The ugly monkey baby was back in the crib, never quite remembering how it got there or when and who let it out or put it away like a toy. Must be mother Cuckoo.
The door was shut and the window with blunted afternoon sun was closed. But the pretty blue curtains with orange-yellow flowers blew inwards towards the crib with an unfelt breeze.
That's not right. A shut window should not have curtains moving. There was an old fan on the dresser that was not on. The ugly monkey could hear a swishing of whispering in the room. It seemed to be coming from the unopened window, from the blowing curtains, the only window in the small room.
"MOMMY!" The ugly monkey called out, hoping that mother Cuckoo would come in quickly. But she didn't come in. There was no sound of movement from the other side of the door.
The ugly monkey stood in the middle of the crib, leaning forward slightly, listening to the whispers that seemed to come from the fluttering curtains. The little ugly monkey creature in the crib slowly leaned forward and leaned slowly more forward, straining its little monkey ears to listen. The whispers seemed to become a little louder and a little louder, from two particular flowers within the cloned print of flowers near the curtains center to the left.
"Sshhh. I think it's listening." One flower, shorter than the other, seemed to move independent of the material that bobbed beneath it.
The flower to the right was longer stemmed with its bloom tipped conspiratively to the other and independently bobbed in reply. Wad it the tall one that said, "I don't like it, do you?"
And the other said, "No. I don't like it. I think I'll bite it."
A small sharp pain, like a mean pinch, seized on the tiny knuckles of the ugly monkey baby, making it screscreech and cry out, "MOMMY!"
Still, the closed door remained silent.
"MOMMY!" The ugly little monkey cried out again. And still no answer .
The curtains slowly stopped fluttering in the wake of giggling flowers.
"Mommy." The hideous little thing in the crib mewled and sobbed. No one was coming. The ugly monkey sat on its pillow, tucking its pajama nightgown under its toes as it cried, twisting its crooked little legs under itself lest something bite at its feet, too. It looked at the small pink mark marring near the webbing of its left pinky and hiccupped with sniffles.
Only in grief filled silence did the beautiful mother Cuckoo finally come to take the ugly monkey into the living room to turn on the television, to the channel with the cartoon of the fat, yelling caveman. A dish with a partially cooked egg and broiled toast was set in the little monkey's lap as it sat on that recliner where a monster possibly lurked beneath.
Dinosaurs were being used as if innovatively. A car worked by a rectangular hole in the floor where the driver ran while sitting and driving from the driver's seat. It was still a terribly unliked cartoon.
Christabelle might be back soon and play. But night would come and ugly monkey would be put back into the crib and be expected to sleep.
The caveman was yelling again, always yelling.
(to be continued... )
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