When the Ancient Greeks and Romans turned to magic to solve their problems, they used curse tablets. These stone sheets were hidden in places like crypts with pleas to the underworld asking for love, success, or revenge. I posted about using these tablets for romance and passion here, and now I’m sharing a scene I wrote inspired by this magic.

Curse You:

Does counting sheep work? Who knows. Only seven sheep jump over a little fence in my mind before I’m tempted to give up. Sleep still feels so far away. I scold myself for nearly giving up on the imaginary livestock.

Three sheep later and they grow wings, floating around while Tyler Riley’s smile appears in my mind.

No. Sheep. Think of flying sheep.

Four more sheep. They start spewing fire for some reason. One more sheep and the fence burns down. Six more and there’s enough for them to form small armies and launch into battle, flying over a destroyed farmland and spewing fire and—dragons. My sheep are basically dragons.

Screw the sheep. Screw the dragons hiding in sheep’s clothing. I turn on my side and throw a pillow over my face.

I’m going to sleep dammit.

There’s no point checking all Tyler’s social accounts for the millionth time tonight. Seeing if he posted anything new. Observing all the photos of him with other guys like an anthropologist, noting how close they stand and trying to extrapolate the relationship. Looking through all his messages for any queer subtext as if it will definitively prove he likes guys too.

I’m sure he likes guys. Pretty sure. I just don’t know if he likes me.

Eventually, I fall into a fitful sleep.

Then I get up.

“Fuck you, Tyler Riley,” I swear, cursing him for plaguing my sleep.

I want to stay in bed but my legs rise on their own. All it takes is trying to recall the half-remembered dream of us tangled in the sheets together and it’s like a frenzy overtakes me, the urge to take the visions in my head and turn them real.

In the dead of night, exhausted and frustrated, the line between real and not blurs, making me think I can set fantasy into motion through sheer force of will.

A passenger in my own body, I watch myself grab the supplies from the closet, given to me by a witchy friend.

She had fixed me with a steely-eyed gaze and commanded me to only use magic responsibly. Extend a gentle invite and ask for his affection, if he feels it too. Nothing about this feels responsible or gentle.

No. I scroll the internet and find a recipe for what I really need. For the desire to consume him like it consumes me.

The magic comes together. Dried rose petals. Honey for sweetened thoughts. A lock of my hair. A piece of paper with Tyler’s name on one side and mine on the other. Fold the paper, stick a pin in it, binding us together. My hands work on their own when assembling the spell, but the need crawling up my spine and choking my throat? I feel every second of want.

Once I assemble everything and stick it all in a velvet pouch that smells of mothballs, I stare at the result and have no idea what I’m looking at or who made it. Can’t be me. It can’t be real.

But Tyler is real. The divot in his chin and his smile are real.

I attach a little gift tag on the front, one with a label for ‘to’ and ‘from.’ Is that part of the spell or did I add that? What a bizarre present. It doesn’t feel like a gift.

Still in pajamas when I pile into the car and make the drive, it’s a miracle I arrive safely since I barely saw the road. All I see is him. I need him.

The fog of magic and sleep parts somewhat at the edge of the cemetery. This is the really weird, even creepy part. Giving my magical not-present to the dead will allow my plea to travel to places beyond this world.

Wandering around in the dark, am I really going through with this? I think not, until my feet come to a stop at an old headstone. I like the angel statue near the stone, with a space between its clasped hands to place a real flower. Overgrown grass covers the weathered marble of the grave marker, yet a single rose rests in the angel’s hands. Fresh. The crimson color draws me in.

I sink to my knees by the statue, apologizing to whoever’s rest I disturb while digging into the ground to find a spot—oh god, what is that? The casket? No, this is just below the surface. I pull the object out and find a spell bag, wiping away the dirt to read the message there.

This grave already holds a plea. From him. It bears my name.

~

When I read about curse tablets and saw they were usually desperate pleas where love is like an affliction, my first thought was ‘oh, a man leaves a curse tablet for another guy only to find there’s already one there with his name on it, from the guy he’s obsessed with.’ I liked the idea enough to write it out, but I definitely need to come up with ideas that contain dialog next time. I’m a dialog gal and this has none.

I kept the part about using the dead to ferry the pleas, because damn, that takes commitment and is a memorable detail. But I didn’t use actual tablets because that feels awkward. Who makes steel tablets unless you’re some sort of metalworker?