Copying the style of a story in our reader.

He was always right, I don’t know why I said it. My grandfather was always running me down with those stupid old folks warnings. “Don’t run with scissors.” Just then, I tripped and needed 3 stitches. “You should have waited an hour before going back in the pool.” Then I cramped up and my uncle had to come save me.

It was either a curse or a blessing, I couldn’t tell which. There were so many of these occasions I swear the man had it in cahoots with the “Big Man in the Sky” just so they could teach me a lesson. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fun, and it sure as hell wasn’t normal.

I grew to resent him for it, even hate him, it was like his words were a curse on me. “Lift with your legs.” I strained my back. “Check your blind spot.” I hit a Mercedes. “Put a sweater on, it’s cold outside.” I caught pneumonia and was bedridden for a week.

I don’t know whether I was tempting fate of giving his cursed power a test when I said it, and in retrospect I’m sorry I did. It was a hot Tuesday in July, and the family was gathered on the porch drinking lemonade, watching the day go by, when a red convertible zipped by. “I wish I had one of those,” I said. Of course, the old bastard had to chime in with, “Be careful what you wish for.” Then I muttered angrily to myself, “I wish you were dead.”

It was actually grandpa’s friend driving by to tease me with my birthday gift. I found out after the funeral, of course. Every time I drive the damn thing, there he is in the passenger seat, “Check your blind spot.”