internal insurgency

She sat mindlessly stroking the doll's hair. A frozen grimace attempted to pass for joy. Her father's voice repeated in her mind the demand that she be grateful for her gifts. Baby Brother Brat was setting up his railroad. He was doing it wrong! Everytime she tried to help, "Let him alone. He can do it.", and the doll was thrust back in to her hands.

She hated that doll. She hated all dolls. What she wanted was a stuff animal. Why didn't anyone ever listen to her? The one at the zoo that her mother refused to buy her then. That was what she wanted. A tiger with fierce but playful eyes. Something strong. This stupid toy pooped its pants! The doll took flight across the room, and she stomped upstairs. Her grandmother saying just within earshot, "Ungrateful." One more word to add to the list of adjectives: bossy, stubborn, difficult, and ungrateful. By year's end she probably would be able to get a few more added. These words were badges to her. Her family, peers, and teachers all tried to bend her and mold her to some unexplainable and ill-fitting shape. These words marked her resistance.

I have had those words applied to me as well as smartass, bitch, and feminazi. People are so nice.

growing things

the tomato is overtaking its stake. the parsley is straining to reach light, real light. the cilantro has come back from the brink of death, and the sage does not know how not to grow. the balance of water and food and light and shade is nearly impossible to maintain when you decide to plant everything together. but i guess they know what's was strong. what survives will only be the best. except that i killed something from overwatering one week and something else from underwatering the next week. i think i may have found the balance. it's stressful being this observant. i definitely should not have children.

how so?

if i can't keep a bunch of freakin' plants alive, how can i be trusted with something as important as a child?

children at least make noise when something is wrong. you have a cat, though.

two of them.

right. and how are they?

fine. they need some more mommy time, but fine other than that.

so there you go. you can have kids.

because my cats are lonely but fed?

pretty much.

what about the emotional part of it?

you're going to fuck up your kids somehow. there is no use stressing over it. they'll either love you or hate you in the end.

you should write a book.

ha. ha. why worry about fucking up some non-existent future grown child of yours? maybe it all turns out okay. maybe it's 50/50 or 80/20.

maybe it's just a shitload of therapy.

right. so not so bad. plus kids can be a lot of fun.

and headaches.

but joy!

you want to have a baby, don't you?

yes. specifically i want to have one with you.

we don't even live together.

i know. i don't want one now. but i want to move in together. get "married" or whatever. and have a baby. or adopt a child. i want us to be parents.

i don't...

i know.

then why...

i'm hoping that you'll just think about it. you hardly ever talk about what you want out of this relationship. you know exactly what you want out of your work, but ... what about us?

i don't know.

so think about it and let me know?

okay.

a simple kiss

what's on the menu tonight?

something with tomato and sage, it looks like.

My tomato plant nearly fell over today. It is now tied to the rail on my roof.

he's a cannibal

Florescent light reflected every off-white surface as if trying to prove how clean the mall was. So white and so seemingly spotless. Everyone knows that a black car will show dirty far faster than a white one, but not one patron gave it a thought as they stepped from the warm sun into the temperature controlled air on their way to the latest sale at the department store. The crowd filled the space just enough. Today was not part of the holiday season or some one-day clearance stunt. These shoppers needed new pants for a new job, make-up to impress the date, dress for that cocktail party, shoes that feel perfect until you've worn them after purchase. No one expected the shrill cry just after the lunch rush, because it is impossible to expect the unexpected.

CANNIBAL!!!! Cannibal! He's a cannibal!

The young age of the voice and the repition of the phrase generally would have lead most people to ignore the screams, but cannibal is such an odd and rarely spoken word that people reacted. Parents with children quickly marched them out of the building and seatbelted them into the car before driving away so cautiously that they caused a wreck at the exits. Teenagers ran toward the noise, pushing to get a look at the scene. One barely escaped being suffocated between the mob and his asthma. 

CANNIBAL!!!! Cannibal! He's a cannibal!

The little girl's mother raced across the suddenly empty and snatched her up into her arms. What was the matter? Why was she screaming? Who was a cannibal? The small arm wriggled its way out of the mother's grasp and pointed. The onlookers followed the tiny finger across the floor to a figure standing next to the free-standing coffee shop. It was a boy barely older than the screaming girl.

Thomas Bell! How many times do I have to tell you? Do Not Pick Your Nose and Eat Your Boogers!

This story is much shorter than I imagined it at first, but I don't have time to edit and expand at the moment. Here's hoping (or not) that I have time to come back to it. Also, do we consider people that eat their boogers or chew on their fingers or whatever else auto-cannibals? Just wondering.

don't look them in the eyes

Small children everywhere.
Just stay calm.
But they have grimey hands and squeals that could break glass. Is there somewhere I could go to just hide out for awhile?
No.
But -
Josh. This is a daycare.
There has to be an office or something.
You're the painting teacher and class starts in 5 minutes.
I know. I just didn't realize -
- that there would be kids?
That they'd be this young.
When I said we need someone to teach finger painting at my daycare, what age did you really imagine?
Like 8 or 9. I've completely lost touch with my childhood.
Pretty much. Lacy! Roger's shirt is not the correct place to put your boogers!
Oh god.

I imagine throughout the dialogue, children keep running up to Josh and tagging him, running through his legs, and other things like that. Like cats, they know the person who is allergic and will beeline right for her/him.