Kill the Farm Boy (The Tales of Pell, #1)

by Delilah S. Dawson

but his most sinister plans had included kicking the boy in the junk, not sawing out his internal organs for nefarious wizardly reasons.

Poltro shrugged. “He’s confident and saucy, he knows his way around a ditty, and he has the prettiest hair I ever saw, plus he doesn’t smell like chicken.

She likes what she likses

couldn’t help thinking that forks in the road were rather Gloomful things. Since the path diverged, that meant one had to choose, and choosing meant that opportunities were lost forever. In making the choice, one literally murdered possibilities, which didn’t seem very fair or nonviolent.

He reached out tenderly with his goat lips and nibbled on some.

Pooboy was one hundred percent dead, the Mayor of Deadsville, the Emperor of Not Getting Back Up Again, a Bowl of Deadamame, the President of the Board of Deaducation, the Deaditor in Chief.

“Everyone’s scared all the time,” he responded. “But that’s no reason not to keep on.”

Unlike wizards, who boasted of the height and sturdiness of their towers, witches prided themselves on exhibiting only the perkiest cones.

As it turned out, the real world was a terrifying and ridiculous place where people with little sense made foolish rules that could ruin one’s life with the flick of a curtain.

Sometimes that’s what you have to do: just keep going until everything makes sense.”

“Help!” she cried. “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up.”

“Sanitary? What has sanitation to do with healing?”

Her whole life, she’d longed to feel safe and cherished, and she’d felt that with Fia even as the hooktongues tore them to pieces.

“Silly rabbit. Such acrobatic tricks are for kids,”

“Um. I don’t mean to be rude, but you’re dead, aren’t you?” The body neither confirmed nor denied this question. It merely lay there, as bodies tended to do when no longer animated.

Poltro, for all her faults, had never been dead before, and Argabella had never seen Poltro be dead before, either, so it was very awkward for both of them.

This was her friend Poltro, and Poltro was Deadful.

dead bodies tended to make one Screamful,

“She was my friend. The corpse, I mean.

“Whew. At least I’m still black. Or dark brown, at least. And there appear to be some dangly bits.” “See?” “Well, yes, I see, Fia. But I’m not impressed.” “Have you ever seen your dangly bits before?” “Oh. Well, no, I guess I haven’t.”

I can’t reach them, Fia, so I want you to grab hold of those knockers and twist them.” Fia did so, and the door sighed and moaned as it swung open on the courtyard,

“Now show me your dead pooboy.” Grinda stopped, mouth open, in shock at herself. “I mean, my dear nephew Worstley. My goodness, how that goat gets under one’s skin.”

Grinda growled to get their attention, as they were just gazing into each other’s eyes like complete ninnies as they murmured about roses and peace.

King Gustave was all about caring for the pooboys of the world.