Local Boys Learns Not To Lie
Somehow, somewhere, Slim Tim learned what happens when you lie. And not very good things come to liars. Here is a tale horrific and chilling to the bone. Ah, and so you remain? You have been warned.
“Eh, Timmy,” his mother said, “will you fetch me a sour pumpkin from the yard?”
“Sour, Mama?”
“As sour as you can find.”
“Ah, and here you are,” he said as he found one. He sniffed the air and smelled the aroma of Mother's boiling mystery soup mixed with the scent of squashed pumpkin. Tim’s knife carefully carved a hole on the top, made sure it was big enough, looked into the eyes of the panther, and gently slid the blade into the ear of the family cat. The pumpkin screamed furiously when the hole was carved, but no one heard him.
The family cat died in the boy's hands. He gave a brief eulogy, mentioned that the cat had been Father's “best pal,” and carefully shuffled the seeds inside the pumpkin so as to make a little coffin for the feline.
Tim gave Mother the pumpkin and she poured into it a stew from a large cauldron. She shut it tight and into the oven it went. Now the knife screamed in agony of his friend pumpkin, but again nobody cared enough to notice.
- "Mum, a story?"
- "No."
- "Can I go out to play?"
- "No."
- "Mum, can I dance?"
- "No. Never dance."
When the timer went off it cut the black smoke with a pair of scissors. Mother brought out a silver tray with the steaming pumpkin on one side and a ladle on the other. She gave a good whiff at the sticky air.
“Smell that, Timmy?”
“Mhm. Mhm.”
“That's the smell of the gift your father has blessed me with.”
“Oh, I smell it Mama. I do.”
“First our grace,” she said. They held hands and looked somberly into each other's eyes. “We thank the lord for this beautiful meal and this beautiful family.” Slim Tim nodded. “And although we miss Father very much so, we know his ghost somehow always lingers with us.” Tim nodded. “And we are blessed all the same with a healthy crop, a healthy boy, and a healthy meal regardless of our luck.”
“Ay-men.”
Mother carefully took out the pumpkin lid with a green glove. She poured two bowls, the first beholding a floating blue eyeball with an exploded pupil, and the other, sharp claws and teeth tainted with blood.
“Eat up.”
They ate in silence until Tim started getting nauseous and said “Mum, this is making me sick.”
The knife was getting disgustingly sick as he gazed at the corpse of his friend pumpkin completely incinerated and black. Is it necessary to remind the reader that to this no attention was paid? Yes, it is. But, they ate and ate until Slim Tim could no more, and until he vomited a yellow liquid.
“That must have been the pumpkin. You picked it wrong, Tim.”
“No. It was the best. It was sour, it was sour.”
“Now you know what you get Tim. I would have hoped your father wouldn't let you forget what happens when you lie.”
“But I didn't lie. I'm not lying. I'm sorry. Not the piss! Mumma, please!”
But Mother had already started. She dragged him by the collar and said, “Yes. Yes. The grimble it is.”
The knife screamed: “Not the grimble. He’s just a kid. Please. Please. He's just a kid!” Once, and for the last time, no one could hear a solitary knife sitting on the counter. But he heard mother lock the door to the basement and give Slim Tim the piss.
And Tim learned not to lie, although he never did.
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