Spot is a very special smile. Yes, he lives in Smile Town, eats the only ways smiles can, and dresses like a regular smile. But there's something about Spot that makes him unique. The other smiles aren't sure what it is, and he's not quite sure himself. But he doesn't care; he is special, unlike all the other smiles that try to reassure themselves that they're different, but are in actuality replicas of the smiles that came before him. Spot likes it this way, but tries not to lord it over the others.
Well, one day Spot was in the woods playing with some very handsome smiles.
"You're it, Spot!"
"No, I'm not! You only got my lip! We're playing teeth-tag, remember, Johnny?"
"Oh, you're right. Sorry."
"Count to sixty again, Johnny," shouted another boy - Brent - from behind a tree.
So as the counting started, Spot ran off to find his friends and a good hideout from Johnny, who was his mortal enemy from the start of this game.
He found his pal named Chuck after jogging for a couple minutes. Chuck was hiding under between two boulders.
"Howdy, Chuck, old chap."
"Spot, never say that word again."
"What, howdy? I know Texans are weird, Chuck, but we shouldn't be afraid to use their slang. The slang doesn't make the person. Besides, I don't like hearing any discrim'atin' remarks against my fellow Ameri..."
"No, Spot, I mean 'chap'."
"Oh, okay. Yeah, I don't see anything wrong with making fun of the English. Yesterday in math class - or maybe it was English...I don't know, it was one with all the history - the teacher was saying how those stinkin' English once thought they would rule of Americans, and I just about ralphed up my mom's spaghetti...or maybe it was mac-and-cheese. You probably couldn't have telled..."
"No, no, Spot. I don't have any problem with the English."
Spot gasped.
"It's just my lips have been chapped for hours," continued Chuck, "I was bleeding just a moment ago. At first I thought it was a...mommy thing....but I asked my mom and she said that would be impossible. She said I just needed some water. I tried some water but it just got worse! Then I tried drooling over some of these hot mommas..."
Chuck withdrew a Playlip magazine from his pocket. Spot's eyes widened; Chuck cocked his head triumphantly, replaced it in his pocket, and continued speaking.
"...but that didn't work neither! What should I do?"
Spot said nothing. He was still in too much shock from what he had just seen. Lips with lipstick. Barenaked teeth - no scum on any of them! One of them even had a t-t-toothpick(!) and floss! It was just too much for a twelve-year-old smile to handle. He wasn't a Christian, but he still had morals. Or, rather, his parents had morals of their own that they forced upon him. This most definitely crossed their moral standards for him. But this was his best friend Chuck who had the magazine!
"What should I do?" repeated Chuck.
"Throw it away," muttered Spot in only a half-voice.
"Well, I would, but I'd feel kind of strange without lips," he replied with a strange look on his face.
"No, Chuck. I mean throw away the magazine."
"Are you crazy? Do you know how much work it took to get this?"
"It smells too gross to have come from anywhere but the trash can. You didn't do any work."
"Oh, really? Since when did you grow opposable thumbs, Spot? I had to scrub my tongue for hours, and even after that I needed about four mints."
"But Chuck, we're too young for that stuff. Look at you. You've got braces!"
"But don't you like the feelings it gives you?"
"What feelings? All it makes me want to do is barf mom's......whatever it was."
"Heh," smirked Chuck, "No wonder you're so weird. You're probably not even a real smile."
And then, for the first time in his life, it struck him. That must be the answer, thought Spot. I'm not a real smile. No wonder. All these years, I had thought I was a lush, beatiful flower surrounded by pointy, freakish, needles on a cactus. But it turns out I'm a needle too - one made out of wax.
Spot turned and walked away. Chuck called him back, told him it was a joke, but Spot was out of sight before he finished his last sentence.
***
Spot was found in his bedroom the next day. Or, more precisely, Spot's body was found in his bedroom the next day. In his shirt pocket was a list of names and things. The police assumed it was a will. Upon listening to various stories from Spot's various friends, especially the one named Chuck, they decided his death was a suicide. There was no proof, though; no cord, no bullet hole, no gun, no bathtub full of water, no razor blades. Indeed, his body was completely in tact. Perhaps the most unnevering part of his death was that his eyes were wide open when his body was found.
***
On Spot's funeral - they decided on open casket; his body was well too in tact, and his face still showed too much compassion too let it be a closed casket - Chuck went up to the casket too look upon his friend once more. Too his astonishment, he saw Spot follow him with Spot's own eyes. He didn't believe it at first. He assumed it was either an illusion, 'caused from a trick of the eye or perhaps wishful thinking. So, too reassure himself, he walked forwards than immediately walked backwards, showing little warning. The eyes followed. Then he saw Spot's lips move. And, as they moved, Chuck realized something he hadn't noticed before. Spot was no longer a smile; he was a frown. I didn't kill Spot, thought Chuck. I just helped him find his own identity.
"Thank...you..." whispered Spot. It was the faintest sound Chuck had ever heard. He knew it was nearly impossible for a frown to talk to a smile, so he understood how much effort it must have taken Spot to say those words.
"Your welcome," said Chuck. He sat back down in his chair, took out a pen, and scribbled some words on a peice of paper - smiles and frowns could not easily communicate, but both were fully literate. He then placed the paper inside a familiar naughty magazine, and put the magazine in Spot's cask - no, bed. Chuck told Spot's family of his discovery, and left the church.
posted
Wow. No link included, but I feel you should still get dobie points for the sheer number of hours you spent on that one.
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