It was just an antique serving spoon. Silver, tarnished, with an ugly gargoyle face engraved on the handle. Sarah bought it at a yard sale for fifty cents.
"These taters are a delight to the eye, a starchy white peak reaching high. My plate is a treat, that cannot be beat, lest the chef should decide I should die."
Sarah stared. Dave was an accountant; the most creative thing he usually said was "Q3 projections are up."
She put the spoon away, attributing it to stress. The next day, her boss, whom she had lent the spoon to briefly to stir her coffee, was fired for uncontrollably skipping everywhere and speaking only in show tunes.
The spoon was cursed. It compelled whoever ingested food it touched to act nonsensically.
Sarah tried to throw it away, but it kept reappearing in her cutlery drawer, shining brightly.
She finally solved the problem not with magic, but with ingenuity. She brought the spoon to a local ice cream shop and convinced the owner it was a rare antique perfect for display.
Now, every Friday night, she and Dave sit in the park, eating ice cream from a different vendor, watching the local town mayor, police chief, and several tourists suddenly break into elaborate tap dances and nonsensical poetry whenever they use "The Gargoyle Spoon" at the shop counter.
20. The Poet's Last Words (Literary/Microfiction)
The famed poet Alexander Finch lay on his deathbed. His students gathered around, notebooks ready, desperate to capture his final, profound words.
He looked at the ceiling, eyes milky with age. "The void," he whispered, a dramatic pause. "It is... surprisingly dusty."
A student furiously scribbled, Metaphor for existential malaise?
Finch frowned, looking at his wife. "No, Martha, seriously, the ceiling fan needs cleaning. It's an occupational hazard for a poet, all this looking up."
Martha sighed, reaching for a duster. The profound words were lost to the practicalities of a clean house.
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