A Halloween Story: Pumpkinhead

[Bill Floyd]

The brickbat struck Flythe between his eyes and he dropped like one of tomorrow's pumpkins with blood gushing from his forehead to merge with the steady stream from his ruined mouth.  

The first time he blinked he saw his mother and father standing over him in their scarlet demon outfits, shrieking at him, feeding on his fear, their games concealing the ugly black truth at the center of them which was that he had been born for their entertainment, born to obey and quail, born to suffer; the second time he blinked he was fifteen and his knife was going in and out of them, inflicting the power he'd been taught to inflict, teaching the teachers the last lesson they'd ever need to be taught; the third time he blinked he was back on the floor of the clubhouse and everything had gone wrong, his sacrificial lamb had been joined by scraggly members of its flock and they were preparing to flee.

The Wonder Woman had loosed Owen and was holding him upright while the fat boy had freed Owen's brother, the one who couldn't leave well enough alone.  Owen kicked weakly at Flythe as they passed, and Flythe tried to right himself but the world kept spinning out from under him.  "Let's go," Burke urged, and they headed for the door as Flythe's mind unraveled in a medley of parsley, sage, rosemary, moonsong, hallowed eves consecrated in the blood of innocents and time, cruel prancing time.

But the fat boy was one step behind the others and Flythe still had the big knife in his hand and he lashed out with the last of his strength and sunk his blade into that lumbering belly, and the 'oof' of pain was like a great wick catching flame in his skull.    

[Cita]

Well, shit.  Flythe's mind unraveled in a medley of parsley, sage, rosemary, moonsong, hallowed eves consecrated in the blood of innocents and time, cruel prancing time.  Now THAT is writing.

[Gita]

"he had been born for their entertainment, born to obey and quail, born to suffer" presented a whole 'nother layer of complexity to the situation and we got a glimpse of the making of a monster. But that's followed by "his knife was going in and out of them, inflicting the power he'd been taught to inflict," which wiped out this reader's sympathy for young Flythe. Again I admire the ability to weave in a layer of backstory without weighing down the action here.  You have my pulse racing. 

[bolton carley]

quite a last line.  those poor fat boys.  the medley line was crazy good, too.  this is a powerful series.

[Angela]

I like this series as much, or more in some ways, than any others I have read on these pages.  "tomorrow's pumpkins" was a perfect picture of the action.  Now, what are we going to do about that stab wound?

[Dorothy Pendleton]

Your second sentence is masterful.  It wins the prize for how much can be accomplished in one sentence.  Quail, wow.  Super inspiring.

[Jamie Hogan]

A full portrait of the monster, painted in reds and charcoals and music. Angela is not going to be happy with us sticking her "little Theo." I read that last line and I was immediately back on that dark street with the leaves scuttling along the sidewalk, watching that small, quadruple-jointed, many-limbed figure under the sheet. That was damn elegant, amigo.

[Paul de Denus]

This isn't going to be easy. big knife, lumbering belly not good- great writing Bill

[Diana E. Backhouse]

Oh dear, you had me half feeling sorry for Flythe for one fleeting moment. He was badly done to as a child, after all!

I suppose you couldn't have let all the children escape safely without leaving some sort of mess for Jamie to sort.