Sitting in the window sill, the sun hit my fur and purring as loud as a motor. I am the one they call ‘Fluffy’, they call my name, expecting me to get up and go to them, but I don’t. I sit on my butt and yell at them when I want food, and they bend to my every command, getting me food. Toys I don’t play with lay on the floor to never be touched, and the box I lay within is scratched to hell and back. The sun will set, and when it does, I will be speed.
Hello tiny clown at the bottom of the bin, don’t frown, the children will come soon. We all hear you cry in the night because nobody wants to play with you. The teeth in your mouth grow crooked, and your eyes droop, all excitement washed away. But it’s ok, tiny clown, the children will love you even if your hair falls out and your hands are nothing but cloth. The children are here, they clap their hands and pull toys out, and there you go, being pulled from the bottom. But they toss you, as nobody wants an ugly clown.
The smell of old furniture and the sound of a sewing machine, patterns lay about on the floor, and buttons decorate the desk that was pulled out. Looking out the window to a dark and gloomy day, it seems like a great time to make another one. Picking up a pattern and sewing it together, leaving space open for stuffing, and looking at the options of buttons. Large ones, small ones, colorful to dull. It’s so hard to choose. But don’t worry little one you will have the perfect buttons.