A campfire, a scream and a small lie that gets bigger and bigger. 8-minute write
His clothes stank of woodsmoke, his eyes were red and watering but he couldn’t resist toasting just one last marshmallow. The rest of the scout troop had already headed off to their tents and he had been left in charge of the fire.
Sitting on a large log, he juggled the hot melting marshmallow from one side of his mouth to the other. A scream sharp as a blade ripped the silence. Jumping up he tumbled backwards into a switchgrass bush. He lay there. No one came to his aid. Was he the only one who had heard the scream? Surely the others weren’t all so deeply asleep already?
Two lights shone above him, black glistening lights. The eyes of a child not more than ten years old and dressed in the garb of a native American stared into his very soul.
The child spoke in a low monotone.
“You lied,” he droned.
“You lied the day I fell. You lied when you said you hadn’t seen me that day. And the biggest lie of all – you cried at my burial.”
