jane

When they found Miriam Roth slumped over her kitchen table on Christmas morning in 1986, she was clutching a tiny doll in her right hand and a handmade Christmas card from her 6 year old son in her left. The doll - no more than 4 inches tall by 2 inches wide - was a grotesque thing: bald head, spooky eyes , dressed more like something from The Outer Limits than the Mexican freedom fighter he was supposed to be. Miriam had made it from pipe cleaners, Styrofoam, ric rac and some old felt she had used in other projects. Noah, directing her every move, had sat next to her as she cut and glued her way to Jacob.###
A detective tried to pry the doll loose from her hand, but rigor had set in and he knew he would have to wait for the coroner to work her magic before he could examine it. A patrolman laughed at the doll and wondered out loud if it had something to do with voodoo; it certainly looked strange enough. Though in truth, he had to admit he hadn’t found anything in the apartment to give any indication that she was a practitioner. In fact, beyond the furniture and her clothes, there were no personal items to be found anywhere.###
…Miriam held Noah’s last Christmas card to her in her left hand as she examined the doll. It was in the early days of Noah’s chemotherapy when they had made it. Well, she had made it; Noah directed. Afterwards, Noah held onto it for dear life. He told Jacob things he couldn’t tell her: like how scared he was that he wasn’t going to get better and how he would miss his mommy and his friends if he died and how he wondered what God would be like and would he like him. There had been mixed messages in Church; he wasn’t at all sure about God. He knew God was sometimes an avenger and punisher and sometimes the God of love. He wondered which one he would meet.###
Noah had been holding Jacob as he drifted into a coma that Christmas Eve a year ago and Miriam had crawled into Noah’s hospital bed to hold them both. ###
She felt guilty leaving Jacob behind to an unknown fate, but there was nothing to be done about it.###
Clutching him now as she drifted into her own uncertain darkness, Jacob’s face lit the way.###

lydia mayer

Olga put a few pieces of yarn on Misha’s head. Then she put a little felt hat on top of that. She looked at Misha and Misha looked at her. “What do you think,” she asked? No one answered. She took off the felt hat and the yarn she was using for Misha’s hair. She looked at Misha again. Misha did not have a mouth, so Olga decided to paint one on. “There,” she said, “now you look happy,” but there was something missing.” Olga took a piece of ribbon from her little storage box and wrapped it around Misha. “I like it Misha.” Then she placed a little ball of yarn on Misha’s lap and placed him on a little yellow box. Now you look perfect,” she said. “Kasha is going to love this,”, she said.

Olga went to show her friend Kasha what she had done. Kasha was the one who gave her the little doll. The doll was given to Kasha when she first came to the orphanage by an older girl who was leaving the orphanage. Now it was Kasha’s turn to leave and she felt Olga should have the doll.

Kasha remembered when Olga first came to the orphanage. She was angry and fighting. She was trying to get out of the hands of the people who brought her to the orphanage. When they finally let her go, she started throwing things. She threw anything she could get her hands on. They grabbed her again and threw her into the shower. When Olga came out of the shower she was dressed in the same uniform all the other girls wore. Olga did not like it. She tore the pockets and pulled out the buttons. After a while Olga realized she wasn’t getting a new one, so she stopped. Olga hated this place. Kasha understood. She tried to be kind to Olga, no matter how mean Olga was to her. Kasha knew if she continued to be kind and patient, Olga would eventually come around and eventually Olga did.
Kasha felt sad. She would be leaving the orphanage the next day, but she still hadn’t told Olga. She knew Olga would not take it well. Nonetheless, she had to tell her now. Kasha walked over to Olga’s room and said “hi Olga.” Olga said, “Oh Kasha, I have a surprise for you.” “Look,” she said.” Olga showed Kasha what she did with Misha. “Oh Olga,” said Kasha. “He looks brand new.” Kasha gave Olga a hug. Olga was happy that Kasha liked what she did. She smiled a big happy smile.
“Olga, I am so happy that you like Misha.” said Kasha. “I know that you will take very good care of him when I leave.” “When you leave,” Olga asked? She was confused. “Yes, said Kasha.” “I will be leaving the orphanage tomorrow.” Olga did not say a word. She lowered her eyes and then ran out of the room. “Olga” cried Kasha. Olga did not turn around. Kasha tried to run after her but she could not find her. “Olga,” Kasha cried out again, but Olga did not respond. The other girls said “Kasha,” you know how Olga is.” “She is probably hiding again. Kasha waited for Olga to come out of hiding, but she didn’t and it was getting late. Kasha still had to pack and get her things in order. She packed and then went to bed. She figured Olga would come by in the morning to say goodbye.
The following morning Kasha’s bag was packed and she was dressed and ready to leave. She searched for Olga but could not find her. No one could. Kasha knew that Olga was head strong, but she felt sad that Olga did not come to say goodbye. “We have to go now,” said the older gentleman that came to pick up Kasha. Kasha had no choice but to leave. She said her goodbyes and asked the other girls to please tell Olga that she would come back to see her. She started to walk down the hallway. As Kasha was was walking out of the building she passed the little gift shop run by the orphanage. She glanced over to see what was in the window. Olga did a double take. There in the front window sat Misha, on a little yellow box with a smile on his face; with a little ball of yarn on his lap and a small sign that read $5.00.

