My Siblings, Part III: Liars

©2010, Olan L. Smith (amended 2018)

My siblings tutor this soul to work and play; my schoolwork from Bubba was tobacco, whilst lighting and puffing said coffin nails, in back of our bird coop saying, "Roll your own and light up."

Cash stash'd away it was to a local mart for cigs, and following it was to our wash-up, "Wash your hands, hair and mouth. Suck on this invigorating candy drop to mask any hint of tobacco. Hurry!" Bubba said, prior to Mom unlocking our front door, if Mom gains a whiff it is "Cut a switch," thus a willow branch would thrash us both within an inch of survival. I was starting to think hanging with Bubba was not such a good thing.

Mom caught us just post washing, "Hi boys, what's up?" I stood in horror with my hands hind ward, I twist my torso panicky.

"Uh, not doing nothing much, Mom." I said.

"Just hanging around," Bubba said.

Momma draws in air via nostrils and in supposition said, "You stink of tobacco, boys."

Mom's olfactory sagacity was sharp; Dad would on occasions discuss that fantastic ability saying that possibly Mom is part bloodhound.

At this particular instant I distinguish our fix. I said to my soul, Bubba's is smooth; thus to vouch for us.

Slick talking Bubba span a yarn, "No Mom; just burning trash, that's all."

I thought, good for you, Bubba!

"That's not burnt trash that stinks."

Oh no, I thought ― Bubba's charm is naught! I am in awful shit now. I would pull out all my charisma and it wasn't as first-class as Bubba's, 'tis not I who is fabulous son.

"Approach, Bubba. I shall sniff your hair," with a thumb on his right jaw, and palm of hand on his jowl Mom study his calm mug and with a firm grip his mouth drops down, sniffing his mouth for a hint of tobacco aroma, "I don't distinguish any tobacco on you — Cotton!"

Shaking and rattling I think, Holy Crap ― my spirit is going to abandon god's most Holy sanctuary Momma's going to whoop this spirit's habitat to dust, and Bubba's is intact. I approach toward Bubba hoping his charm would rub off.

"...thinking about it, Mom, Cotton did crouch away for a bit," Bubba stood away continuing his con, "I think Cotton lit up at that instant," his grinning is akin to a sly fox.

I gawk at him in dismay — my joints shimmy and my mouth falls ajar as I await Mom's big hands to grasp my mug. I go through Bubba's scrutiny "Cotton, you stink of tobacco."

I thought, Oh God what am I going to say. Bubba stood by taciturn and my young mind spits out words, "Momma, I stood adjoining burning trash, and was standing too nigh. I vow, Momma I didn't join in a puff."

"Your right brow is burnt! Tobacco is your sin...isn't it?"

"No Momma! Truthfully! I will confirm it on a stack of Holy Books stick a thousand pins in my..." I trail off.

Burying that snout in my hair I stand stiffly. All I could think about was how it was going to hurt as I got a whooping. Tobacco was not satisfactory, now I had told a fib and Momma thought lying was bad, also. I thought it paramount to stick with lying and pray, but I was not as good at lying as Bubba and that skill would stay untaught.

"Cotton, I want you to obtain your bolo, go to our backyard and cut off a willow switch!"

"All right, ma'am."

That was a long slow walk, an occasion stood still as salty liquid sprung from my ducts; I had infinity to think about many sins of tobacco ― I stroll back to our front door, willow switch in hand. I approach cautiously, "I got it, Mom" I said sorrowfully. I look up with my flowing curls and good looking mug hoping for compassion, indubitably Mom would know how charming I am. A switching approach just as my Dad unbolts our front door —Bubba is unobvious.

Dad solicits, "What's going on?"

Quickly I ran around him and hid hind ward his baggy pants.

Mom said, "Jim, Cotton is puffing cigs."

"Cotton," Dad asks, "Is this so?"

I said unhappily, "No Daddy!"My optimism lifts and I ran as fast my as tiny stumps would stir around about my dad, as Momma nonstop switching lands stinging blows on occasion, but it was mostly hitting Dad's baggy pants — I fall down during this lashing.

Dad shouts, "Stop", and Mom stops. "Go to your room, Cotton," was his command. Dad don't gotta say it twofold; I got up and ran just as wind would.

I don't know what was said, but tobacco was still a habit hard to stop, but it was not brought up again.

This story is an excerpt from my unpublished manuscript; Blood of our Children. I have converted it to a lipogram (removing all words with the letter "e"). You can see that in so doing the story become somewhat convoluted; clichés are twisted and phrasing is difficult (the story reads better with "e's" but you will have to buy the book, lol, if it every finds a publisher. I would suggest that if you decide to right a lipogram you start from scratch but hopefully you will find the humor in this true story and the humor of the lipogram style.