Top definition. A little is someone that likes to act younger then they really are. It's kind of like having an alter ego that's much younger then yourself.
I was a kindergarten teacher at Sir Edwin Bower in Stratford for six years. It was a good school.
Force of habit, I suppose. Bombs and bullets. Witches and warlocks. Usually I could get the kids corrected with a time-out and a prayer. And … there was something else.
It was in late-November, during art time, while I was making my rounds of the classroom. I wrapped my hand around my cross necklace so hard that my fingernails which I forgot had been manicured the day before first time in years bit into the meat of my palms like a row of teeth. Sarah had drawn a picture of a woman … or what appeared to resemble one from the neck down.
Do you know what kids use the Banana Mania crayon for? Nine times out of ten they use it for the colour of skin. My upper lip twitched. I slowly lowered myself down to one knee, attempting to not make a scene in front of the other kids in the classroom, and tapped on a particularly concerning component of the image with my fingernail.
Now my hands began to shake. I stood up as a certain unwelcomed thought entered my mind. The drawing was inappropriate enough. This conception she had of her own mother, though, was unacceptable. I raised one open palm, and ….
Sarah protested of course, but I got her a Prince of Egypt connect-the-dots and she became complacent enough. Then I rushed to my desk and sat down with my hand covering my eyes, fondling the crucifix on my necklace as I scanned the grotesque drawing over … and over … and over …. Well, I knew Steven Walker, you see. Listen: I could have done standard procedure. I could have brought the drawing to Principal Todden, and we could have set up a parent-teacher interview to talk about original sin and the meaning of marriage.
Never too early to give a girl The Talk, you know. But I told you there was something else.
I had to know. But I hope you can appreciate how spooky a solo-stroll is in Stratford, at night, in late-November. Stratford is a century town that sits way out in the middle of Perth County — a sister city to one of the same name over in England.
The only thing is that when the sun goes down, when those felora fernandinas on every other building light up like impossibly unwavering candles, this whole town becomes rather … well, listen: a colleague once showed me some images online that showed how the city hall here looks eerily similar to the Danvers State Insane Asylum — especially at night. His house was on a large farm property right next to Willow Street, one of those old Edwardians that you see all over the place around here — built a hundred years ago, easily.
The moans of unseasonably warm wind against my face was like its breath, and that wind caused the Looking for little maples around me to twitch. The half moon looked down at me like some mad, sleep-deprived eye. I brought myself up the front steps which were in desperate need of repair, knocked on the black paint-chipped door.
As I waited I checked in my purse, where I had stored the drawing. And yet there it was, just as before: inappropriate, inappropriate Monster Mommy with the long fingers … deformed, scowling face … eyes like —.
The door suddenly made a soft clicking noise and I stuffed the paper back into my purse. That was odd. And why would he leave his daughter home alone?
Unless …. Now she began fidgeting with the hem of her Lego Movie shirt, her eyes drawn downcast. Not until she eats. I have to say that I was a little frightened now. Not allowed? Until she eats? Domestic abuse never even crossed my mind. Now I wondered if maybe what she drew had been the imaginative by-product of some kind of horror at home. I just need to speak to Daddy — about church.
A needle of guilt pressed into my heart as I wondered once more what, exactly, had got into me; telling lies to. Until Daddy comes home? I stepped inside and nudged the door closed with one shoulder, opting not to take my coat or my shoes off. Dread scratched at my consciousness with a dark claw as I thought about what s of home violence I might find; toppled furnishings, broken plates … or dried blood on the walls. Presently, however, I was met with none of those things, but it was still quite an off-putting place.
Everything was old. There was a rusty fire stove in the kitchen, cupboards so warped that they rested ajar on their hinges, and all the doors had those latch-lever things — no knobs or handles. All the walls were bare; no family photos or paintings or decorations.
There was a some modern stuff around — microwave, refrigerator, television set — but even they all looked long since neglected and uncared for. The air was redolent of old wood and old plasterboard which gave clear confirmation that, yes, I was standing in the throat of an elderly, centenarian structure. Sarah herself had hopped over to the living room table, and now she was scribbling away on some paper with more crayons. Additional sheets of paper marked with her scribbles were scattered all over the table; more drawings.
Curiosity called to me and I started towards her. Instinctively I put one hand over my heart. Sarah, what on Earth was that? Now she stopped drawing.
More from thought catalog
Oddly enough she turned away from me, to look out the night-blackened window of the living room, out into inky-dark countryside. The wind whistling around the eaves outside as those words echoed unpleasantly in the corridors of my mind. One thing I knew for certain, now, was that I had to look around and find out what was going on.
I considered my words carefully, not wanting to traumatize Sarah in the process. I took a step towards her and saw she was colouring with the Banana Mania Crayola once again. More pictures of Monster Mommy.
There’s something evil looking for little girls in stratford, and i’m finally ready to confess the truth behind what’s happening to them
All grim in their characteristics, but seemingly senseless scrawlings otherwise. Some looked like Mommy was crying. Then others had various versions of Mommy looking oddly obese.
None of them, however, came even close to the inappropriate nature of the one I had in my purse … except one. And oddly enough, that one had Mommy looking not like some devilish demon — but like a normal human. I took a deep, shaky breath.
Well, listen to me, sweetie. She gave me a funny look, a mingling mixture of disbelief and amusement. Yes, yes. That would be a nice thing, huh? Her voice went soft and she sang her words again, only this time it was like a clarinet in a nocturne. Stay here, now, Sarah.
Just stay here. Its red paint was chipped and it had an old latch handle was black wrought iron.
Of course. Th-thank you, Sarah. Mere meat.