Warm Porridge on New Year's Eve

I woke up on New Year's Eve and looked at the clock whose LED display read 6:45 AM. My wife was still sleeping but I wasn't tired, so got up and walked out the door. I wanted to go to the kitchen to prepare myself a cup of black tea. Just before I reached the top of the stairwell I heard a noise from Abigail's bedroom.

Since Daniel and Abigail's parents were both dead, I adopted the children and they became part of my family. I now had four children.

Abigail used to sleep with Jessica, but after the adoption I gave each child his or her own bedroom. I always gave my children separate rooms because I myself had bad childhood memories sharing a bedroom with my brother.

On the night of New Year's Eve, I sat on the couch and watched my four children as they all stared at the fireplace. Jessica, Tim, Abigail, and Daniel all seemed curious about the burning log, and I wanted to make sure they didn't burn themselves. I always got worried whenever children were near fire.

Tim was spitting into the fire again. He often did this because he liked to see what would happen to his saliva when it made contact with flames. Nowadays he liked to mix the saliva with his snot.

Before long, all four children were spitting into the fireplace. I kept a close eye, not wanting all the saliva to extinguish the fire. Abigail suddenly stood up and ran away for no apparent reason.

Half a minute later she returned holding a jar filled with a brown-yellow soupy mixture. I knew exactly what it was. It was the mixture of feces, urine, semen, and saliva that she called "porridge." Before I had time to intervene, she threw off the lid and quickly emptied the contents of the jar into the fire.

I watched intently as the mixture started bubbling and sizzling heavily. A foul toilet smell suddenly reached my nostrils and in unison everyone in the room moaned loudly and covered their nose. All the children started laughing once they were able to breathe again.

"That looked so cool!" said Tim. "Do you have any more porridge?"

Before Abigail could reply, I interjected.

"No!" I said. "No more."


The Little Girl at Church, v 1.22, written for Fictionpress.