Mary's Spots (1084 words) - Writers Forum

elizabeth_472 · 06-23-2007, 02:13 PM

Mary’s Spots

When I was three years old, my parents would go places and so I’d need a babysitter. My neighbor, Mary, was often the babysitter. She would set me down in front of her flower garden and I would watch, transfixed, as Mary bent over the forget-me-nots, dahlias, and tulips. Quite out of character, I would just sit there, not even making a peep. I delighted in pretty colors and those flowers were the prettiest colors my eyes had ever beheld.

Mary had a nice face. Her skin was sun-tanned and her cheeks were forever blushing. She had soft, blue eyes, heaps of freckles, and a warm smile.

But what I noticed most about Mary was her spots. She had three of them, one on her neck, another on her arm, and another by her knee joint. The ones on her neck and arm were purpley blue and the other was yellowy green.

And they absolutely fascinated me! They made Mary look so very pretty!

One day I said to her:

“Where did you get those spots from? I want some!”

Mary laughed, making those spots go up and down. She put me on her lap.

“When God was making me in heaven,” she said, pointing to the sky, “with his paint brush, he accidentally spilled some of the wrong colors on me.”

“So it’s too late for me to get any?” I sighed an exaggerated sigh, rubbing the spot on her neck.

She nodded.

“So, I’ll never have any?” I asked, making sure.

“No,” she said firmly. “No you won’t.”

That night, I dreamed of little angels painting my beloved Mary into existence. God, who I had always imagined to look like my pastor, accidentally spilled a few droplets of purpley blue and yellowy green from his paint palette onto Mary’s skin. Pulling apart the clouds like cotton and using them as towels, the angels tried to wipe away the spots. It didn’t work. Smiling, God patted Mary on the head, told her he loved her, and sent her down to Earth. I slept through the entire night, not waking once to go to the bathroom or call for my mommy and daddy.

As I visited Mary more often, I’d notice more spots. How could her story possibly be true if she was still getting spots? I asked Mary about this.

“I’ve always had these,” she replied, quickly taking up one of her fancy garden tools. She went immediately into her gardening spell, which meant she was too far gone to ask any more questions.

Considering myself smarter than the average three-year-old, this greatly perplexed me because I knew Mary’s spots as I knew the back of my own hand. Three total, one on the neck, one on the arm, and one by the knee joint. Two purpley blue and one yellowy green. Was it possible I had missed some?

One day when Mary was reaching across to some flowers near the center of her garden, I caught a glimpse of three distinct new spots on her shoulder, which her sleeve had been hiding. I knew Mary was getting more spots, but why was she trying to pretend she wasn’t?

Mary began wearing clothes that fully covered her skin. Even when it was hotter than an oven outside, I’d see Mary gardening, in dresses that went to her ankles and jackets that covered her arms. If I had such beautiful spots, I’d surely flaunt them. So why was Mary trying to cover hers up?

Being the bright three-year-old I was, I found something wrong with this picture. And then it hit me and I could suddenly see. She didn’t want me to have pretty skin like her. Selfish Mary wanted to be the only one with spots so she could be special and better than me. (I had always seen us as equals.)

Outraged, I ran to Mary and, ripping off her jacket, exposed two new spots, both which were larger and darker than any I had ever seen on her before.

I felt the tears rush to my eyes.

‘It’s not fair! It’s not fair!” I yelled, running into Mary’s house and not stopping until I reached the guest room. I slammed the door shut and stayed there the rest of the day.

Whenever my parents would leave and force me to Mary’s house, I’d stay in the guest room until they’d come back. Every so often, Mary would check on me and offer some Nilla Wafers or Teddy Grahams. I wouldn’t say a word, painfully refusing my favorite treats.

There really wasn’t much to do in the old guest room. Some days I’d read books or do puzzles and other days I’d color pictures. One day, admiring the bold colors of Mary’s magic markers, I suddenly got an idea. With the appropriate colors, I was able to draw spots on my skin, the same shape, color, and size as Mary’s and at the same places.

I rushed outside, my spots looking ever so bright and beautiful in the sunlight. Picturing Supermodel Barbie, I strutted around the garden, hips swinging to and fro. I spared a glance towards Mary, who was smiling. Not looking where I was going (as usual), I tripped over the sprinkler hose and landed on the grass. Sheets upon sheets of water hit me, causing my spots to run together in icky brown lines and off the edges of my skin.