Erin

(AUTHOR'S NOTE. I'm using 3 hashes to signify line breaks and 6 hashes to signify double space between paragraphs.Thanks!) ------### ###

The Doll ### ###

This time I got her fabric scraps. ### ###

I'll add them to my little pile ###
of treasures picked from this square mile ###
blue with tents and red with floating dust. ### ###

She said, "Tonight we leave this trap!" ### ###

The truck roared down the gate. ### ###

His shoes came from the herding man's ###
whose tire soles dropped from the hands ###
of his greedy killer. ### ###

She said, "Goodbye to all we hate." ### ###

I lost her hand as we squeezed in. ### ###

His bones are the dry fallen sticks ###
I rescued from our neighbors mix ###
of makeshift tinder for the fire. ### ###

"I'm here!", she yelled above the din. ### ###

We bounced forever in the dark. ### ###

His face is white like the men who twice ###
have dropped off medicine and rice ###
and left without a word. ### ###

She said, "Don't be afraid of the guard dog's bark." ### ###

The lines and questions carried on. ### ###

His ribbon is my favorite part, ###
His decoration and his art ###
it comes from our flag's colors. ### ###

She said, "Very soon we will be gone." ### ###

We met snow beyond the doors at JFK. ### ###

His fortune came from the airport floor, ###
its face means luck in local lore ###
so my dear one He must have it. ### ###

She said, "My child, we're here to stay." ### ###

I've grown and changed from year to year. ### ###

There He was at Vintage Thrift. ###
How long since He had gone adrift? ###
I bought Him back for 5. ### ###

"She's gone," I say to Him. "Take me back before the fear."

Catherine

No one ever really thinks or notices, or notices to think, that something is seriously wrong with them. That is, until someone else brings it up; through words or a glance, extracting a demon that you didn’t even know was there, summoning from the depths a darkness that you always just thought was you; that you didn’t even realize was dark. “Crazy,” “Demented,” these aren’t concepts embedded in your mind from birth, nor words you call yourself, not until someone else plants the idea of them in your ear. From there the self-doubt sprouts, the feeling of being different, damaged somehow, taking over your once calm mind like the tangled roots of bramble; taking over inevitably until you cannot think of yourself in any other way. ### When I made the doll, who I had named Stanley, I was 10 years old. To me he was jovial, funny, and kind, a patchwork of attributes from my favorite TV characters. I started by making one eye on his ping-pong ball head slightly smaller than the other, a la Popeye, and gave him a cowlick, which made me laugh as I thought of Pebbles Flintstone, Alphalpha, and Ed Grimley. With limited resources around the house, and only shotty pieces of fabric from my mother’s sewing corner, I instead buried the head of my Lambchop puppet inside of itself to create a barrel-chested look I thought made him strong and sweet like all the movie swashbucklers. Struck by something I likened at the time to be no less than brilliance, I sacrificed clipping three pieces of the rainbow tassels on my bike handles in order to emulate the attire of one of my favorite characters at the time, Mork from Ork. ### Marveling at my masterpiece, I ran through the house, looking for someone to share in admiration of my creation. Tripping over myself in my giddiness from room to room, it wasn’t until I nearly took a header into the already cracked linoleum kitchen floor that I caught a glimpse of anyone, let alone the perfect aficionado-to-be. Granted my mother was on the phone, but I knew from experience the woman had an inhuman ability to communicate with no less than three people at once, and, even more so, she was above all the one person whose praise was near guaranteed. She saw me coming, and at first turned away to wipe away an imaginary stain on the wall, surely knowing her multitasking powers would soon be called into use. Onto her ruse, and having employed many of my own in my short 10 years, I tugged at the back of her shirt with an incessant, “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom…” As she finally gave in and turned towards me, eyeing the object I had pulled from behind my back, she robotically retorted a quick-smiled “Very nice honey,” then did a double-take to give the object I held a second look. ### From the seared image still smoldering in my mind, I can describe that her normally soft features tensed briefly before suddenly erupting into a latticework of worry lines that one only saw if one of her children were hurt; that her head twitched, as if manually trying to focus her eyes; that her quick initial nod echoing a job well-done slowed, as she looked at Stanley with a burgeoning wince. Her glance moved upwards towards mine, and she stared at me in a way in which I had never known, as if she was penetrating so deep that something in me was being exposed, making her wonder who this child was that stood before her. She said nothing, but I could hear her friend’s distant voice on the other line asking in a slightly worried voice if everything was alright. As if realizing I was caught in, or maybe causing, a spell, I quickly stepped back, departing the room as fast as I could, making sure to hide Stanley out of her line of sight. An icky feeling spread through my bones and over my skin, like the thing my mother had seen in me was wrestling my body for its debut. I dazedly entered the next room, feeling slightly sick that I had not only somehow disappointed my mother, but stirred unsettling thoughts in her about me, and, within myself, brought the creature called self-doubt to life. ### My sisters were in the next room, hypnotized by the TV until they sensed what I can only imagine was some sort of impish presence. I only partially realized I was clutching Stanley, wrapped up and buried from sight in my size-too-small shirt, causing my belly to protrude, and my sisters’ interests to be piqued. Usually I would have been more defensive around them, even if it was something of which I still had a shred of pride about (being the youngest it was necessary for domestic survival), but still confused by my mother’s reaction, I said nothing. This only fueled their curiosity, intriguing them to the point that the oldest stood up from her near perpetual spot on the couch; the sound of her skin being unstuck from the faux leather couch mimicking the feeling of innocence I felt being sucked from my mind. ### All I could do was tighten my grip on Stanley, and bury him deeper in my shirt, not being able to speak and not knowing what my words might invoke. She struggled with me for a bit, and, being six years older, quickly snatched him from my grasp, sending my shirt snapping up embarrassingly up over my belly as she tore Stanley away. As I turned to run off with tears welling to sting my eyes, I heard dual screams as high-pitched and short as if they had both unknowingly come too close to the largest insect they had ever seen. Then, the sound of a small fabric doll with a ping-pong head being kicked to its grave.

