Tiny Tales

The Shack in New Orleans

A/N: This story is actually part of a larger book I have published. If you enjoy this tale, check out the book, "Pasta's Adventures."

It had been nearly a day or tireless efforts in clearing out the barn. The Old Man's feet pressed 

firmly into the dirt, hay ridden, ground. His boots were dusted with cool winds, along with his 

beard, as he admired their handy work. The Old Man turned to Paul, the young boy, and spoke.

"Boy, I would like to thank you myself for assisting me a great deal today."

"Oh sure. Its no problem Pops. Anyway, where ya'll from?"

"Oh, way down in New Orleans."

"Well Jesus, you're a long ways from home."

Paul's face was so young and bright. It was a horror he should even stand in such a place as this shack.

"Why in the hell was this place so bloodied up anyways?" Paul asked.

Now, The Old Man was hesitant at first, to explain to this innocent boy the story of the shack, but he proceeded all the while.

"Very well boy. Sit." Paul did as he was told, and The Old Man sat on a haystack across the room.

A long while ago, The Old Man's wife had decided she wanted a child. Now, being unable to bear 

herself, they consulted an adoption agency. After hearing of a child, cast aside many times, they 

gladly accepted. The child came to live in their large mansion, and she quickly became comfortable. They called her pasta, for her love of the dish, and gave her many toys and books. 

She read and drew nearly all day and wore aviator goggles on her forehead. However, they 

quickly noticed she had a dark omen around her, and she became strange and unbecoming. 

Instead of her beautiful colored pencil paintings, she colored canvases with sheep's blood. 

Instead of scrambling to finish her pasta, she asked how many pieces it would take to choke a 

human. The Old Man and his wife wanted to nurture her back to sanity and moved her to a quiet 

shack in the countryside. Unfortunately, she realized the neighbors were quite curious about 

her. She began to burn down their fields and yell obscenities at them. She screamed for them to 

believe she was normal, at no avail. One day, She ripped her shack to shreds with her hands and 

wallowed away never seen again. The Old Man and his wife pretended to be broken over, 

although they were excellent liars. They were nearly glad to be rid of her and sang soft songs in 

the silence.

The Old Man, having realized he had spoken not one word aloud, turned to the boy and patted his head.

"Young ears should not hear old lies. This tale is not yet for you my boy, and I will not lie to you one bit." The boy frowned, but his lips tugged into a small smile. He was grateful.

"Well, thanks a lot anyway pop!"

"There is a house in New Orleans." The Old Man began to hum quietly under his breathe.

"Pasta never did like music." He smiled and gazed at the glowing, clementine colored sunset.