Stanley’s Adventure

Stanley Berpsmog spent a lot of time in his room to escape his mean older sister, seven year old Bertha.  Not that his room was all that interesting. She had already broken all his toys she could get her hands on.

He lay on his stomach on his bottom sheet, having kicked all of the rest of his bedding to the floor. Now he threw his pillow on the floor too.  He would have liked to punch someone.

But hmmm.  His bottom sheet had an interesting hole in it about the size of red grape.  He stuck his finger in the hole. It was warm. No, it was hot!

4 responses to “Stanley’s Adventure

  1. Stanley imagined that he was somehow laying on a heated water bed, but quickly recalled that water beds are extremely heavy, and his bed had shifted noisily across the hardwood floor when he pounced on it just a moment before.
    So he focused instead on the compact cavity below his chin, and probed it with his finger in a circumferential motion. He detected nothing with his fingertip, so he decided to investigate the hole with a sniff.
    “Raspberry!”
    Of that Stan was certain.

  2. I certainly didn’t expect or think of a flavor. Good one!

  3. Stanley pulled his finger out, now slick, covered in goo. Burning as if on fire. He waved his hand. flicking his fingers, wiping them on the sheet. The burning sensation persisted. He began to cry, but as he wept, laughter emitted from the hole. A girl’s laugh. Not funny but mean. Stanley made a fist and punched the hole. Hard. Viscously. The laughter turned to a wail, a painful cry. He struck again. And again. The hole began to widen.

    The cry, now a constant scream. But, not from the hole, but from outside his door. He tip-toed toward the door. Turned the knob. Pulled the door inward. The odor of burned flesh rushed around him. Images of his sister on fire encircled him as if holding hands. Ring around the rosie. Some laughing. Some screaming. Some with sunken eyes in black pits.

    A hand grabbed one of his. Another hand, his other. They began to dance around and around. One of the figures was stronger than the others. He sensed being pulled, but to where he couldn’t tell. He fought with all his will but the hands wouldn’t release his. He began to move back into his room, To his bed. The figures of his sister trailed behind, a knotted tail tied to a kite.

    Stanley struggled toward his bed. To the hole. Where this all started. He pushed against the opening with his head as if back to the womb. He wiggled and struggled, his shoulders nearly in. Stanley gave a kick as if pushing off against the swimming pool wall.

    Silence.

    The inside of the mattress was cold. And wet. He tried to cry out but his screams were muted.

    Darkness.

    He looked for Jesus. After all he prayed every night. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Except when he prayed the Lord his sister to take.

    “Oh Stanley,” cried a voice. “Stanley.” His sister’s voice in a tone seldom heard.

    Red lights. Blue lights. Flashing lights.

    He watched the firemen with their hoses. Spraying.

    Felt his sister hugging.

    Heard his mother and father crying.

    Wondered about his box of matches.

  4. Well, now. This prompt strikes close to home. I just finished reading “And I Don’t Want to Live this Life” by Deborah Spungen, whose daughter Nancy apparently was murdered by Sid Vicious of the British punk rock band the Sex Pistols. It’s a riveting story of how the Spungen family was affected by Nancy’s schizophrenia (though there never was a diagnosis during Nancy’s lifetime.)

    Much like Stanley, Nancy tormented her younger sister and brother.

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