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eBook Category: Science Fiction
eBook Description: In Amy Casil's first freak story, Jonny Punkinhead is a little boy who lives at the Sherman Institute for the Differently-Abled. Jonny just wants to see his gramma for Christmas, and Dr. Hedrick Arlan, the head of the Institute, tells Jonny that she'll be there--but the truth is, nobody's going to visit Jonny. Or any of the other children at the Institute, like Gyla the little wolf girl. Jonny has three eyes and a head the size and shape of a ripe pumpkin. Dr. Arlan's got to take care of these kids ... no matter how much it hurts.

eBook Publisher: Fictionwise.com, Published: The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, 1996
Fictionwise Release Date: June 2003

29 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [33 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [38 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [18 KB] , Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [81 KB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [20 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [68 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [91 KB] , hiebook (KML) [75 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [48 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [17 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [21 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [49 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [31 KB]
Words: 6165
Reading time: 17-24 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Portable Document Format (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

Outside my office, I hear the rubbery squeal of a wheelchair, followed by the damp exhalation of a sick child's sigh. The shadow of the pumpkin-headed boy, Jonny, crosses the wall like a dark hand slapped on a sheet.

"Come in," I call through the open door.

"Sure, Dr. Arlan," Jonny says, lisping. It sounds like "sssir, docker awrin," but I'm used to the way he talks.

Jonny wheels into my office. He's very limber with the chair. In his hand is a small, crooked paper Santa and something else that I can't quite fathom, made of festive paper. I finish the letter I'm composing and smile. It's not easy to smile at Jonny.

He holds the paper Santa up. "I made this for gramma," he says.

"That's a great St. Nick," I say. My mouth twists in a funny way, and I don't like the feeling. His grandmother hasn't visited him for at least three years, yet Jonny makes her something for every holiday. Her presents are all in a shoebox, tucked neatly in his cubby in Dorm A., where the seriously ill children live.

"This is for you," he says, holding out the other bit of artwork. I see now that it's pieces of paper, cut and pasted to look like a Christmas present.

The little present has "I love you, Dr. Arlan" written on it in spidery letters. "That's a great job, Jonny."

In a fit of the unprofessionalism which seems to have become my habit of late, I push away from the desk and walk to Jonny's side, then kiss his patchy scalp. Jonny giggles and kisses me back. If I look in his good left eye, which is large, brown, and very pretty, I can pretend for a moment he's a normal child. He turns toward me as he laughs, and it's impossible to pretend any longer.