Clockwork Devils: A Fable About Gratitude and Curses

In an ordinary town, in an ordinary house on a quiet street lined with maples and mailboxes, there lived a boy named Eli, who was as ordinary as rain on a Tuesday. He had brown hair that stuck up in the mornings, a collection of sneakers with worn-out soles, and a habit of humming while brushing his teeth.

He was polite enough—“Yes, ma’am,” and “No, sir,” when required. He finished his homework, fed the neighbor’s cat when asked, and helped his mother carry in groceries. But despite these small kindnesses, Eli had one flaw that sprouted like a weed in the middle of his otherwise tidy life: he was utterly, completely ungrateful.

On his birthday, when handed a carefully wrapped gift, Eli would pull at the ribbon with mild curiosity, tear off the paper, and glance at the present with barely a flicker of interest. A new soccer ball? “Cool.” A stack of comic books? “Thanks.” A lovingly baked cake? “It’s okay.”

He never meant to hurt anyone. But hurt them he did.

His mother’s eyes would dim after his flat reactions, her eager smile fading like steam from her coffee cup. His father’s shoulders would slump, his jokes dying in the air. His grandparents, who traveled hours to visit, would exchange silent looks over tea as Eli scrolled through his tablet, ignoring their warm stories of “when we were your age.”

And yet, life continued as it often does, despite bruised feelings and hollow “thank yous.”

Until Black Friday.

Eli’s mother woke him before dawn to stand in line for the new game console he had been wanting. He had seen the ads, with their flashing lights and promises of adventure, and though he did not jump up and down with excitement like other children, a spark of desire lived in his eyes.

Outside the electronics store, the line coiled around the building like a sleeping snake. Eli shivered in the cold, hands buried in his coat pockets, as his mother sipped coffee, her breath making clouds in the frigid air.

Ahead of them stood an old woman wrapped in a gray shawl, her thin hands gripping a worn cane. Her hair was like driftwood, pale and dry, and her eyes, dark and glittering, darted around with unnatural sharpness.

She turned, her eyes landing on Eli, and smiled, revealing a row of small, yellow teeth. “Are you excited to get your new machine, boy?” she rasped.

“Yes, ma’am,” Eli replied, polite but bored.

“Oh, how I miss the days of new toys and laughter,” the old woman sighed. “You know, it’s a gift to feel gratitude, to feel your heart lift when someone offers you kindness.”

Eli simply nodded, looking past her at the glass doors of the store.

When the doors opened, the line shuffled forward, inch by inch, until the old woman stepped inside. Moments later, she held the last console, clutching it against her bony chest with a triumphant smile.

Eli’s mother’s face fell as the clerk shook his head. “Sorry, that was the last one.”

“It’s fine,” Eli muttered, shrugging, though disappointment flickered across his face like a shadow.

But before they could turn to leave, the old woman shuffled over, the box still in her arms. “Here,” she said, pulling something else from her tattered bag, a heavy, wooden box with iron hinges and a faded brass clasp. “A gift for you.”

Eli blinked. “Uh, thanks,” he said flatly, taking the box from her hands. It was heavier than it looked.

“You must promise me one thing,” she said, leaning close, her breath smelling of herbs and smoke. “You must be grateful. For everything. Always.”

“Sure,” Eli said, shoving the box under his arm.

The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “I mean it, boy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Eli said, already turning away.

At home, Eli dropped the box on his bedroom floor, forgetting it for the rest of the day as he played games on his old console. That night, as the wind howled against the windows, Eli’s mother came in to tuck him in, her eyes soft with the love only a mother can hold.

“Thank you for waiting with me today,” she said, brushing his hair back.

“Yeah,” Eli mumbled, turning toward the wall.

She sighed and closed the door.

Later, the moonlight fell in pale slats across Eli’s floor, illuminating the wooden box. It rattled softly. A click, a whir, a faint ticking sound, like dozens of tiny gears spinning.

The clasp snapped open.

From within, small clockwork figures climbed out, their brass wings fluttering, their glass eyes glowing faintly blue. They looked like angels at first, with delicate wings and golden halos, moving in perfect mechanical grace.

Eli stirred, blinking awake, and sat up, staring at the tiny figures. “What… what are you?” he whispered.

The clockwork angels turned their heads in unison, their wings folding back with a metallic hiss. Then they began to change. Gears shifted, wings twisted, halos snapped away like brittle twigs, revealing small, sharp horns. Their eyes flickered red, and their mouths curled into unsettling smiles.

“Eli,” one of them said, its voice like the creak of an old music box, “we have come to teach you gratitude.”

Eli’s breath caught in his throat as the clockwork devils swarmed over his bed, pinning him down with surprising weight. He tried to scream, but a cold, metal hand covered his mouth.

“You were given a gift, Eli,” the leader devil hissed, “and you did not thank her.”

The others clicked in agreement, a chorus of ticking and whirring that filled the room.

“I… I said thank you…” Eli gasped, his voice muffled.

“No, Eli,” the devil replied softly, “you did not mean it.”

The gears in their bodies spun faster, and their wings flared out like jagged knives, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Eli felt a strange sensation in his chest, as if a cold hand had reached inside and was squeezing, demanding something he did not know how to give.

Tears streamed down Eli’s face, hot and terrified. “Please… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” he sobbed.

The clockwork devils paused, gears slowing, their red eyes watching him. The leader tilted its head. “Do you mean it, Eli?”

“Yes… yes, I’m sorry… thank you… thank you for the gift…” Eli wept.

The devils leaned back, the room filled with the sound of gears slowing. The leader touched Eli’s cheek, cold metal against warm skin. “Remember this feeling. Remember what it is to be grateful.”

With a final click, the devils leapt from the bed, climbing back into the box. The clasp snapped shut, and the room fell silent once more.

Eli lay there, gasping, tears soaking his pillow, clutching the blankets to his chest. Outside, the wind died down, and the first light of dawn slipped through the curtains.

His mother found him the next morning sitting on the floor, the wooden box in his lap, clutching it tightly. She knelt beside him, brushing his hair gently. “Eli, what’s wrong?”

He looked up at her, tears in his eyes, and threw his arms around her. “Thank you, Mom,” he whispered, meaning it for the first time.

And though she did not understand why, she hugged him back, tears of relief in her eyes.

From that day on, Eli learned to say “thank you” with his whole heart. For small things, for big things, for moments of kindness that once passed unnoticed. And the wooden box remained on his shelf, unopened, a reminder of the night the clockwork devils came to teach him that gratitude is a gift far more important than any toy could ever be.

Moral of the Story:

Gratitude is a gift you give back to the world, and without it, even the smallest blessings can become your greatest curses.