Jewels
Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews
The afternoon was as mean as a hook, and so was Jewels. He’s 10 pushing on Neanderthal. If you miniaturized yourself and drove yourself around his head, your destination, the front, you’d have a pleasant smooth ride until you reached the end. So yeah, Jewels had a flat head, and his brow looked like a cliff. Wanna make something of it? Furby wouldn’t. No, of course not. In the swinging 60s, Furby would have been called a book worm. A spineless mass of a boy, chewing his way through a library of books every night. It’s the 21st century, and Furby prefers the internet. He’s plugged into the infoweb 18 hours a day. Like astronauts being bombarded by cosmic rays, Furby is constantly being bombarded by spam viruses and pop-ups. The most violent thing that he’s done in his life was close errant windows on his computer using ALT-CTRL-DELETE or killing virtual monsters. He doesn’t want to fight Jewels. His parents, bleeding edge geneticist (EXTREME! Geneticists, they tell him, because They Are Cool And With It) tell him to ignore the bullies. This seems like good advice. Jewels is a badger (he tells us), and once he bites, he doesn’t let go.
“Did your mom make your mitts?” Jewel said. “They look like girl’s mitts!” Yeah, Furby’s mom, creativity abound, made those mitts. Knitted bright pink, covering his ham sized hands, yeah, they looked like girl’s mitts. Furby never takes off his mitts.
“I have sensitive hands,” he’d tell his teachers. They didn’t push once they found out that Furby’s parents made financial contributions to the school. New Library, anyone? Yes please! Willing to tolerate a small quirk was worth it. Money was the blood that flowed through the veins of the administration. Keep it coming!
“Are you deaf?” Furby continued to ignore Jewels.
Is Jewels co-dependent? That’s up to a shrink to say for sure. That said, it’s easy to see that he was empowered by his posse of thuggish 9 and 8 year olds. One day a rap producer will put them in a music video. They’re fantastic at posing and cheering. What’s a bully (or multi-platinum selling rapper) without a cheering posse? Now: the posse encourages violence. Jewels eagerly responds by pushing Furby to the ground. One of his amigo assists by extending a foot, a classic maneuver, tripping Furby. This is the extent of their teamwork. Furby falls like a Canadian Spruce. Jewels is on top of him in an eyeblink and shatters his nose like a China plate. He doesn’t block. In the small instant before the second blow, if you filmed the blood gushing out of his nose at 200 frames per second, the playback would make the blood look like beautiful lava. A slow moving crimson river flowing down the side of his face. The second blow loosened some baby teeth and chipped an adult one. Furby blocks the third hit with his right hand. The crunch sounded like a miniscule car accident. Jewels pulls his hand back, holding the deadened fist. Furby begged him to stop, and Jewels responded by kicking him in the ribs. The posse makes gesters to indicate that a teacher was coming. With time evaporating, Jewels decides to humiliate Furby by tearing off his mitts. Instead of hands, his fingers with fused together in a grey carapace. He had lobster claws. Shiny, hard and thick, Furby’s claw squeezed down in panic. He sliced through Jewels’ hand effortlessly. His fingers fell to the ground like dropped coins. Furby whipped the blood off of his face and blood bubbled through his nose as he sobbed.
“Give me back my mitts.”
The afternoon was as mean as a hook, and so was Jewels. He’s 10 pushing on Neanderthal. If you miniaturized yourself and drove yourself around his head, your destination, the front, you’d have a pleasant smooth ride until you reached the end. So yeah, Jewels had a flat head, and his brow looked like a cliff. Wanna make something of it? Furby wouldn’t. No, of course not. In the swinging 60s, Furby would have been called a book worm. A spineless mass of a boy, chewing his way through a library of books every night. It’s the 21st century, and Furby prefers the internet. He’s plugged into the infoweb 18 hours a day. Like astronauts being bombarded by cosmic rays, Furby is constantly being bombarded by spam viruses and pop-ups. The most violent thing that he’s done in his life was close errant windows on his computer using ALT-CTRL-DELETE or killing virtual monsters. He doesn’t want to fight Jewels. His parents, bleeding edge geneticist (EXTREME! Geneticists, they tell him, because They Are Cool And With It) tell him to ignore the bullies. This seems like good advice. Jewels is a badger (he tells us), and once he bites, he doesn’t let go.
“Did your mom make your mitts?” Jewel said. “They look like girl’s mitts!” Yeah, Furby’s mom, creativity abound, made those mitts. Knitted bright pink, covering his ham sized hands, yeah, they looked like girl’s mitts. Furby never takes off his mitts.
“I have sensitive hands,” he’d tell his teachers. They didn’t push once they found out that Furby’s parents made financial contributions to the school. New Library, anyone? Yes please! Willing to tolerate a small quirk was worth it. Money was the blood that flowed through the veins of the administration. Keep it coming!
“Are you deaf?” Furby continued to ignore Jewels.
Is Jewels co-dependent? That’s up to a shrink to say for sure. That said, it’s easy to see that he was empowered by his posse of thuggish 9 and 8 year olds. One day a rap producer will put them in a music video. They’re fantastic at posing and cheering. What’s a bully (or multi-platinum selling rapper) without a cheering posse? Now: the posse encourages violence. Jewels eagerly responds by pushing Furby to the ground. One of his amigo assists by extending a foot, a classic maneuver, tripping Furby. This is the extent of their teamwork. Furby falls like a Canadian Spruce. Jewels is on top of him in an eyeblink and shatters his nose like a China plate. He doesn’t block. In the small instant before the second blow, if you filmed the blood gushing out of his nose at 200 frames per second, the playback would make the blood look like beautiful lava. A slow moving crimson river flowing down the side of his face. The second blow loosened some baby teeth and chipped an adult one. Furby blocks the third hit with his right hand. The crunch sounded like a miniscule car accident. Jewels pulls his hand back, holding the deadened fist. Furby begged him to stop, and Jewels responded by kicking him in the ribs. The posse makes gesters to indicate that a teacher was coming. With time evaporating, Jewels decides to humiliate Furby by tearing off his mitts. Instead of hands, his fingers with fused together in a grey carapace. He had lobster claws. Shiny, hard and thick, Furby’s claw squeezed down in panic. He sliced through Jewels’ hand effortlessly. His fingers fell to the ground like dropped coins. Furby whipped the blood off of his face and blood bubbled through his nose as he sobbed.
“Give me back my mitts.”
posted by Rob at 1:30 p.m.
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