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The Good MorningThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by August Blackwood | |
| Monday, 17 March 2008 | |
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Share it:      Little John was sitting on his mother’s lap as she got herself ready for the evening party she was to attend with her husband. She was humming a very sweet tune. John was looking at his mother through the mirror, wondering what on earth she was putting onto her face. He felt the powder land like snowflakes onto his head. It felt so uncomfortable and it looked so weird that he attempted to remove it. “Oh, dear,” the mother cried out as she looked down at her son. Her son’s hair was covered with the powder, making him look like he had fine, thin tentacles sticking out of his head. “Good grief,” she said again. But, she continued to apply her makeup. John was only three and he was pinned between his mother’s thigh and the edge of the desk. She didn’t budge, nor did she attempt to remove him from her seat. John was in agony. He was crying and wailing but his mother started to whistle a circus song as if she were attempting to drown her son’s screams. There was too much powder. What was she using? A bucket? John felt powder fall into his eyes and he tried to rub it out. It was painful. “Johnny, do you think I’m pretty?” the mother peered down at her boy, frightening the creeps out of him. She looked like a clown with a red button nose, really white skin, and a fake, sarcastic smile in abnormally thick red lips. John woke up. With a scream. He felt sweaty and his clothes stuck like magnets onto his skin. The bed sheets were soaked wet as if they were dumped with a bucket full of warm water. His body felt hot, so hot that he felt like an oven in a freezer. His heart thumped like a stampede in his chest. “What a frightening dream,” he thought to himself. He never had a dream like this before. He never did feel frightened by clowns before. He didn’t quite remember the imagery. He only remembered the subject matter. He tried to recover from his dream amnesia. Was that his mother? No it wasn’t. He didn’t have a mother. He never did. At least, he never did see her before. If he had a mother, she was probably prettier than the woman in the dream because his dad always hit on hot women, as far as he’s seen. His mother was not a clown. His mother could not be a clown. His dad didn’t like clowns. John peered out his window and paid attention particularly to the trees the penetrated out of the ground. He reached into his own pants and started to… you know what. He’s not little anymore. He’s seventeen. And in three months, he’d be an official adult. He took out a Kleenex and wiped himself up. Copyright 2008 August Blackwood |
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| Last Updated ( Monday, 17 March 2008 ) |
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