Were you able to avoid black cats and misfortune on Friday the 13th? For SixContest#105, we asked for your stories of bad luck in honor of the superstitious day. Many of you shared tales of poor timing (“Last minute homework, total power outage. ”—mzejay), used imagery to convey your calamities (“Broken mirror holds my life’s reflections.’” —FeyFox), and described some downright unfortunate circumstances (“Week of 13th: wildfires ravaged town.” —zsuzsu).
Introducing the top six unluckiest stories:
6. “Popcorn kernel cracked newly placed crown.” —S.ScottWalker
5. “Rescued cat. Possessed cat. Flattened cat.” —L2L3*(See below for accompanying backstory)
4. “Fell for cattle rancher. I’m vegan.” —@pbsharkey
3. “Minus 60F. Ice fog. Engine stalled.” —tagishcharley*(See below for accompanying backstory)
2. “Got Tinder, matched with my professor.” —@lauren_cid
And finally, the unlucky memoir that is this SixContest’s lucky top slot:
1. “Job interview with somebody I fired.” — JohnBigJohn
*Editors’ Note: We loved these vivid backstories:
from tagishcharley’s six words: “Flying into a remote First Nation village in the far north in February 1984 we ran into ice fog and a sudden weather bomb that saw temperatures plummet. Then one engine quit from the cold. As the second engine began sputtering and choking and we prepared ourselves for the worst, the tiny airstrip of the village came into site and the pilot dead stocked us in for a safe landing. The villagers took us into the community hall, brought out the guitars and put on a large pot of Caribou stew. We bunked down for the night, got the engines thawed out and continued our trip the next day. That’s what you call cold comfort.”
from L2L3’s six words: “There was a stray black cat hanging out at the rather enormous state mental hospital where I worked after graduating from college. After several week–and even more threats from the security guys–I decided to take her home to my parents’ farm. Immediately after loading the cat into the car and shifting into drive she went psycho. IT probably didn’t help my perspective that I’d just finished a mandatory overtime night shift where I’d read the only book I could find laying around–“Pet Cemetery.” A two-hour drive later, spent with the cat in either the front window, rear window, or occasionally hanging from an increasingly shredded ceiling, we made it to the farm. A barn with a hay mow, other cats, and an endless supply of cat food awaited psycho kitty. The house and barn were situated at the top of a very long, sloping hill, well away from the road. Any idea where this is going??? As she was still growling and yowling, I decided to stick with basic principles of self-preservation and refrain from getting withing reach of pointing things that would make me resemble the car ceiling. I pulled up to the barn, got out, opened the barn door, then opened the car door. Sure, she came flying out, but against probable odds, she flew out and ran across the backyard, down the LONG front yard, and toward the road. It was a Buick. American Gothic in real time. She’s buried under an apple tree at my Michigan childhood home.
It was 20 years before my next Stephen King novel.
No cat ever went uncrated in any of my vehicles again. Ever.”