Luck

The world may never know what caused this shit to happen. Does it matter anyway?

The world is shot to shit. I’m crazy. I live in a place where I don’t know if things are covered in ashes or snow.

It’s cold enough for it to be snow. Snow definitely can take on the gray appearance of ash. But somehow, I like to think that ashes make that little swirling tornado-y thing easier than snow does. Maybe it IS ash, after all.

Ash from all that burning. The buildings. The people. It’s all down to nothing but that gray substance, me, and this heart-shaped locket.

Gotta make sure that when the clasp to the necklace touches the locket, I kiss it for good luck and move the clasp around to the back. That cycle repeats itself over and over again. I keep making the same wish, but it has yet to come true. But I won’t give up hope.

Nah, if I were going to give up hope, that would have happened the day it all went down. Grandma told me that storm cellar would come in handy one day, and damned if it didn’t.

I caught the reports on the news that the bad stuff was going to happen, so I did what grandma would have done. I grabbed my purse. No lady leaves the house for ANY reason, apocalypse or not, without her purse in tow. I grabbed as much food as I could carry. Trust me, I’m a lot more sturdy than I may seem, so I had a LOT of food and water, and I made my way down into that cellar, locked the door, and I waited.

It had electricity, and I listened to the goings-on in the world until they stopped going on. Then I waited. I waited. Then I waited some more.

I’m not rightfully sure how long I waited. If I were a betting woman, I’d say it was somewhere around a week, but betting has never been my thing.

Regardless, I opened the door to the cellar, and the world was covered in that snow-ash stuff.

And it was quiet.

I can’t ever think of a time so quiet in my life. Hell, I don’t even think my sleep is that quiet.

I’ve never been accused of being smart, so I yelled out, “Anyone there?” as loud as I could. Just quiet. For a minute.

Then I could hear someone running. Running fast from the sounds of it. Through all that ash/snow. I might be in trouble.

If I’d only been in that cellar a week, damn times changed fast.

The feller who was running towards me didn’t look like anyone I knew from around here. I couldn’t even chalk his clothes up to being those of those city fellers who had green hair and ear screws in their noses.

No, this feller was an odd one, to say the least. His hair was all knotted up, and as he got closer, he looked like he had dried blood ‘round his mouth. He was making this grunting sound I’d never heard before.

Whatever that grunt was, I knew it wasn’t no good. But see, I didn’t just learn vital things from my grandma. I learned a thing or two from my grandpa, too.

As that grunting, matted-head guy got close enough for me to see the crazy in his eyes, I pulled out my gun and shot him right between those crazy things.

Then it was quiet again.

Well, I decided I had a choice or two to make. I could post up here in this ole storm cellar until I ran out of food and water, then I could make my way out to see whatever was left out beyond. Beyond what, you ask? Hell, I don’t know. Beyond this cellar, I suppose. I’d be hoping for the best, you see.

Or, I could go on back into the house, get a couple more of those guns that lay around the house, get hold of all the bullets I could round up, and just get the hell outta there—not hoping for a damned thing. And not much caring either.

I opted to go with door number two. But remember, I ain’t so bright.

I suppose part of me, even the dumbest part, should have known that gunshot would bring about more of them crazy-looking folks, but it didn’t.

And sure enough, here come two more of them after me as I made my way back to the old home. Well, lucky for me and unlucky for them, I’m a hell of a shot, so down they both went.

One thing my granny told me was fool me once, shame on me. You know the rest of it. I may not be smart, but I’m far from a fool.

So I made fast work of what I needed to do inside the old home, shoving shit into a camping backpack. Food. Water. Guns. Bullets. Blankets. A knife. A pillow. A change of clothes. My grandpa’s Bible. I reached for that heart-shaped locket, clasp touching the heart, and moved it ‘round while making a wish, as I set out for, well, I don’t know what.

******

I walked, and I walked, and I walked some more. Sometimes I ate. Sometimes I slept. But I was always trying to get where it was I needed to be.

Again, not a betting woman, but I’d wager I wondered for the better part of a month. I fished from a stream or two, though I’ll admit that I was kinda scared what that ash/snow did to the wildlife. But, let’s be honest, when you’re starving, that seems like a chance you’re more than willing to take.