Furious, I bounded over to Mary.

“That’s what you wanted! Isn’t it?” I spat.

Mary shook her head. She looked worried, but I was far too wound up to really notice.

My arms went flailing and I started jumping up and down.

“Tell me how you get those spots! Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!”

Thinking only of those wonderful, exotic spots and how I could get them, I attacked Mary, pulling at her hair and twisting her wrist. She only sat there calmly, hardly breathing.

Blood boiling, I took my fingers and pressed hard as heck on Mary’s throat. She didn’t cry out, but I could see the pain in her eyes. I released my grip, fingers trembling. To my utter astonishment, one of those spots was forming where my fingers had been only seconds before.

A lump formed in my throat and I lost all power of speech. All I could do was stare at Mary stupidly.

“Don’t you understand?” she finally said.

Crying, I ran into Mary’s arms, and never wished for those spots again.

LydiaJ · 06-23-2007, 02:46 PM

Its a good story. A little strange point of view, but I liked the way you wrote, to make it sound exactly like a fond chilhood memory.

A few spelling mistakes, and a few of the sentences need reviewing, but in a whole I like the feel of this story.

elizabeth_472 · 06-23-2007, 04:22 PM

Thank you.

What spelling mistakes?

Knocking · 06-25-2007, 01:56 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by elizabeth_472

Mary’s Spots

When I was three years old, my parents would go places and so I’d need a babysitter. My neighbor, Mary, was often the babysitter. She would set me down in front of her flower garden and I would watch, transfixed, as Mary bent over the forget-me-nots, dahlias, and tulips. Quite out of character, I would just sit there, not even making a peep. I delighted in pretty colors and those flowers were(had? flowers aren't colors) the prettiest colors my eyes had ever beheld.

Mary had a nice face. Her skin was sun-tanned and her cheeks were forever blushing. She had soft, blue eyes, heaps of freckles, and a warm smile.

But what I noticed most about Mary was(were) her spots. She had three of them, one on her neck, another on her arm, and another by her knee joint. The ones on her neck and arm were purpley blue and the other was yellowy green.

Aww! It's such a good story, so sad. Only thing that struck me funny is to see a three-year-old choke someone. I think hitting would be more believable. Keep writing!

elizabeth_472 · 06-26-2007, 06:40 PM

Thanks for reading, knocking!

Shouldn't it be 'was her spots' because of the word 'what?'

Yeah, I wasn't sure about choking. But does a person really get spot-like bruises from being slapped?

Funwriter · 06-26-2007, 06:56 PM

A very good story but I would change the age from three to five. Three year olds just don't rip jackets off and talk so clearly. Make it more believable and at the same time more emotional. As I read it, I continued to think, no three year old would do this or that.. Kind of ruined it for me.

elizabeth_472 · 06-26-2007, 07:25 PM

Thanks, Funwriter.

Yes, then again, would a five-year-old not know what causes bruises? I think my story is probably quite unrealistic, and so a reader will have to use his or her own imagination to properly enjoy the story. This is where willing suspension of disbelief comes into action.

Fossy · 06-27-2007, 08:58 AM

Yeah I thought it was very original. But as has been said perhaps a 5 year old would be better. Very sad story - I have one similar that happened to me, but not about spots. Never thought about writing it though, so that's very clever of you.

Funwriter · 06-27-2007, 09:33 AM

Ok Elizabeth, I agree, a bit of imagination and it works. Good story.

Knocking · 06-27-2007, 01:42 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by elizabeth_472

Shouldn't it be 'was her spots' because of the word 'what?'

What I noticed was(were) her spots.
Flipped: Her spots were what I noticed.

Hmm, could be, but I'm pretty sure it's were. Doesn't the "what" become plural because of the plural "spots"? Ack, now I'm not sure. lol, sorry.

(Anyone else know?)

Mortar&Pestle · 06-27-2007, 01:59 PM

You used 'bruises' in the middle of the story. I think you meant 'spots' as the reveal isn't until the end.

I still thing the child should be older. Either that or change her dialogue.

elizabeth_472 · 06-27-2007, 07:31 PM

Thanks for commenting everyone!

Mortar&Pestle, thanks for catching that. Wow, I can't believe no one else, or even myself, caught that.