LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE

LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE

Ellen M. Laura

He first registered the scorching, unbearable heat pressing against his skin and licking his limbs. Then came the acrid stench of burning fabric and the sharp sting of smoke clawing down his throat.

He shot up in bed, heart hammering against his ribs, and saw the flickering glow of flames consuming his silk pajamas. His arms, his legs—everything was burning.

A guttural scream tore from his throat. He stumbled from the enormous bed, his sweat-slicked skin blistering as the flames licked higher. The gold-trimmed curtains curled and blackened, the walls of his opulent bedroom splitting apart as fire devoured the world around him. His favorite portrait—a grand, self-important painting of his bloated face, double chin rendered in masterful oil strokes—melted, the paint bubbling and peeling, until his features sagged into an unrecognizable smear.

Beyond the shattered windows, the world burned.

Buildings toppled, their steel bones glowing molten red. Streets seethed with infernos, swallowing cars, trees, people. The air filled with the tortured wails of men and women burning alive. From the highest towers to the smallest homes, the fire showed no mercy.

The fat, ugly leader stumbled into the hallway, wheezing through the thick smoke. His lungs clawed for air, but all that filled them was heat, ashes of things once whole. His security detail—those once-loyal men in black suits—lay sprawled across the marble floors, their bodies writhing, mouths open in silent screams. Their flesh peeled like scorched paper, eyes melting in their sockets.

He reached out to one of them, desperate, but as his fingers grazed the man’s shoulder, his arm crumbled away in a shower of blackened meat and bone.

A shriek tore from his throat. His knees buckled.

And then—through the howling inferno, a sound.

Soft. Innocent.

A child's voice.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire."

His blood turned to ice.

The voice was clear, sweet, cutting through the chaos like a nursery rhyme whispered at the edge of a nightmare.

Then another voice joined in. And another. A chorus of children, their small, innocent tones rising over the roaring flames.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire."

The fat, bloated leader turned, his sweat-slicked face twisted in horror. The hallway ahead of him wavered in the heat, the gilded walls cracking, chandeliers raining molten glass onto the burning corpses below. And there, standing untouched in the inferno, were the children.

A classroom of them.

Rows of small faces illuminated by the flickering glow, eyes unblinking, lips moving in perfect unison. And in the center, a little girl with dark curls and wide, solemn eyes.

He knew that face.

Somewhere in the depths of his mind, past the decades of corruption, past the broken promises and calculated lies, he remembered.

It had started so simply—a question asked by a weary schoolteacher in a small Mississippi classroom.

"What should be the punishment for lying?"

There had been silence—a moment of thought.

And then, a tiny voice had answered:

"Liar, liar, pants on fire."

A few children had giggled. Then, more had joined in. The chant had spread, rippling through the town like a nursery rhyme reborn. By evening, it had slithered into households, churches, and city streets—a joke at first—playful, harmless.

But words have power. They cast a spell.

By the following day, the first liar had burned.

A local businessman, known for his schemes, had burst into flames as he sat for breakfast, his screams rattling the windows of his suburban home. His wife had tried to save him, but the fire did not smother, did not stop, did not listen to reason. It swallowed him whole.

And then another liar burned. And another.

Teachers who had told children they could be anything they wanted, knowing the world wouldn’t allow it. Priests who had preached love while hiding their sins behind the altar. Husbands who had whispered fidelity while their lips still tasted of someone else.

It did not matter if the lies were bold or whispered, written or withheld, spoken outright or buried in silence."

The fire knew the truth.

And now, it had reached him.

The fire had come for them all.

Across the world, liars burned.

In homes, fathers erupted into screaming pyres at the dinner table, their wives and children watching in paralyzed horror as flesh melted from their bones. In churches, preachers ignited mid-sermon, their Bibles curling into ash in their hands as their flock shrieked and fled. News anchors burst into flames mid-broadcast, their polished smiles dissolving into charred skulls before the signal cut to static.

No liar was safe.

Not the CEOs whose empty promises had stolen the futures of millions. Not the doctors who had sworn to heal while padding their pockets with pharmaceutical deals. Not the lovers who had sworn devotion while warming another’s bed.

And now, the worst of them all—the most gluttonous, the most deceitful, the most corrupt—stood before the children, his skin blackening, his bloated body sagging under the weight of his destruction.

The world leader staggered forward, hands outstretched, pleading. His lips, swollen and splitting from the heat, fumbled over words.

“P-please,” he croaked. His voice was raw, ruined. “I’ll make you rich, powerful—anything you want! You want fame? Money? A palace? Just say the word!”

“The little girl tilted her head.

“You lied.”

Her voice was quiet but cut through the smoke like a blade. Around her, the children did not blink, did not flinch.

He fell to his knees. His once-massive frame shrank as the flames devoured him, reducing him to something smaller, something pathetic.

“I’m the King!” he sobbed, pawing at the floor. His fingernails had burned away, leaving raw, blackened stumps. “You can’t do this to me—”

The little girl’s lips parted.

And for the final time, they sang.

“Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

The fire surged.

The leader fell silent.

And the world, at last, was cleansed.