The Third Tale from the Flames

Everyone froze. The little boy who said it wasn't scary had wet himself.

"Nice timing." said a group chancelor.

The native nodded.

"So who's next?" asked the camp leader but the edgar young writers had fallen silent letting the fire crack sharply through the silence.

"I've got one."

Everyone turned toward a taller kid sitting slumped against a stump staring into the fire. With out waiting for a response he began in a firm voice.

"Have any of you ever heard of the of the Seven Fingered Cyclops?"

No one answered.

"Thought not. You all see that mountain over there?" said the boy as he pointed towards a mountain not far off with out diverting his shaded gaze from the fire.

"The was a man who worked at the mill at the base of the moutain named Travis Wilds. He had a beautiful wife named Cindy and they lived in a cabin overlooking this very camp."

The boy paused as the younger ones considered this and right before one took a breath to interrupt again he continued.

"They were very happy together until one day at the mill the man had an accident. He had tried to cut a piece a little too thick with a blade a little too dull. The blade caught in a knot in the wood and stuck fast. Travis tried to push it through and the piece of wood exploded and he fell forward." At this a log cracked loudly in the fire.

 "Splinters peppered his face devastating his eyes and peeling the flesh from his face. In pain the man stuck out his hand to break his fall. While the blade was too dull to cut wood it easily cut the fingers from his hand."

"The doctors tried their best to repair his face and hand but his fingers were never found and he had lost his right eye. When the bandages finally came off Cindy couldn't stand the sight of him so she left him."

"The thought of losing Cindy drove him insane. He thought that if he could find a new eye she would love him again. Travis didn't want just any new eye, no for Cindy it had to be a perfect match to his old one. So he gathered his knife and his gun and set to work. Once he'd killed his doner he'd begin to set to work extracting the eye, but having only 2 fingers on his right hand, he had to use his left which always left the eye as mangled and disfigured as the last."

A little boy asked what happened to him.

The boy in the shades smiled into the fire.

"Sometimes, he didn't kill his doner."
The boy lifted his glasses revealing a scarred empty socket.

The End

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