Deep within the confines of the sweltering Sootwood Forest, where the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and various unspeakable things that might have once been small animals, there lay an ancient relic held tightly in the grip of a gnarled and disinterested tree. The artifact, known as the Gourd of Misfortune, was a rather unassuming-looking thing—a hollow, greenish object covered with strange pictographs and surrounded by slithering vines that seemed to hum tunes of discord. It was said that whoever possessed it would be granted immense luck, or something akin to it. The details of that ‘luck’ varied by whomever told the tale, but one thing was constant: it never turned out well for the poor souls who attempted to claim it.
The day started typically for Oren Snagglethorn, an aspiring bard of no particular talent. The sun shone dimly through the canopy above, illuminating the treacherous path that led to his next grand performance—or, more accurately, the next establishment willing to tolerate his rather lackluster talents. He hummed one of his own poorly-written ballads while strategizing how to enhance his meager earnings. Unfortunately, his thoughts turned darker with the realization that the tavern’s patrons were likely to be just drunk enough to throw potatoes instead of gold coins.
As he traversed deeper into the woods, Oren’s mind was filled with dreams of fame and abundance. Yet, fate had other plans. He stumbled upon a peculiar sight: a crowd of woodland creatures gathered around the gnarled tree, chomping on some bizarre snack that resembled burnt acorns. Intrigued, Oren stepped closer, determined to impress the woodland critters with his bardic prowess, believing perhaps they could spread whispers of his talents to the elusive Forest Fairies.
“Gather ’round! I’m Oren Snagglethorn, bard of the wandering minstrel!” he announced, puffing out his chest. The rabbits paused mid-chew while the squirrels stopped their acorn roasting to roll their beady eyes at him. Unfazed, he continued, “I sing of great battles and fair maidens! Ladies and lords, lend me your ears!”
But instead of applause, the animals responded with a cacophony of derisive chattering. Perhaps the forest creatures had a slightly more refined taste than he imagined, or perhaps they simply preferred their acorns without excruciating attempts at poetry.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he spotted the Gourd of Misfortune clinging precariously to the tree. Something about it called to him, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it—likely the ridiculous notion that he could turn his misfortunes into fortunes with just a touch of magic. The critters had no interest in him now, instead transfixed by the gourd, their tiny faces awash with a mix of awe and fear.
“Is that, uh, a talking gourd?” Oren asked, half to himself and half to the woodland audience. The creatures ignored him, still staring wide-eyed at the cursed relic. Whatever that thing was, it was surely the very essence of opportunity.
In a weighty moment that felt somehow preordained, Oren approached the gourd, the weight of absurdity resting heavily upon his shoulders. “Greetings, mysterious Gourd of Misfortune! I am here to claim your—uh, misfortune?” He reached up, his fingers just brushing its surface. The moment he touched the gourd, a ripple of energy zapped down through him, sending him tumbling back onto the forest floor and crashing into a pile of brambles.
The woodland creatures erupted in a fit of squeaks and chirps, as though they were in a joyous uproar over a comedy so cleverly written that the humor practically transcended the species barrier. Oren struggled to regain his footing, smearing himself with dirt as he attempted to shake off whatever affliction had come over him.
It was not merely the gourd’s touch, it seemed, that would result in misfortune. As he stood up, brushing off remnants of the forest as if they were shards of dignity, Oren suddenly felt a warmth in his pocket. To his horror, he discovered a small, vibrant feather—a bright blue feather that flickered oddly like a candle in the wind. As he yanked it out, he felt an inexplicable urge to sing.
“Good creatures of the woods, lend me your ears!” he shouted, perhaps too loudly, for the animals promptly scattered, preferring their acorns to the antics of a bard. The gourd, in the meantime, began to tremble atop its gnarled perch.
