Blocking Out Something Better
A Doll Named Fighter
A broken melody emitted from the wooden block. I tweaked its antenna glued on top, the sound coming in clear. You could hear a new nursery rhyme over the airwaves, and all the other children came down the lost corridor, excited to sing along.
Just until then, it seemed as though they forgot about me. In absent thought, in absent laughter, the Peg-dolls were free to feel nothing. My brothers and sisters chose to do so. They escaped the scary thought; their existence trembled and wobbled in the hands of a trembling little boy named George. It was difficult to aspire, to love, to hurt. Instead, my siblings only felt an awareness to relieve any newcomers, giving them the chance to lose themselves as well.
“Braid the hair,” pressed my sister. So I braided and focused. I got lost in the thread, combing the frays, twining the rope. “The color is dark,” she lamented.
“The color is light,” I convinced her. “Very pretty.”
She slowly turned around, no need to carve a smile. And I smiled back, coming close, knocking wood between our foreheads. If she wasn’t feeling for herself, I would feel for both of us.
Then midnight chimed on a grandfather clock, and everyone giggled for playtime. The Peg-dolls loved playing by dark. Their whispers were accompanied with close physical contact, tenderness in their nature but far from parental, which is how it might be conveyed in a game of House, tonight’s game.
Someone had to be the mother though, and my blonde sister called out to me, “You be Mom.” All the children thought I played the role best; my husband could never compete for the kids. However the husband was played by girl-dolls, seeing a shortage of boy-dolls.
So the offspring fled our planning circle, frolicking unlike themselves, and more like kids playing kids. They were more aimless, my husband excluded. The dreary and dullest of the Peg-dolls, Freda stood a firm patriarch. She gazed from the bay window into the pitch black nothing outside. There was neither a sky nor stars, but Freda beamed a smile like sunshine, compelling me toward her. Maybe she found solace within our safe walls, not just grinning stupidly.
I started to wade past the frolicking children who were doing jumping jacks and skipping. My children were ready to hear me. ‘Calm down, little ones,’ they anticipated. But it never arrived and I joined them instead.
Just until then, it seemed as though they forgot about me. In absent thought, in absent laughter, the Peg-dolls were free to feel nothing. My brothers and sisters chose to do so. They escaped the scary thought; their existence trembled and wobbled in the hands of a trembling little boy named George. It was difficult to aspire, to love, to hurt. Instead, my siblings only felt an awareness to relieve any newcomers, giving them the chance to lose themselves as well.
“Braid the hair,” pressed my sister. So I braided and focused. I got lost in the thread, combing the frays, twining the rope. “The color is dark,” she lamented.
“The color is light,” I convinced her. “Very pretty.”
She slowly turned around, no need to carve a smile. And I smiled back, coming close, knocking wood between our foreheads. If she wasn’t feeling for herself, I would feel for both of us.
Then midnight chimed on a grandfather clock, and everyone giggled for playtime. The Peg-dolls loved playing by dark. Their whispers were accompanied with close physical contact, tenderness in their nature but far from parental, which is how it might be conveyed in a game of House, tonight’s game.
Someone had to be the mother though, and my blonde sister called out to me, “You be Mom.” All the children thought I played the role best; my husband could never compete for the kids. However the husband was played by girl-dolls, seeing a shortage of boy-dolls.
So the offspring fled our planning circle, frolicking unlike themselves, and more like kids playing kids. They were more aimless, my husband excluded. The dreary and dullest of the Peg-dolls, Freda stood a firm patriarch. She gazed from the bay window into the pitch black nothing outside. There was neither a sky nor stars, but Freda beamed a smile like sunshine, compelling me toward her. Maybe she found solace within our safe walls, not just grinning stupidly.
I started to wade past the frolicking children who were doing jumping jacks and skipping. My children were ready to hear me. ‘Calm down, little ones,’ they anticipated. But it never arrived and I joined them instead.