The It Thing

By Michaela Jana, age 14

Mrs. Dawson is not a nice lady, a fair lady, sure, a practical lady, without a shadow of a doubt but a one thing is for sure she is not a nice lady.

Mrs. Dawson and the creature consider each other for a moment. Neither of them panicked or shriek. Mrs. Dawson thinks to herself ‘That is one very ugly cat’

And the creature cocks its head to the side as if thinking ‘That is one very ugly woman’

Mrs. Dawson thinks about throwing the scissors at it but as if it read her mind in gives a choke like hiss and positions itself the way a tiger about to pounce would.

Perhaps she could yell, shriek, scream for dear life but what good would that do? Startle it further, besides its too late to start being afraid.

It kept glancing back with one of its eyes at the grape plant which it was reaching desperately at the high brambles just earlier.

Then it hits her.

Mrs. Dawson reaches deep within her expertly woven reed basket and takes out one half of her sandwich made by Frank the house boy for her ‘trip’.

Tuna. That Frank will be the death of her she reckons, tuna on a weekday.

She throws it at the creature and it lands right in front of its left paw.

It recoils like a child presented with a good strong leather belt. The creatures eyes, all four of them, all Ruby red four them in what some may call disapproval.

Turkey on a Tuesday.

You just can’t trust a person like that the creature knows it and Mrs. Dawson definitely knows it and I know it and you quite obviously know it.

The creature eyes the sandwich suspiciously, sniffing the air around it before taking out its long lizard like tongue to have a taste.

“Nasty eating habits” Mrs. Dawson grunts, Mr. Dawson used to eat like that, like the food would grow legs and run right off his plate. And the doctors claimed ‘it’s a wonder how he got heart failure’.

The creature hissed as if saying ‘If I could grow hands I would’.

That’s certainly no excuse thought Mrs. Dawson, as the creature snuffed down the sandwich savagely. She scrunched up her already wrinkled nose making her look like a crumpled up paper.

Mrs. Dawson brought out her scissors and attempted to cut some grapes off the vine, the creature let out a harsh cry like nails on a chalk board jumping back into position.

Tantrums.

Mrs. Dawson had seven urchins of her own, all married of somewhere in Britain or Botswana or Brazil or B-Australia. Doing graphic design or It engineering even customer service for Pete’s sake!

You can’t reason with people like that, that’s why Mrs. Dawson why Mrs. Dawson firmly believes she has failed as their guardian.

Never again.

She was far too soft with them, the creature was like an insubordinate child, all an insubordinate child needs is a sharp nudge in the right direction.

So she kicked it.

Hold on, hold on, hold on don’t get your animal activist knickers in a twist. It wasn’t a full blown kung fu kick, just a gentle push by foot. It didn’t hiss, it just squinted its eyes and dragged its sandwich to a kick-free zone

“I don’t tolerate gormandizers”

She re-placed her scissors English silver, though not fond of foreign trading Mrs. Dawson knew when to admit defeat. It was a darn beauty.

Embezzled with small grapes and leaves skilfully crafted, notice how I said crafted not manufactured like most things nowadays; food, clothing, body parts no these were forged splendidly.

Now, Mrs. Dawson was not one for fuss and frill, an unshakeable believe in the use of an object is its only use, but Mrs. Dawson had to admit it didn’t hurt to have something nice.

She could here the creature wet lips smacking and masticating the poor tuna sandwich as if unable to taste the unique flavour without it. To put it simply it was hungry.

As handsome as the scissors were they were also dead useful as well they sliced right through the thin branch.

Once she’d sliced a good portion of the lonely vegetation, basket filled to the brim with sweet grapes, after she’d washed them down with her grey water. Once she’d taken a comfortable 5 star seat on the damp grass next to the creature.

“Eat” She said, throwing one on a tissue white tissue paper placing it next to the corpse of the scraps of the tuna sandwich.

The creature approached her cautiously, it was about take out its lizard tongue and stuff its face into the bunch but Mrs. Dawson pulled the tissue away scowling.

“Like this” She instructed, she took out her thin fingers like raisins ad picked a grape from her own group and popped them into her mouth.

The creatures eyes turned to slots and bared it’s teeth, it remained silent instead attempting to violently snatching up a grape only for it to slip through its razor sharp claws like a greased pig.

“You must be gentle”

She popped two more into her mouth and gestured for it to mimic her. It begrudgingly took one into its small hand like a racoon.

It popped one into its mouth.

Mrs. Dawson quite nearly smiled when it’s eyes turned to bright red round Frisbees and smiled showing its shark like rows of teeth and stuffed its mouth, chittering with joy.

“Slow down” The woman says calmly.

It doesn’t slow down.

That didn’t matter, Mrs. Dawson wasn’t happy or nice or pretty and the creature wasn’t happy nor nice nor pretty.

They were contempt or satisfied or at peace.

The creature and the woman considered each other for moment.

The woman: wrinkled, wax skinned, grey haired, sour faced- the latter four eyed, fur matted, yellow teethed, snake bodied.

Mrs. Dawson and the creature considered each other for a moment then considered staying like this forever.