Momma - Pure Pulp

by: Brooke M. Shields

(c) brooke m. shields

		Momma.
	She gave God permission to 


create the universe, then she ruled it 
from her living room throne. From 


there, she barked her orders with a 
voice that was known to make bats fall 


from the sky, and her son scurried to 
obey, lest the wrath of Momma fall upon 


him.

	He played in quiet. He didn't 
want Momma to hear him and 

decide he 
was having too much fun. He tip-toed 
around the house, being very 

careful 
not to touch anything, but accidents 
have an evil way of 

happening.

	Crash. Horror. A lamp lay 
shattered. A voice shook the 


foundations of the house, demanding to 
know what broke. He felt the tremors 

of
 footsteps coming nearer.

	The sun burned out, darkness 
covered the 

Earth. Momma appeared, her 
shadow covered the boy.

	She was enormous. She was 


everywhere. She was the mountain known 
as Momma. Her head was snowcapped, 

pine
 trees grew down her back, and a goat 
was perched precariously on her 


shoulder.
	Of course, the lamp was her 
favorite. All things, once 

broken, were
 her favorites.
	Her screaming killed a nearby 
geranium, but 

the boy survived it, 
wishing he was as weak as a plant.
 Soon, he was bent over 

her lap, his 
bare bottom an easy target as she 
raised the belt strap above her 

head.

	Afterwards, he hid behind a 
bush in the back yard, crying, but he 


wasn't safe, even there. God was an 
agent of Momma. She had convinced the 


boy that the angry God waited on a 
purple cloud with a lightning bolt in 
his 

fist, waiting for some hapless lad 
to talk bad  about his loving mother.

	

The boy never talked bad. He 
simply cried.

		Momma.
	She 

demanded excellence from 
her son, the boy genius. Anything less 
than perfection 

resulted in punishment.

	The boy walked home, with paper-
evil heavy in his 

back-pack. It was a 
report card that his Momma had to sign,
 or the teacher would 

call the house.

	If Momma ever got a call from 
school, it meant 

blood-loss.

	The boy genius had made an 
unprecedented accomplishment this 

time.
 In his mind, he heard Momma slowly 
reading aloud his grades as her anger 


mounted. "F. F. F. F. F."

	Uck.

	Maybe he would be lucky this 


time and get the wooden spoon.

	It hurt less than the belt.

		

Momma.
	From her living room throne she
 passed judgment on all mankind, 


dividing them into two groups of good 
and bad; Nice People and No-Teeth 


People.
	The boy stumbled into puberty 
with all the grace of a rat on a hot 


frying pan. He perfected the art of 
noiseless masturbation, but even still,
 

every orgasm was over-shadowed by the 
fear that his Momma would hear him and 


discover his sin. The worry never left 
him, even if he masturbated in the 


shower and scrubbed the tub afterwards. 
He dreaded the unholy vengeance that 


Momma would take if she ever found out.
 The boy was convinced that the Devil 


was whispering in her ear, "Do you know 
what your son is doing?"

	

Along with his fascination for 
masturbation, came a hitherto unheard 
of interest 

in girls. He began to 
notice the blossoming breasts of his 
female classmates, and 

for reasons 
unknown to him, he wanted them. He had 
no idea what he would do if he 

had 
them, but his desire went unquestioned.

	His wandering eyes never 


wandered far from a girl with black hair, who would giggle at him with a 
silver 

smile. Egad, there's beauty in 
braces! She commanded his lust with her
 black 

hair and 
her black eyes and beautiful braces and 
her blossoming breasts. 
	

He did his best to conceal his 
crush, but Momma somehow knew. She 
explained to 

him in a voice that only a 
paper shredder could envy that she was 
Puerto Rican, 

and her family was poor, 
and her father drank, and her mother 
dyed her hair red, 

and they lived in a 
bad neighborhood, and she was Puerto 
Rican, and they were 

greasy dirty 
people, and her father was a garbage 
man, and their house was 

furnished with 
garbage, and her mother didn't speak 
English very well, and she 

was Puerto 
Rican, and therefore, she was No-Teeth 
People.
	The boy listened 

and nodded and 
didn't dare talk to the black-haired 
girl again, for his Momma 

forbade it.

	But secretly, the boy knew the
 girl couldn't be No-Teeth 

People. Her 
teeth were merely hidden behind 
beautiful braces that made her smile 


seem silver.

		Momma.
	She dressed her son the way a 


boy ought to be dressed, and any 
mothers who dressed their sons 
differently 

were No-Teeth People. 
	Unfortunately for the boy, the 
clothes a boy ought to 

be dressed in 
went out of style when a leech was 
still a doctor's best friend. 



	High School is a miserable 
place for a boy who can't find friends 


among peers, and his ancient garb 
alienated him, and acted as an 
effective 

barrier against 
socialization. 
	He finally found some courage 
hidden in a 

corner of his heart, and he 
confronted Momma on the wardrobe issue.

	But his 

Momma worked hard to 
put the clothes on his back, and how 
could he be such an 

ingrate? And if he 
didn't like his clothes, which Momma 
washed for him, he could 

go to school 
naked.
	Which would it be? Eternal 
humiliation or the 

righteous 
retribution of Momma against her 
rebellious son?
	The next day, the 

children 
laughed at his clothes again.

		Momma.
She was in 

control of all things, 
always. She dictated to her son what 
was right and what 

was wrong, and 
allowed her son an opinion only when it 
matched her own. Any other 

way of 
thinking was showing disrespect for 
Momma's feelings, a mortal sin. 
	

