The Boy Who Cried

‘You do know the story of the boy who cried wolf?’

Gemma was losing her patience.

She had a long morning ahead, most of it full of household chores.

Would it be too much to ask for her son to stay in the garden – it was a beautiful sunny day – and play nicely, leaving her to get stuff done, just for an hour or so?

‘But, mummy, really, I’m not doing the wolf thing.’ Adam’s voice was becoming more of a nagging wail.

Sighing deeply, Gemma threw down the tea towel after drying her hands and turned to look down into the five year old’s teary eyes.

‘Well. We’ll just have to take a look then, I guess. Lead on, little man. Show me the monster behind the shed.’

‘Be careful, mummy. He’s painted.’

‘Painted?’

‘Yes.’ Adam raised his bloodied hands.

‘Look, mummy. Lots of red stuff.’

 

Keith

 

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