I know they’re hungry, but I’m poison to the soul. I’ll irritate any bowel and corrupt all vitality. They lick their lips. Impatience will never boil water.
They light the fire.
I sit and bask—my arms rest upon the warm black pot. They whisper to each other as bubbles pop and splatter my broth.
They want me to beg. But not I. No. They will not have the pleasure of tasting an agonizing appetizer before their meal.
I’ll relax until my heart is overcooked…until my outward self drips from bone…I’ll become boiled alive—ready to poison the soul who sips my stew.
Grab a knife and stick a pumpkin!
Enter into SMM 2016 Carve Your Pumpkin Event