*This silly story was my winning entry to the 2020 Evil Squirrel’s Nest Seventh Annual Contest of Whatever:

It combines a bit of Irish luck with an unforgettable Oscar moment. Literally one of the shittiest stories I’ve ever written, but that didn’t stop me from publishing it in DysFictional 4. Enjoy!

THE MURPHY’S PAW

Ashley ducked into the first shop she saw with an OPEN sign, praying it had air conditioning. The bell jingled and she breathed the cool air with relief. She had an hour to kill before her audition and didn’t want to sweat away her perfect makeup. If she waited in a coffee shop, she was sure to eat a donut or three, and she was desperate to keep her weight under control. The last three auditions, they had told her she was too heavy for the role. She wasn’t fat, but by Hollywood standards she was twenty pounds overweight. If she wanted to land a breakthrough leading role, she needed to slim down.

She wandered through the dusty little shop, examining the odd assortment of objects in the display cases. What the hell kind of store is this? she thought. She hadn’t noticed a sign on her way in. The place seemed to have a little bit of everything: old jewelry, books, odd ornaments, even some taxidermy. A stuffed possum lay belly-up on a log with a squirrel standing triumphantly atop holding a tiny sword to the possum’s chest. The squirrel was dressed in an adorable Confederate soldier uniform.

An item in a glass display case caught her eye. She paused and leaned forward for a closer look.

“Interesting, isn’t it?”

Ashley looked around for the owner of the voice. “Hello?”

A thin old man stood up from behind the counter. “Sorry ’bout that. Cleaning is a full time job around here.”

From the look of the place, he hadn’t been cleaning for long.

He nodded toward the object in the case. “It’s an interesting piece, isn’t it?”

“It looks like a… a hand.”

“That, me lass, is none other than the Murphy’s Paw.”

“Don’t you mean Monkey’s Paw?”

“No, Murphy. It belonged to me great-great grandfather, Seamus Murphy. He lost it in an accident.”

Ashley jumped back a little. “You have an actual human hand, and it’s from your grandfather?”

The store proprietor beamed proudly. “Great–great grandfather. Yes, indeed!”

“Isn’t that kind of gross?”

“Not at all. It’s well preserved.”

“What’s that mean?” Ashley asked, pointing at the sign. It read, Wishes Granted, Results Guaranteed.

“Just what it says. Legend has it, the hand has the ability to grant wishes.”

“Interesting, if true. How much?”

“Fifty bucks.”

“Are you kidding? For a stupid hand?”

“This is no ordinary hand. This is the hand of THE Seamus Murphy.”

“Never heard of him. What did he do that was so great?”

“Oh, it’s a heck of a tale. Y’see, Seamus was a bit of a drunk. He was also accident prone, probably due to the fact that he spent most of his time drunk. He was always falling down stairs, or tripping over things. As the story goes, one night in a Dublin pub he met a shifty salesman who convinced him to buy some salve he called ‘The Luck of the Irish’. Being the shrewd fellow that he was, Seamus refused to buy anything without trying it first. The salesman instructed him to rub some of the stuff on his hands and then try his luck at a card game. Seamus won, of course, given that the fellows he was playing against happened to be accomplices of the salesman. Seamus gave the salesman all of his winnings, plus the rest of the cash he had in exchange for what was probably just a big jar of lard. He slathered the stuff all over himself from head to toe, boasting that he was now the luckiest man on earth. He staggered out the door of the pub and promptly slipped on the ice and fell. Greased up as he was, Seamus slid down the stairs at lightning speed and shot out into the street like an Olympic luge racer, right into the path of an oncoming tram. The tram car missed his head by inches, but ran over his arm, severing his hand. Seamus kept the hand as a souvenir, calling it his ‘Lucky Paw’. By his reasoning, having lost only a hand in such a freak accident was a stroke of luck, when he came so close to losing his head. Seamus carried the hand with him everywhere, which was usually to one pub or another. In exchange for a pint of beer, he would allow people to touch the hand for luck, and make a wish. After Seamus died, his ‘Lucky Paw’ was passed from one family member to another, and eventually ended up with me.”

