Kate Riba, Grade 7
I smiled at her, to camouflage my disgust, a hard burden I must admit. I dared to look down. Big mistake, worst mistake, why did I just do that? What lay festering below me was a bottomless pit of what looked like lumpy, black tar. I quickly cloak my horror in a thick coat of fake smile. I gazed over the table… nothing… nowhere, to hide my putrid dish. The witch rewarded me with a toothless grin, and I caught a glint of metal in her hands. I wondered if the food would strangle or poison me before I had time to ingest it. I stared at the dull grey spoon waiting patiently beside the plate, patches of patina ruled over its ruff looking surface, I hesitated worried about what it waited for. Again the precarious thought of death shrouded my dim thoughts. I reached gingerly for the deteriorating spoon, the closer my hand drew the further away the spoon looked, I almost gave up when a shock of cold punched me, I had managed to grab it. No going back, not now, not ever. The strength drained from my muscles as I pathetically hoisted it into the air. I adverted my eyes from the dish, resting peacefully below my wavering chin. There was a quiet chuckle from the witch opposite me. I dug my spoon into the chunky pond of sorrows, as I drew up I couldn’t help but look down and almost lost my innards. The thought of dying, from coughing up a vital organ, sounded more appealing then eating the supposed food below me. As much as I resented the thought of eating I pulled my lips up like two disobedient curtains. I glanced over at the witch, the old hag was sneering at me. I defiantly stuffed the spoon into my mouth, forgetting all my past fear. The second the tar-like-substance hit my pulsating tongue my fears flooded back in, like a dam wall held for many years come crashing down. What came next, I was unprepared for, I liked it. I still hadn’t swallowed. So I had time still, to know whether it would burn me from the inside out, or if I would just fall down dead. The second option sounded more appealing. As I swallowed, the lumpy substance slid easily down my obliging throat. When I looked up Grandma’s wide smile filled me with joy, “How was it sweetie?” I looked back down at the swirling pond of Lamb’s Fry, it definitely looked less life threatening. “Just as misleading, as always” with that I continued stuffing my face with spoonful’s of heaven.
When I was done, she gave mischievous grin, put her sewing down and grabbed my plate, carefully escorting it to the kitchen. A slight doubt niggled at the back of my head, It grew with ease when she came back with an unusually shinny red apple, a horrid glint burning deep within her eye’s. Was that my imagination?