A Bedtime Story
by Julia RiosOnce upon a time, when you were very small, you met a monster. At first you were scared, because all you saw were green scales and tentacles, and gaping jaws (many of them) full of yellowed, moldering teeth.
You screamed and you cried until your mama came into your room, and she turned on the nightlight that used to be by your bed (you remember the one, it had a revolving shade with pictures from your favorite cartoon on it, and when it was on you saw them projected on the wall), and she said, "Lordamercy, child, what is this racket?" and she snapped a damp dish towel in the air.
Well, that shut you up some, because you know as well as I do that your mama was one formidable lady, but it didn't stop your eyes from twitching and darting from the monster to your mother and back again, full of distress and disquietude. Your mama watched this for about two seconds before she snapped that towel again --harder this time-- and smirked at your flinch. "Honey," she said, "Do you honestly mean to tell me that you got all worked up and screamed blue murder just because Uncle Steve was watching you sleep?"
Now this was confusing for two reasons. One, you've never had an Uncle Steve that you know of, and two, if you did wouldn't he be... well, less scaly? And with just one set of teeth? Your mama looked at you as you tried to work this all out, synapses firing like crazy, cogs turning and what have you, and she said, "Dumb as a post, this child. Well, addle-brained is better than no-brained, I suppose. Now, be good and quiet while I finish my work." And then she left you alone. With Uncle Steve.
You wanted to cry again; oh, poor frightened young Elizabeth, how desperately you did! But you knew that you'd better keep quiet, because (and I think this shows that you were actually a bit brighter than your mama implied) you knew that if you were loud, Uncle Steve might pay more attention to you than would be entirely comfortable, especially with those gaping maws; and if Uncle Steve didn't chew you six ways from Sunday, well, your mama just might. So with a sigh and a whimper you squinched up your eyes and tried to pretend you were relaxed, scared though you truly were (thus also proving yourself brave).
For a few moments, nothing happened. The room was full of silence, so thick you could touch it and make little unicorns out of it like you used to do with Play-doh (remember that?). Then, a soft whooshing, and you lifted one eyelid, just a tad, a tiny smidge, and you saw one of those scaly green tentacles coming toward you. Your instincts said to run and scream, but instead you held your breath, and honey, you were glad you did, because Uncle Steve's tentacle didn't hurt you at all. Instead, it was softer than clouds, softer even than your friend Sarah's pet rabbit. And it wrapped around you, and scooped you into the air, and for the rest of the night, you slid between waking and dreaming, all the while feeling as though you were in flight. It was glorious, utterly, beautifully, softly glorious.
But you had forgotten it all until today, hadn't you?
I knew you had. It's because Uncle Steve only stayed for three days before the government men came and took him away. They erased your memories, and accidentally made you bad at math into the bargain. Your Uncle Steve still remembers, though, and he told me to tell you. He says he'll come back someday, maybe when you're older and the government men won't see you as a threat anymore. Nobody listens to old people, anyway. You can trust your Auntie Jane on that one.
©Julia Rios
Julia Rios was one of three winners of the Commie Pinko 48 Hour Short Story Contest in May of 2005, and has a few very short shorts on Espresso Stories. She loves cats and other small monsters. For more info and stories, see www.juliarios.com.