She realized that when he went 
to school, her son was being exposed to 
things she 

had no control of, and it 
worried her. When he asked her if he 
could go to a 

concert, she flatly 
refused.
	How could he not see the logic?
 There were 

drugs there, and criminals.
 Only No-Teeth People listened to that 
kind of music, 

anyway. He could get 
mugged, kidnapped, or killed. It wasn't
 worth the risk, and 

was therefore out 
of the question.
	Momma relaxed when her son 
walked 

away dejectedly, without even an
 argument. Another battle won.
	But when her son 

didn't return 
home the night of the concert, she sat 
up all night by the front 

door, 
waiting. She would glance at her watch 
occasionally and stroke the worn 


leather strap she clutched tightly in 
her fist.
	A car pulled up, stopped, 

and 
then pulled away, having unloaded its 
cargo: One Wayward Son.
	When he 

opened the door, he 
knew she would be there. Immediately, 
the screaming began. 

She told him to 
turn around and face his punishment. 
She waved the belt in the 

air while she
 hollered her foul curses. 
	Force of habit almost made the 


boy submit, but somehow, he fought the 
urge. He looked at his Momma 


objectively as she yelled like a 
lunatic. He realized she was no longer 
the 

mountainous Momma she used to be, in fact, the boy was now taller than 
the Momma.
	

But Momma still saw the child 
when she saw her son, and she tried to 
hit her son 

with the leather strap. The 
boy promptly took it away from her.

	For the 

first time in a long 
time, Momma was speechless. The boy 
celebrated with a good 

night's sleep.

		Momma.
	She paid for college out of the
 

goodness of her heart, provided she 
could wield those bills as a weapon to 


control her son. She wouldn't pay for a
 dorm room, so the boy was forced to 


commute. If he stepped out of line, she
 threatened to yank his funding.

	

By making her son commute, she 
was able to save him from the bad 
influences of 

campus life, such as 
drugs, alcohol, loose women, and no-
good friends.
	

Momma saw the rebelliousness in 
him growing, and she didn't know how to 
stop it, 

except by threatening him. But
 when she thought back, he was a rebel 
even as a 

little boy, when he would 
break her favorite things on purpose. 

	One of 

Momma's greatest fears 
was that he would start dating, and 
some floozy would 

ruin him. No one had 
the right to warp his weak mind, 
barring only Momma. But, 

despite her 
best efforts, she knew it was happening.
	He tried to hide from 

her. He 
tried to convince her that he was going
 to the library, but Momma could 

detect 
a lie with an ease that was eerie.

	She followed him one afternoon 


to the doorstep of a house where No-
Teeth Mexicans lived, and to her 
horror, 

she saw a Mexican whore emerge 
from the den of filth and defile her 
pure son with 

her putrid lips.
	A cry of rage announced her 
presence, and she grabbed her son 

by 
the ear and led him off, shouting 
obscene oaths that made the Devil's 


ears bleed.
	When the boy moved out of her 
house the next day, she 

retaliated by 
announcing that she would no longer pay 
for college. It annoyed her 

a great 
deal when her son took out a student 
loan and got a job.
	Momma was 

sure that he would be 
back as soon as he realized how tough 
the real world could 

be, but in the 
mean time, she was alone in the house 
that was her kingdom for the 

first time 
in years. She had a private cry, and 
every time a tear hit the living 

room 
throne, she wondered what went wrong, 
raising the boy.

Momma.
	

She tried everything in her 
power to show the boy the error of his 
ways, but her 

once vast control had 
slipped away, and was vanishing 
entirely. Momma was 

convinced that it 
was the Mexican Whore's fault.
	The Mexican Whore had 

driven a 
rift between her and her son, and that 
was unforgivable. She called the 

boy 
daily, begging him not to go through 
with the wedding, imploring him to see 


her for the No-Teeth People that she 
really was, but the boy would have 
none. 

He was completely brainwashed.
	When Momma appeared at the 
wedding and 

publicly disowned her son 
and predicted that the marriage 
wouldn't last a year, 

she was confident 
that her son would come crawling back, 
begging for her 

forgiveness. Maybe she 
would even let him move back in.
	As Momma grew older and 

her 
health deteriorated, she was still firm
 in her belief that her son would 


return as soon as his marriage failed.

	She was still waiting.
	

Any day now.
		Momma.
	She knew that there would be a 
great 

period of mourning when she died,
 and dozens of people wearing black 
would weep 

for her.
	The thought of so much misery 
made her smile as she passed away, 


alone in her kingdom.

		Momma.
	She was buried underneath 

a 
tombstone with no epitaph, only her 
name and the years that she lived.

	

Only her son came to watch her 
body being lowered into the ground. He 
remembered 

her sitting on her living 
room throne, and he imagined her 
sitting on a golden 

throne in Hell, 
barking orders to the Devil, and 
watching him scurry to 

obey.

		Momma.
Though her grip was gone, the marks 
from her nails 

­remained.
	The happy marriage was 
interrupted occasionally by arguments,
 as 

all marriages are, but the boy had 
rarely been on the winning side of an 


argument. His beautiful Mexican wife, 
whom he loved, would scream at him, 


much the way Momma did... too much the 
way Momma did. An overwhelming desire 


to shut her up before she turned into 
Momma resulted in a raised hand and a 


smack across the mouth, followed by 
silence.
	...
	And then, "I'm 

sorry."

	But the bride cried. The man 
vowed never again to strike his wife, 


and kept his vow.

	Until the next time his wife 
raised her voice, and 

the shrill 
accusations brought forth a memory of 
Momma, and he had to beat her 

back into
 the grave.

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