"Do you like my funhouse, little boy?" the man in the stripey sweater asks.
This is a hard question. Michael likes Coco Wheats, and the sharp letter his name starts with; he likes his pajamas with dinosaurs on them (they're in the wash, so he has to wear the ones with the cars); he likes it when his parents are gone and Judith orders pizza, and when the big girls hang upside down on the monkey bars and forget they aren't wearing shorts under their skirts. He likes Walter Cronkite and putting his hand on Mommy's tummy to feel the baby kick. (He imagines it's the beating of her heart--he knows it's a girl baby, because everyone knows it goes girl, boy, girl--and can't wait to crush it).
He doesn't know how he feels about the funhouse. (He only wishes he was wearing his dinosaur pajamas, because the car ones are kind of stupid--especially when you see twenty of them all around, which is as high as he can count). But he really likes the guy in the stripey sweater.
"Isn't it pretty? Couldn't you just die?"
Shouldn't your puns be better? Michael thinks.
"Look at all the Michaels!" stripey-sweater says. "You don't like it when people look at you, do you, Michael?"
Suddenly, all the Michaels reach behind themselves as he puts his hand, flat, on the mirror behind him. He's like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat--or, you know, an ice-pick out of a mirror. Then he makes an M in Stripey Sweater's chest--big, because he only learned how last week--and admires his work.
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branchandroot
Wee!Michael, Freddy (V for violence, 277 words)
Date: 2011-07-08 06:56 pm (UTC)This is a hard question. Michael likes Coco Wheats, and the sharp letter his name starts with; he likes his pajamas with dinosaurs on them (they're in the wash, so he has to wear the ones with the cars); he likes it when his parents are gone and Judith orders pizza, and when the big girls hang upside down on the monkey bars and forget they aren't wearing shorts under their skirts. He likes Walter Cronkite and putting his hand on Mommy's tummy to feel the baby kick. (He imagines it's the beating of her heart--he knows it's a girl baby, because everyone knows it goes girl, boy, girl--and can't wait to crush it).
He doesn't know how he feels about the funhouse. (He only wishes he was wearing his dinosaur pajamas, because the car ones are kind of stupid--especially when you see twenty of them all around, which is as high as he can count). But he really likes the guy in the stripey sweater.
"Isn't it pretty? Couldn't you just die?"
Shouldn't your puns be better? Michael thinks.
"Look at all the Michaels!" stripey-sweater says. "You don't like it when people look at you, do you, Michael?"
Suddenly, all the Michaels reach behind themselves as he puts his hand, flat, on the mirror behind him. He's like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat--or, you know, an ice-pick out of a mirror. Then he makes an M in Stripey Sweater's chest--big, because he only learned how last week--and admires his work.
Yes, he likes Stripey Sweater really a lot.