The Soup

Sometimes, flowers aren’t the best way to say it. And sometimes, you wish you’d said nothing at all.

Wendy Rush had just returned from fighting ogres in the forest, when she remembered that she was supposed to meet the Whangdoodle for lunch.
“Dearest Whangdoodle!” she cried. “Please forgive me. I had forgotten about our rendez-vous at noon!” The Whangdoodle smiled graciously.
“In truth, I had forgotten, also.” He took her hand and led her to the table. “Soup. Do you know what kind?” Wendy shook her head. “Apple-Beef. Our favorite.” Wendy’s eyes widened. “I detest Apple-Beef soup. ‘Twas the very meal my dear mum consumed before her untimely death.” The Whangdoodle continued smiling.
“You think I do not know? Eat.” He forced her to the table. “Eat Lady Rush, or you, too shall meet your end.” Wendy narrowed her eyes. “How dare you call yourself ‘King’. You are common filth!” She spat.
“Your mother, and your soup, is waiting.”

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