THE CURSE OF CLYDE

As he lay dying, Clyde wished he hadn’t unleashed such a curse upon the world.

Clyde’s great grandfather had rushed out into the Tennessee wilderness to track down the man who had taken his sister’s "honor." He chased the man for three miles, through uncharted brush with a shotgun in his hand. When he found the man, he pointed the double-barrel at the hillbilly’s chest, but never counted on the moonshine-guzzling bastard to have a quicker draw. Clyde’s grandfather, only five at the time, watched as policemen brought his father’s limp body out of the dark forest.

Clyde’s grandfather would lead a long life that was haunted by the bottle, mainly as a source for easing the pain from that horrible childhood memory. Towards the end, the rest of the family tried to ignore the brutal jabs he’d taken at them over the years, knowing deep down he was simply a good man who couldn’t beat his demons. Clyde’s father had witnessed this first hand, being the oldest, and never touched a drop of liquor because of it.

Clyde’s father was born with a heart too big for his six foot frame. Every sport he played, he excelled in. He could’ve gone pro, but opted for a teaching position once he’d graduated college. He settled down with a wife in the suburbs, and after four years of marriage, they had Clyde. Three months after Clyde was born, his father died of a heart attack.

Clyde had surpassed his father’s age of death by ten years and he thought he’d been immune to the curse. But he wasn’t. As he lay dying, he thought of the name he’d given his own son. Clyde. The fifth in a long line of cursed men. Somehow, he thought that his son would be immune. Clyde's biggest goal was to make it past his son’s first year. He had, but as he lay on the pavement, clutching his heart, he hated himself for not calling his boy anything but Clyde.




-SLL