“Ah-ha!” Oren exclaimed, eyes darting back to the gourd. “I see your game! You want me to sing for you, don’t you?” He puffed out his chest again, brandishing his new feather as though it were a sword. At that moment, a bout of enthusiasm surged through him, powering him into a sonorous rendition of “The Ballad of the Irate Hedgehog,” a story about a particularly vexed hedgehog who went on an epic quest to find a suitable pair of socks that wouldn’t cause him to chafe.
As he belted out his improvised lyrics, the gourd glowed an ominous green, sending wisps of vapor spiraling around him. If the animals had been terrified before, they were now completely beside themselves with horror, scattering in every direction, leaving Oren singing to the empty air. The gourd responded—flowers bloomed rapidly, and the ground shook, sending Oren stumbling back. Each note seemed to aggravate the artifact further, and he could have sworn he felt the forest itself grimacing.
With each verse, the magical energy twisted reality itself. Suddenly, a bush erupted in a blaze of dancing flames, and a fox came barreling through, its eyes wide with panic. Oren, refusing to acknowledge that he had sparked a mini forest fire, pressed on, convinced that he was on the cusp of a breakthrough that could launch his career into the stratosphere—or something like that.
Then, with one final, dramatic note, the gourd emitted a burst of energy so potent it snapped Oren’s voice like a dried twig. He found himself in a bizarre alternate reality where instead of woodland creatures, he was facing an assembly of disgruntled forest spirits, each wearing expressions of utmost annoyance.
“Do you think this is a concert?” spat one particularly irate spirit with a beard made of moss. “You’re interrupting our biannual meeting on how to deal with understory weeds!”
Oren gaped, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting him. “Well, I just thought—”
“You thought it would be a splendid idea to provoke the Gourd of Misfortune, didn’t you?” another spirit chimed in dryly. “What were you smoking? Oak leaves?”
The spirits rolled their eyes as one, their collective annoyance palpable. Oren’s uncertainty fed on itself; perhaps he was indeed cursed. Perhaps the entire world had turned against him, all because of a gourd.
“Please, hear me out!” he pleaded, waving his arms wildly. “I’m just a bard! I’m trying to make a living and—”
“Then how about you sing about the Gourd of Misfortune?” the spirit suggested, hands on hips. “A little self-reflection never hurt anyone. Let’s hear it!”
There was a moment of silence. Oren gulped, glancing at the gourd that now had its eyes set on him, glowing menacingly. If he was going to go down, he might as well go down with style. Drawing a deep breath, he began again, this time crafting a tuneful lament about the misdoings of one Oren Snagglethorn, cursed forevermore by a long-forgotten artifact.
As he poured his heart into the song, detailing his unfortunate life events (like the time he accidentally challenged a bear to a karaoke duel), the spirits shifted from irritation to mild amusement. To his shock and delight, they began to nod their heads and even clap their hands in rhythm.
When he finished, Oren was met with raucous laughter and a few surprisingly sincere stomps of approval as the spirits erupted into applause. The Gourd of Misfortune, on the other hand, began to swirl its energy more gently, as if it had grown fond of the bard’s peculiar plight.
“You’re not half bad, Snagglethorn,” the bearded spirit remarked, finally cracking a smile. “Perhaps you can redeem yourself after all. Instead of good fortune, we’ll give you something better—a story to tell!”
And so, the Gourd of Misfortune began to glow brightly, swirling around Oren and enveloping him in a whirlwind of blinding light. When it cleared, he found himself standing once again at the edge of the Sootwood Forest, the gourd still clutched tightly in his hands.
With a reluctant chuckle, he couldn’t help but appreciate the irony. His misfortune had turned into a tale of bureaucratic woodland spirits and fiery misunderstandings. He felt different somehow, standing tall and spry.
Oren walked away from the forest, the laughter of the spirits still echoing in his ears. The gourd, however, began to hum ominously again. “Just you wait,” it seemed to say, “for the next misadventure.”
Staring down at the gourd, he cringed. Maybe fame was overrated after all. Better stick to potato-throwing tavern patrons.
Author: Opney. Illustrator: Stab. Publisher: Cyber.
