The townsfolk never quite trusted Pretty Boy. But they stopped crossing the street. They’d nod, tip their caps, and say, “Evening, Dorian.” And the tree in the graveyard kept growing, its mirrors turning every tear—every single one—into something that was not a curse, but a quiet, listening place.
Pretty Boy looked up, and for the first time, didn’t try to hold the tears back. Two perfect, crystalline drops slid down his cheeks. “I don’t want to tip things over. I want a friend.” pretty boy dthrip
Pretty Boy shrugged. “I’m poison.” The townsfolk never quite trusted Pretty Boy
When Pretty Boy Dthrip cried, things broke. Not violently, not immediately. But within a day, the boy who’d pinched him would trip over a root and snap his wrist. The man who’d called him a “pansy” would find his prize cow dead in the field, eyes wide, no cause. The girl who’d laughed and dumped her lunch tray on his head would come home to find her mother’s wedding ring had slipped down the drain. Pretty Boy looked up, and for the first
And the tree began to whisper.
The strange part—the part that made folks cross to the other side of the street—was the luck. Or the un luck, depending on who you asked.