A few of those crazy eyes came my way, but I’ve never taken joy in killing anything, so I did my best to hide when they headed my direction.

I did have to kill one of them once, and it was pretty scary.

I was almost sound asleep. I turned on my side, and there he was looking me dead in the eye. “Dead” I suppose, was the keyword for him away.

Never losing eye contact, he began to snarl at me. He was so close to me that I could smell the rot on his breath and see bits of what I guess was flesh in his teeth.

Never even so much a blinking, I slowly, oh, so slowly, raised my hand from underneath the blanket. Before he knew it, the gun’s muzzle was resting on his head between his eyes. His mouth opened as if he was about to start hollering, but that shot shut him up.

I decided I’d slept enough for one night, so I broke camp and headed on my way in the dark. Checking my heart-shaped locket to see if it owed me a wish. I guess it’d given me one early that time.

I believe that ole saying said something like all who wander are not lost, well, that’s a load of shit in my case. I was wandering, and I was lost like a motherfucker.

I had no idea where I was going or what I’d do when I got there, but I needed to hurry on up because provisions were running low, and I was sick to death of that ashy snow or snowy ash. The little tornado-y swirlies had lost their charm a while ago.

I was ready to find some people. Not the crazy-eyed kind. Some people like me. And so that’s what I set out to do. Find other folks.

I wandered through the streets. I wandered in and out of buildings, pilfering for things I needed as I went. I guess it was the way I was raised, but I never took no more than I needed. Some wandering soul just like me may come along and need some things too, so I always made sure to leave things for them. And if I’d picked up something along the way I didn’t see I’d have use for anymore, I’d leave that too. Who knows? It might be just the wish they’d been making on their own locket.

My feet walked. My mind wandered. My soul ached for something. What? I’m not rightfully sure. Companionship, I suppose. Maybe it was aching for some of my granny’s chicken ‘n’ dumplins. Maybe it was my grandpa telling me one more story. Whatever it was, I sure had a hankering for it.

Then one day, out of the blue, as I had just kissed that clasp on my locket for luck, there it was.

It was a Banty hen. My grandma always told me that a Banty was more loyal than a stray cat. Once it knew you feed it and you wasn’t gonna hurt it, it would follow you anywhere you went. She even had one once that would perch on her shoulder and sing its little chicken song in her ear.

At the time, I didn’t believe her. I thought it was just a kids’ story she was trying to tell me. But right now, I was willing to give it a shot.

I reached in my bag, grabbed a piece of bread, crumbled up a few bites, and tossed them Banty’s way. To my surprise, she went right for them and ate them up.

Now, how the hell was I gonna get her to come to me?

Reaching up to my locket, I noticed it needed kissing, and I needed wishing. And so it was.

I threw some more bread Ms. Banty’s way, and she came just a little closer to me. We continued to play this game for what might have been an hour or two, and by the time it was over, Ms. Banty was taking the bread from my hands.

I made camp there for a couple of days, letting Ms. Banty get to know me and me her. Sure enough, she did sing every now and then, and that was the sweetest song I think I’d ever heard. Enough to almost bring tears to my eyes. Almost.

After those couple of days had passed, I decided it was now or never to see if Ms. Banty would take a chance on me. One more kiss of my locket, and I began to break camp.

Ever now and then, I’d look over at Ms. Banty. She was always looking right back at me. I was hoping that was a good sign.

When it was time to leave, I reached down to touch my locket, but it didn’t need kissing. I didn’t really know how to take that.

I called sweetly to Ms. Banty, hoping she would come to me, but she didn’t. She just cocked her little chicken head as if to ask where I was going.

Again, with tears in my eyes this time, I begged Ms. Banty to come with me. Again, she just cocked her head.

I gave up and started to go on my way. Alone. Again.

And the next thing I knew, there was Ms. Banty flittering up to perch on my shoulder. My heart filled with more joy than I knew it could hold.

I reached down, kissed that clasp, and began to tell Ms. Banty all about the story with her relative and my grandma, the best friends there had even been.