Once again, I thought I’d constrain myself by randomly picking a noun, an adjective and a verb (I won’t tell you which ones because that would spoil the fun) and also by forcing myself to use exactly 400 words (roughly one printed page) in a little rapid-fire fiction. If I can make a story out of it, all the better, but if it just ends up being a scene… Well, that’s fine too. Here’s the second one!
I Dreamed of an End to the Nightmares
by El Jardinero Zurdo, January 16, 2006
Fred was the cause of my Technicolor childhood nightmares. He wore brown corduroy pants and ugly turquoise sweaters his mother knitted. They added menacing amorphous bulk to his more-than-sufficient silhouette. Why, I wanted to ask her — what is it about turquoise? Don’t you realize this colour enrages your son? We imagined her as a mad scientist, experimenting with mood-altering colours, excessive heat and persistent itchiness. Transforming Fred into a monster. The sweaters were knitted in a thick woollen yarn that pilled and frayed easily. It gave us terrific sweater burn when Fred coiled his arms around our necks. His armpits smelled oily, humid, sour. The smell of turquoise sweaters. On a good day we might struggle out of a headlock, but never out of his tyranny. We’d return from recess with hot red cheeks and ears, and the teacher would scowl at us — at us!
I’m sure today they’d cry: “abuse!” and call in Fred’s parents. If we passed by the office we might finally see his mother, with her lab coat and Bride of Frankenstein hair. They’d expel Fred, or send him to a special school: a jail-school for bullies where the walls were painted in sick colours, like turquoise. Or they’d have mirrors everywhere, like a dance studio. The bullies would learn to face their own sweaters.
If their reforms were successful, Fred would be released back into the normal world. He’d be intelligent and inquisitive, dressed in comfortable clothing. What is it about turquoise? he’d ask his mother (without our prompting). She’d explain something banal about bridesmaids’ dresses or birthdays in December. He’d laugh and — newly articulate and sensitive — explain to his mother that while he appreciated turquoise held happy connections for her, he’d rather wear a t-shirt, like other kids. Because he was thoughtful, he might promise to wear a sweater for a few hours when they were together, just him and his mother. That would make her happy.
When Fred returned to our school, we’d avoid him at first, cringing when he passed by. He’d be dressed differently but his size would still be intimidating. He’d come over, smiling, to where we were playing and say: Hey, you guys, give me a chance. Then he’d tell us about the discussion with his mother. Oh! we’d say, laughing and relieved. We always wanted to know what it was with her and turquoise.