“So it’s kind of like a family heirloom, and you’re selling it? Why?”

“I sell antiquities and oddities. This is both. And I believe that it may be of use to someone.”

“Why would someone want a gross old hand?”

“For its power. According to the old stories, it really does grant wishes. Of course, every wish has its price.”

“You stole that from that monkey story.”

“No, no, nothing quite that dark. The Murphy’s Paw will give you luck. Grant wishes even, in exchange for the equivalent in… misfortune. Nothing devastating, of course. Just a bit of inconvenience. Give and take.”

“I’m no stranger to bad luck,” Ashley said. As she gazed at the hand, a sense of calm came over her. She felt oddly attracted to it. “It does have a kind of gothic charm. I could do with a little luck right now.”

Ashley purchased the hand and went to her audition. As she waited for her turn, she wished and wished to land the role, whatever it was. She was nervous,as she always was before an audition. She reached into her bag to find her lipstick and felt movement. A finger caressed her hand, almost lovingly. Instead of scaring her, it had a calming effect.

The audition went well. They liked her, but not for the lead role. She was cast as the lead character’s chubby sidekick. Work was work. She accepted the role, but she wasn’t satisfied. She wanted to be a star.

Back home, Ashley removed the tissue-wrapped hand from her bag and examined it. It didn’t disgust her the way she thought it would. It felt warm and comforting, like a hug from an old friend. She clasped the hand in hers. The fingers seemed to close over hers, surprisingly warm. She closed her eyes and wished. She wished to lose weight effortlessly and stay thin forever. She wished to be thin enough to land a role that would make her famous. She wanted to see her name in lights.

Six weeks later, Ashley arrived at an audition for the lead role in a major motion picture. She nailed it. They said she had the perfect look for the role. She had lost more than twenty pounds. Sure, the sudden onset of multiple food allergies, gluten and lactose intolerance was inconvenient, but it did keep her thin. She couldn’t eat anything anymore without suffering severe gastric distress, except for salads and plain rice.

The movie was a box office hit. She became one of the biggest names in Hollywood, and her face – at least the face of the character she played – was on the cover of every magazine. The problem was, nobody was interested in seeing her. All they saw was the disfigured serial killer with a unibrow that she played in the movie.

It wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when she wished for stardom.

She held the hand once again, and wished.

She wished for an Academy Award. But no ordinary one. She wanted a truly historic Oscar moment; one that people would be talking about for years to come. She would be world famous, and nobody would ever forget her face. When she walked down that red carpet, all eyes would be on her.

* * *

Oscar night arrived, and Ashley had been nominated.

She was so nervous, she downed a bottle of champagne in the limo on the way to the awards.

Her stomach gurgled. That salad she’d had earlier wasn’t agreeing with her. She had ordered gluten and dairy-free, but the salad dressing tasted suspiciously good. When she inquired about it, the waiter informed her that their house dressing contained cream and the kitchen had gotten the order wrong. It was too late; she’d already eaten it. It was probably fine; there couldn’t possibly be that much cream in it. The champagne calmed her nerves, but it made her a feel bit queasy. Walk it off, Ashley. You’ve got this, she told herself. She took a breath and checked her makeup one last time. She was ready for the red carpet.

Ashley stepped out of the limo to a flurry of camera flashes, a vision of glamor in her sparkly white gown.

Everyone was there. OMG! Was that Meryl Streep just ahead of her? It was! She waited until Meryl had entered the building, then began her walk down the red carpet. She smiled and posed, ignoring the perfect storm brewing in her belly.

Someone from People Magazine was asking her a question. She leaned forward to hear, and then suddenly with a huge URP! she vomited champagne all over the reporter. The force of the puke unleashed a geyser at her other end and she splattered the red carpet with foul brown liquid.

People screamed. Cameras flashed. Hands holding cell phones raised high, all recording video.

Ashley did win the Oscar, but was not present to accept it, having fled following the incident, which became known in headlines as “The Shittening” and “The Shart Heard Round the World.”

Copyright © 2021 Mandy White (Not that anyone would want to steal this shitty story! LOL)