A little boy lost his tongue, as punishment. He was unapologetic.
First his nanny kicked it around as the boy watched — she nudged it through the rich garden soil with her skirt held high. She was mindful of any jaybirds that might mistake the boy’s tongue for a fat worm and ferry it away.
Next she stomped on his tongue. Between the coarse surface of the cobble stone and the modest heel of her shoe, she gave it a good thrashing. The boy’s tongue was pliant. No matter how hard she stepped on it, it retained its shape. The boy watched, silently.
Finally, with a dubious look on her face, the nanny put his tongue in her mouth. She chewed — tentatively, at first, then with vigor. She stared at the boy and the boy stared back. He couldn’t apologize, of course, not without his tongue, but the look on his face suggested he wouldn’t have been so inclined, anyway.
When she gave it back, the boy immediately began to cry. He wailed, red-faced, until his nanny handed him a lollipop. Only then was he placated.
“Is it good?” she asked.
“Is it? Stick out your tongue.”
But the boy, wiser for all his troubles, did not.
This is a repository for JY's original content that's yet to be bound in a book -- essays, short fiction, etc. There's little rhyme or reason, so jump in!