SSS Week One: The Heart Breaking Butt-Itch

I need to write some more.

Like, really. 

Which is why, my darling readers, I've decided to start a new segment (is that word only supposed to be used for podcasts and vlogs??) on this little blog of mine called *insert drum roll here* Short Story Sunday!

I'm sure the title speaks for itself, but I'm going to explain it, anyway:

On Sundays, I'll write short stories.

Yup. That explains it pretty well. 

As many of you know, I suffer from an illness called *gulps and whispers* writer's block. It's absolutely horrid! 

For those of you who don't know what writer's block is, basically, I've so little an imagination that I often don't know what to write. However, just as there's cold medicine for colds, cough syrup for coughs, and Adele's music for broken hearts, there's a cure for writer's block!

Writing prompts are ideas and inspirations for writers. Some writing prompts may say something along the lines of: "Write a story that ends with the phrase,  'Thanks, Obama!' " or, some may say something more complex like: "Rewrite William Shakespeare's Hamlet in the writing style of Dr Seuss" and other ideas of the sorts.

It's been rather hard for me lately to find some interesting, not-at-all-boring writing prompts on the world wide web. Most prompt websites show basic prompts of the uninspiring nature. However, the one website that I constantly go to for prompts is Reddit. Just about every prompt I've seen was rather exciting, and they've enough prompts to get me over the hump for a little while.

The prompt I've chosen for today is:


Write a truly heartbreaking story that has a character speaking aloud the phrase: "My butt itches."

This one was rather fun to write, I must admit. I had a simple, basic plot in mind, but I think I added a bit more details and sadness than I was expecting. However, I rather like it.

Other stories for Short Story Sunday hopefully won't be as sad as this one-- for I've been wanting to practice my humour writing-- so if you don't like, please don't think all my other stories will be like it. Don't give up on me, baby! 

The point of Short Story Sunday is to pump up my creative juices and practice new writing styles and genres.

Also, before I post my story, if I have any writer-readers out there, I welcome you to join me in Short Story Sunday by writing a short of your own. I would love to see what other people come up with for this and future prompts! Just comment below a link to your short story or email me, and I'll read it gladly.

Now, I believe that's all that needs to be said. Here's the story:



He was only a baby.

Well, of course, thirty-six is no age for an infant, but age didn't matter to his momma. He was still her little baby, her boy, her Sunshine.

He had always been a momma's boy, from the day he was born to the day this very story takes place. He never left her side as a toddler, always wrapping his little baby hands around her index and middle fingers and hiding behind her leg, for he was a rather shy boy. His father always scolded his mother for "babying the lad", but she didn't care. Neither did her baby.

When he grew into a "big boy", potty trained and old enough to go to school, she would always wipe the boy's red and wet cheeks after coming home bawling. All the other little boys didn't seem to want to be his friend. Half of them didn't seem to notice him, while the other half didn't seem to notice his hurt expression and the sound of his breaking heart as they pointed and laughed at him.

Stupid. It was a bad word. O, at least, that's what his momma had often told him. Stupid, idiot, and ugly. Those words were off-limits. He didn't dare say them, for he knew his momma would punish him for doing so. That is why the little boy was so confused as he heard the other boys chant those bad words over and over, addressed to him and only him. Momma had told him those were bad words because they make people feel bad. He completely understood.

Day after day, the boy would come home crying, burying his face into his mother's neck as she held and rocked him in the old wicker chair, rubbing his back and listening as he recollected the situation that seemed to repeat itself. As he sniffed and drooled on the shoulder of her shirt, his momma would place her gentle lips to his temple and clear her throat. She would tell him that people weren't always nice, were bullies, and if she had the power, she would stop them all. "But I can't, Sunshine," she whispered in a tone only he could hear. "All I can do is pray and wipe your tears afterwards." And that she did.

His momma always said the best prayers. She prayed not like the preacher did every Sunday morning, adding emphasis on random words and working up a sweat. She prayed as though she were having a conversation with God, as though He was her longest and closest friend. Her words were gentle and calming, shaky every now and then, but it was still beautiful.

She would cry too, though he didn't know it. As he spoke, tears would roll down her face and drip almost in slow motion into his hair. She would cry quietly as he spoke and quietly as she prayed. He never seemed to notice her identical wet cheeks and shaky voice, but it was probably for the better that he didn't.

After talking to God, she would sing. It was beautiful despite the fact that his momma had never been a singer. She never joined the choir and could never keep a tune, but she sang to him, telling him that he was her Sunshine, that he made her happy, and that he would never know how much she loved him. That always soothed his sobs, leaving him with a wet face from past tears only and a little mouth slightly ajar as he slept peacefully against her.

It remained that way until he grew into a young adult. He began to realise that people treated him differently. Either they were mean, or they didn't talk to him, or they spoke to him as if he were a baby. He had to go to "special" classes in school, was always being followed around by a teacher who was only his. He just wanted to be normal, and he didn't know why he wasn't. Some people called him ill and some called him mentally slow. Other's called him retarded and others called him short-bus special. He grew frustrated with the lack of normality. All his cousins were normal. His dad was normal. His momma was normal. Why couldn't he be?

Coming home from school in tears and anger, he yelled the hundreds of questions to his momma as he paced around the room she would crochet in. He wouldn't stop until he needed to catch his breath but then would quickly continue. Eventually, he would stop, face red and wet, and collapse on the couch beside his momma, sobbing into her lap.

She would rake her fingers through his hair, scratch at his scalp as she repeated the words in between sniffs that he would always remember and keep in his heart. "You're different, Sunshine, because God thought you were far too wonderful to be normal. He gave you quirks that other people don't have because you're His special creation."

The prayer that followed was as strong as all the other ones before, making the young man feel as though God, Himself, had wrapped His arms around him and was whispering how much He adored him in his ear.

The teenager knew the lyrics to the song by heart, but never joined in as his momma sang and played with his hair. He knew it wouldn't sound half as good, felt as though the song should only be sung by Momma and Momma alone.

The elderly woman sang those same words as she held her baby's hand in the hospital bed, looking at the man's tired face and eyes. "You are my sunshine... my only sunshine..." She cried as she sang and didn't stop singing until her husband came in after his talk with the doctor, shaking his head with wet, sad eyes.

Her grip on her son's hand tightened slightly, and the man squeezed back as he turned his head to look at her. "Momma?" He called her in a quiet voice.

"Yes,  baby?"

"My butt itches."

She patted his hand gently. "It's okay, Sunshine."

The man frowned. "But it does. My butt itches. These wires..." he looked down at the needles in his arms, "They're keeping me from scratching my itching butt. My butt itches."

The woman sobbed as the man closed his eyes and took his last breath, the grip on her hand loosening.

She thanked God for giving her Sunshine and told Him to take good care of him until she got to heaven herself. She thanked Him for taking away all of her baby's pain before death, including his itching rear.