-This is a work of fiction based on The Gashlycrumb Tinies, a poem and alphabet primer by Edward Gorey. It is rated T for violence resulting in accidental and intentional deaths. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-

J is for James
by Elisabeth Henry

James wobbled a bit, then grabbed on to the shelf and glanced down at the basement floor. Mother often complained about the unevenness of the cement, usually while giving father quite a nasty look. James never had occasion to consider her words before, but now, precariously balanced atop a rickety old stool, he understood her concern. Why, it was positively dangerous.

After carefully testing his footing, James returned to his task, peering at the bottles clustered on the high shelf. Some of them were very pretty, and some were very dusty; some had labels, and some did not. No matter - James knew exactly which one he was after.

Last month, his governess had purchased a bottle of lemon squash from Marks & Spencer, and James had been permitted a very small taste. Since then, he had not forgotten the delicious, tart flavour of the sweet cordial. He remembered the bottle quite clearly, too: it was tall, and slender, and made of green glass, with a yellow cap and an equally yellow label.

James poked through the assortment of bottles, careful to maintain his balance on the high stool. He was certain that the lemon cordial was here on this shelf, because he'd seen the maid carrying the delicate bottle down from the kitchen yesterday afternoon, whilst humming 'I Feel Pretty'. Her litany of show tunes annoyed father to no end, but she was the best maid on their street, and mother would insist on keeping her. Good help was so hard to find.

Nine-year old arms are terribly inconvenient, James thought to himself, as he flapped one hand around haphazardly, trying to reach the back of the shelf. His fingers brushed against a thin, glass bottle, which tipped over and landed with its yellow cap facing outwards.

James clapped his hands excitedly, then gave a soft 'whoops!' and reached for the shelf as the stool rocked back and forth like a ship in a storm. He struggled to regain his footing, making a mental note to talk to his father about the floor. It really was exceptionally dangerous.

With the bottle of cordial tucked under one arm, James settled himself on the stool. He braced his prize between his knees and gave the cap an experimental twist. It was a trifle stiff, but with a little effort, he managed to remove it. Leaning down to sniff the contents of the bottle, he was disappointed to discover that it did not smell nearly the same as he remembered.

James tipped the bottle to his lips and took a long, healthy swallow of the clear liquid. For an instant, it occurred to him that this was, perhaps, not lemon squash after all.

The bottle fell from his hand and smashed against the cement floor. James clutched at his throat, and the tall stool wobbled once again, sending him after the shattered bottle.

At mother's insistence, the floor was smoothed out that very weekend. Of course, the maid was reprimanded for her part in the affair, but she was the best on their street. And good help is so hard to find.

J is for James who took lye by mistake...