Aunt Marge Blown Up Novels & Stories

The little boy watched as the fire rolled off the blonde strands of his mother’s hair. The fire kissed Amy’s hair, her face, her neck, and her chest. The fire kissed Omar’s face, and it rolled off his sleeveless Avengers shirt and his denim shorts. No flesh burned. Amy strolled through the explosion with her son as if she was carrying him through a park. Every passing minute, Amy would move floating debris from the armored truck’s muffler out of her way. Parts of the armored truck floating in front of Amy’s face like balloons. She used one hand to move flaming pieces of the truck’s engine out of her way. She walked past a floating piece of the truck’s fuel tank and she watched as the truck’s

Margaret might be mad because of having no money. She went down and met her Aunt’s slap. She felt the stinging pain on her left side of her face, she is so used to this that she doesn't cry anymore. “You and your stupid brother, what an ungrateful brats! Work! Do a job inside this damn house, because you are indebted to me forever! Don’t you dare going home here without any single penny, or I swear, you will have no roof, nor a house to stay for the rest of your useless life,” her Aunt nagged non-stop. All she can do is insert her words on her left ear, and dump it off from her right ear.

A piercing scream shattered the silence, causing everyone to turn in the direction of the source. A bald man stood weakly beside a woman, who was wailing uncontrollably. Upon seeing them, Margret muttered "Dad, Mom" in disbelief, her eyes widening in shock. However, her expression quickly changed upon seeing the state of her father, whose frail appearance suggested he was at death's door. In a split second, the atmosphere turned hostile as Mrs. Owen, the woman beside the bald man, charged towards Margret, screaming at the top of her lungs, "You killed my daughter! You killed my daughter!"

"Also, it's past noon already; the morning has already said goodbye for the day." "Ah! Is that so? Well, it doesn't matter again. I already said that." Margarita said. She then shrugged. Mr. Barlowe, who couldn't help being amused, was already used to the cheeky and playful side of Margaretta. As Margar hugged her dad, images of him lying in a pool of his blood resurfaced in her head. She then hugged him tightly. Mr. Barlowe seems to have noticed her change of emotion as he paid for her hair.

He froze, struck dumb, his pupils dilated in utter shock. The truth, heavy as a sledgehammer, shattered every one of his ridiculous fantasies. His father, trembling with rage, pointed a shaking finger at his disgraceful son and let out a desperate roar. “Open your damn eyes and look! Four years ago, Harper became the owner of this estate! Harper is the true Luna of this manor… which makes her your aunt!”

“Please! I don't know anything! Whatever he did, I—” The blade moved in a blurred arc. Marge’s plea turned into a gurgling whistle. Abram stepped back, watching the red stain spread across the "World's Best Boss" mug sitting on the warmer. He didn't feel a rush. He didn't feel regret. He just felt the cold, empty weight of the "Scorched Earth" protocol. He wiped the knife on a paper napkin and tossed it onto her cooling body. John’s phone buzzed again. A photo this time. Marge.

When she put it that way, it sounded much worse. Aunt Margaret looked as though she was preparing a speech. Fortunately, Uncle Hector interrupted. "Relax, Margaret. Young Master didn't throw anything." That immediately caught my attention. "Throw anything?" "Sometimes books." I stared at him. "Sometimes pillows." I continued staring. "Once a remote control." Aunt Margaret nodded. "That one almost hit a television." I wasn't sure if they were joking. The fact that I couldn't tell worried me. Still, seeing everyone casually talking about Terrence made me realize something.