fingers. It came free. Then, turning, I brought it down on him. Again and again. Wood splinters flew into the air. Then maggot strewn pumpkin pulp. I hacked and hacked away at him until he was all splinters.
Then I thought about passing out. About giving into the pain and the weariness that gripped me. But I couldn’t.
Instead I gathered the splinters and other pieces together, using the shovel to push them into a pile on top of the tablecloth. Then I took them inside to the oven and pushed them all in to burn.
I would have to leave. To flee. Mr. P was a close confidant of the queen and I wasn’t sure that anyone would believe me as to what had happened. So I snuck out in the night again, thinking that perhaps I should visit Munchkin or Gillikin country for a change. I would need to find a doctor at least to set my broken arm which I bound in place with some cloth.
It was only later, days after I’d left the pumpkin fields, that I remembered the wooden limbs in the unmarked grave still moving, ceaselessly moving, beneath the soil.
The End.
Tin
Tin
by Barry Napier
He watched her as she slept, being careful not to make a sound. His joints had been making the occasional odd noise ever since he had started walking again and at times, he felt as if his legs weren’t his own. So he knelt there, his old knees against the ground, watching the sleeping girl.
Her dog lay curled beside her. Its ear had twitched for a moment as he had approached and there was a panicked moment where he feared the dog had heard him. But the mongrel had settled down and remained asleep by the girl’s side.
He watched the girl breathing—in and out, simple yet somehow so complicated. He admired her for her anatomy and the way her mind worked. She was rather daft at times but there was a brilliance about her that he did not understand.
After all, he was not made of flesh. He was pretty sure he used to be, but that had been a very long time ago.
The closest thing to human anatomy he possessed were his hands. The joints were flawless and moved like the human girl’s. When he had been created, much detail had gone into his hands. At one time, they had been his most imperative feature.
But not now. Now he was old, decrepit and of little use.
Or so everyone thought.
He grinned. His face made a slight sound as his mouth moved but it was so miniscule that not even the dog heard it.
He watched them a bit longer—the girl from a place called Kansas and her annoying little pet—as he tested the reflexes of his hands.
He tested them by squeezing the handle of the axe he held. His axe, just like his tin body, reflected the moonlight in a peculiar shade of white.
He could do it now, if he wanted. He could just plunge the axe into the girl’s chest. He could squash the dog into a bloody mess with his heavy foot. It would be over in a matter of seconds.
He peered back over his shoulder, his neck making another of those slight rusted sounds. The Scarecrow was several yards behind them, snoring and oblivious. By the time that imbecile got to his shaky feet and rushed to the girl’s rescue, it would be done.
His shoulders seemed to flinch in anticipation of raising the axe into the air and driving it into the girl’s body.
But something inside of him told him to wait.
He looked away from the Scarecrow and focused on the copse of trees that they had selected to camp behind. He could see the magnificent yellow glow of the road through the trees. He wondered if the bricks of gold that comprised the road were speaking to him, telling him to wait and to properly fulfill his destiny.
Looking at the road made him feel sick. He may not have a heart, but he knew pain. And to him, the Yellow Brick Road was nothing but pain and suffering.
He looked back to the girl and her dog. He clenched the axe one final time and then relaxed his grip.
In time, it would be done. But not just yet.
Hundreds of years ago, when Munchkinland
Then I thought about passing out. About giving into the pain and the weariness that gripped me. But I couldn’t.
Instead I gathered the splinters and other pieces together, using the shovel to push them into a pile on top of the tablecloth. Then I took them inside to the oven and pushed them all in to burn.
I would have to leave. To flee. Mr. P was a close confidant of the queen and I wasn’t sure that anyone would believe me as to what had happened. So I snuck out in the night again, thinking that perhaps I should visit Munchkin or Gillikin country for a change. I would need to find a doctor at least to set my broken arm which I bound in place with some cloth.
It was only later, days after I’d left the pumpkin fields, that I remembered the wooden limbs in the unmarked grave still moving, ceaselessly moving, beneath the soil.
The End.
Tin
Tin
by Barry Napier
He watched her as she slept, being careful not to make a sound. His joints had been making the occasional odd noise ever since he had started walking again and at times, he felt as if his legs weren’t his own. So he knelt there, his old knees against the ground, watching the sleeping girl.
Her dog lay curled beside her. Its ear had twitched for a moment as he had approached and there was a panicked moment where he feared the dog had heard him. But the mongrel had settled down and remained asleep by the girl’s side.
He watched the girl breathing—in and out, simple yet somehow so complicated. He admired her for her anatomy and the way her mind worked. She was rather daft at times but there was a brilliance about her that he did not understand.
After all, he was not made of flesh. He was pretty sure he used to be, but that had been a very long time ago.
The closest thing to human anatomy he possessed were his hands. The joints were flawless and moved like the human girl’s. When he had been created, much detail had gone into his hands. At one time, they had been his most imperative feature.
But not now. Now he was old, decrepit and of little use.
Or so everyone thought.
He grinned. His face made a slight sound as his mouth moved but it was so miniscule that not even the dog heard it.
He watched them a bit longer—the girl from a place called Kansas and her annoying little pet—as he tested the reflexes of his hands.
He tested them by squeezing the handle of the axe he held. His axe, just like his tin body, reflected the moonlight in a peculiar shade of white.
He could do it now, if he wanted. He could just plunge the axe into the girl’s chest. He could squash the dog into a bloody mess with his heavy foot. It would be over in a matter of seconds.
He peered back over his shoulder, his neck making another of those slight rusted sounds. The Scarecrow was several yards behind them, snoring and oblivious. By the time that imbecile got to his shaky feet and rushed to the girl’s rescue, it would be done.
His shoulders seemed to flinch in anticipation of raising the axe into the air and driving it into the girl’s body.
But something inside of him told him to wait.
He looked away from the Scarecrow and focused on the copse of trees that they had selected to camp behind. He could see the magnificent yellow glow of the road through the trees. He wondered if the bricks of gold that comprised the road were speaking to him, telling him to wait and to properly fulfill his destiny.
Looking at the road made him feel sick. He may not have a heart, but he knew pain. And to him, the Yellow Brick Road was nothing but pain and suffering.
He looked back to the girl and her dog. He clenched the axe one final time and then relaxed his grip.
In time, it would be done. But not just yet.
Hundreds of years ago, when Munchkinland
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