You expected his rubbery tie to come zinging out of the suboffice a few seconds later. He came out fast, went right past them, backed up. well, faster than you’d expect a cop to step out of a suboffice. The cop stepped out of the suboffice faster than . . . And you could tell from his face he had a mean streak. She should have bolted into the interrogation room and pushed his old ass down. His mother, pretending to read a bulletin board so she wouldn’t seem to be pressuring the lad, felt bad that he’d been put in this position by-that fucking bastard. “The Tough Decision.” The boy sat in a silver desk chair, nervously swivelling, tracing one of the scratches on his face with his little finger. Gosh, what was a “transmission leak”? What did the daddy mean by “You obsess too much”? What did the mommy mean by saying that “obsessing” was her “superpower,” which she “used every day, in her work”? There were so many words to learn! What was “apology,” what was “perturbed,” what was “darling”? If the wind was blowing from the east, bending him slightly to the left, he could peer into the kitchen through the dirty little window over the sink, which hadn’t been washed in ever so long, through which the mommy was now gazing out at him, worried look on her-ĭerek asked for a couple of minutes to think it over.Ī landline rang in a suboffice and the cop went in there to answer it. Even as a sapling, he’d just loved hearing them talk. Once there was a tree who longed to come inside. The flesh of his fellow-trees, burning, smelled amazing. The smoke pouring out of the chimney smelled so nice. Because of all the hard work the mother had done. But, gosh, the kitchen looked so inviting. He knew that his fellow-trees were being cruelly burned in there. “The Tree Who Longed to Come Inside.” Once there was a tree who longed to come inside and sit by the woodstove. What she was not going to do was hover by the window.
What she was going to do was sit down and write something. The world was not a scary or hostile place, and Derek was a smart little guy with a good head on his shoulders. Also, had panic attacks whenever near polished brown wood.Īll over the world right now, thousands of boys were out farting around, having broken a promise they’d made to stay in the yard. A dad had been too strict about violin practice and now his son hated music. One mom, super-focussed on eating right, had turned her daughter anorexic. In another article, parents, intending the best, had gone too far. A man afraid of snakes had come up with a mantra about the majority of snakes being nonpoisonous. One gal scared of flying had spent the month before her trip to China memorizing air-fatality statistics. What you had to do was overrule your irrational fears. Next morning, in real life, he’d busted her sniffing his clothes and started bawling the way he did when he was totally telling the truth but not being heard. Belden if there was a Smoking Merit Badge. He had a man’s voice and, in that voice, asked Mr. The older boys were already imitating her shuffling run. Started shaking his head, like, Ma, no, no, no. She’d raced down there in her bathrobe and house slippers. Last month, she’d just known that he’d been abducted from the bus stop. Sometimes a mother did not just know these things. This right here was what Keith was always talking about. Was he deliberately ignoring her? Because pre-adolescent? Was he masturbating yet? Was that her business? The mother faithfully checked underwear/sheets for signs of masturbation, so that, as needed, she could let him know, in her quiet way, that everyone, even famous people, even our great, historical. “The Son Who Failed to Reply.” Once upon a time, there was a son who, when called, failed to reply. Potts the peanut-butter thingie, leaned out the door, called for Derek to come put Mr. The place that, for Peanut-Butter Thingies, served as a waist. Was Jim trying to get eaten? “Go on, live your dreams, you two!” Jim shouted, as a thumb and a finger grasped him around his, uh, slender place. “The Peanut-Butter Thingie Who Sacrificed Himself So the Other Peanut-Butter Thingies in the Box Could Live.” Jim the Peanut-Butter Thingie pushed his peanut-shaped body higher and higher, toward the questing human hand. She grabbed another peanut-butter thingie from the box. No matter how many peanut-butter thingies he was given. “The Discontented Dog.” The Discontented Dog was never happy.
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