Black Worm

Momma's A Writer

Mom stopped typin' an' rubbed a hand over her face as if that made it cleaner. "Get popping," she said. "Got lots of blackheads for you. Even down over my shoulders." She pointed here an' there at her oily polka-dots, like our eyes weren't seein' right.

Oh...but they saw just fine. Let the bizarre ritual begin.

Billy went first. An' as I watched him squeeze one out from Mom's nose, I gagged. Black Worm, disgustin' black worm. It's all I could think about. All I could see. "Ew," I said, an' stuck out my tongue.

She grabbed my hand an' said with burnt coffee breath, "Don't you get all green on me again, Tommy Boy. Remember, Momma's a writer, she's made up of ink and it's just got to come out somehow."

"Are all writers made up of ink?"

"Every last one of them," she said.

I shimmied from her grip. "I never wanna be a writer."

"Not many lazy-bones do. It's hard, busy work, and it's even painful sometimes. But you know, life itself is a story. We're all writers one way or another. We get to decide what we wish to happen next."

"Ice-cream." Billy winked at me, still forcin' the ink out of Mom's nose.

She moved his hands away. "Huh?"

"It's what I wish to happen next."

"We don't have ice-cream." Mom frowned, the creases of her forehead defined like skinny trenches. "Just keep on with what you're doing and mind your p's and q's. I was talking to your brother."

Billy knew I wasn't hungry after being subject to this. He never meant ice-cream for eatin'. It was code between him an' me. It meant more. Way more. It meant stickin' our thumbs out at the road like our lives depended on it.

An' maybe it did.

THE END

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Story Written By: Holly Ducarte

Published 2016, All Rights Reserved