Photo by Alison Marras, Unsplash
Rules are Rules
Jimmy tried to get along with his new stepmom. He really did. But he was SO hungry, and the roasting turkey smelled fantastic. “How much longer?”
Surely the timer was on the blink. It was counting UP, not down.
“I told you not to nag, dear.” His stepmother smiled sweetly, and the timer jumped by two minutes.
“I wasn’t nagging—”
Four minutes.
She shook her head, projecting regret. “Did you take out the trash like I asked?”
“Uh, I was just about to.”
Red numbers jumped by three minutes.
“Right. Better get to it, hmm?” She opened the oven and the appetizing aroma made him faint. Did she do that on purpose?
Jimmy grabbed the trash and fled. Outside, he breathed lungfuls of decaying garbage to try to calm his raging stomach. The timer couldn’t be counting UP, but it was. He’d privately complained to his friend that his stepmother was a witch, but… what if she really was?
That’s crazy. The timer must be broken. And if it is, she won’t let the turkey burn, right? It’ll be fine. I bet dinner’s only twenty minutes away. Jimmy nodded, sniffed in a little more rotting trash to fortify himself, and went back inside.
“Did you wash your hands?”
“I just got in. I was about to—”
She tsked sadly, and behind her, baleful red digits tripled. “What did we say, about making excuses?”
“I’m not making excuses!”
“Don’t argue.” She crossed her arms.
Crap! The timer now read 67 minutes. Behind her, in the lit oven, the turkey’s skin began to darken.
“Yes, ma’am.” Jimmy rushed into the bathroom, sudsed his hands, and scrubbed furiously, frantically. I can reverse it—
Too late, he realized.
He’d used the guest towel.
From the kitchen came the acrid scent of smoke.
* * * *
The prompt was to write a Kafka-eque magical realism horror story for kids, and I recall my son sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring into the oven, asking when it would be done.
Happy Thanksgiving to all who celebrate it!
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