WRITOBER FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE: Embracing our Deepest Fears.
I fell behind in completing my challenge last month- I was on vacation and then I caught a cold. But I want to finish what I started so I’m going to finish up my H’ween Challenge!
Photo by Pumpkinrot
My family does not appreciate my efforts in celebrating the holiday season.
They don’t like the food I prepare, they don’t like the decorations, they don’t like my efforts to bring a little life to our otherwise dull and quiet home.
” Why does she put us through this? My family asks each other. “Can’t she read the room? Nobody likes all of this dark and morbid stuff. Nobody wants to eat the food she leaves on the kitchen table. I swear to God. She’s like a cat dragging a half eaten rat home and leaving it in your favorite pair of shoes as a ‘gift’.”
I like my cuts of meat rare, I thought they did too. I suppose they like it warmer then I’m used too. Garlic I thought, maybe I should add some garlic.
A few days ago I heard them in the kitchen and it broke my heart.
” Maybe we should you know- maybe we should get someone to talk to her. Someone she will listen too. ” Bonnie told my Great Grandson.
I backed up from the doorway and hid around the corner.
My Great Grandson, who I always considered to be a good egg told his mother Bonnie, ” What if she won’t listen? What if she goes on decorating the front porch with skeletons and severed heads and bowls of candy? What if she keeps on cooking- ” well. I don’t know what this is, but what if she won’t stop? I love her, but seriously Mom. She makes us look like a family of serial killers every Halloween.”
Bonnie took my dish from the table and looked down into it. ” Well. I suppose we call the Priest- she listens to them. Not that she has much choice. Maybe he can talk her into staying in her room for awhile ” she told my Great Grandson Tucker. ” The bottom line is we can’t have her making us look like serial killers for Halloween- or any other day for that matter. Socially it could be the death of us all ”
Bonnie’s husband called from the hallway as he lumbered down the stairs from the attic, ” we weren’t the Serial Killers. That was my Mom’s gig when she was alive. We’re spree killers. There’s a difference.”