Catherine

No one ever really thinks or notices, or notices to think, that something is seriously wrong with them. That is, until someone else brings it up; through words or a glance, extracting a demon that you didn’t even know was there, summoning from the depths a darkness that you always just thought was you; that you didn’t even realize was dark. “Crazy,” “Demented,” these aren’t concepts embedded in your mind from birth, nor words you call yourself, not until someone else plants the idea of them in your ear. From there the self-doubt sprouts, the feeling of being different, damaged somehow, taking over your once calm mind like the tangled roots of bramble; taking over inevitably until you cannot think of yourself in any other way. ### When I made the doll, who I had named Stanley, I was 10 years old. To me he was jovial, funny, and kind, a patchwork of attributes from my favorite TV characters. I started by making one eye on his ping-pong ball head slightly smaller than the other, a la Popeye, and gave him a cowlick, which made me laugh as I thought of Pebbles Flintstone, Alphalpha, and Ed Grimley. With limited resources around the house, and only shotty pieces of fabric from my mother’s sewing corner, I instead buried the head of my Lambchop puppet inside of itself to create a barrel-chested look I thought made him strong and sweet like all the movie swashbucklers. Struck by something I likened at the time to be no less than brilliance, I sacrificed clipping three pieces of the rainbow tassels on my bike handles in order to emulate the attire of one of my favorite characters at the time, Mork from Ork. ### Marveling at my masterpiece, I ran through the house, looking for someone to share in admiration of my creation. Tripping over myself in my giddiness from room to room, it wasn’t until I nearly took a header into the already cracked linoleum kitchen floor that I caught a glimpse of anyone, let alone the perfect aficionado-to-be. Granted my mother was on the phone, but I knew from experience the woman had an inhuman ability to communicate with no less than three people at once, and, even more so, she was above all the one person whose praise was near guaranteed. She saw me coming, and at first turned away to wipe away an imaginary stain on the wall, surely knowing her multitasking powers would soon be called into use. Onto her ruse, and having employed many of my own in my short 10 years, I tugged at the back of her shirt with an incessant, “Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom…” As she finally gave in and turned towards me, eyeing the object I had pulled from behind my back, she robotically retorted a quick-smiled “Very nice honey,” then did a double-take to give the object I held a second look. ### From the seared image still smoldering in my mind, I can describe that her normally soft features tensed briefly before suddenly erupting into a latticework of worry lines that one only saw if one of her children were hurt; that her head twitched, as if manually trying to focus her eyes; that her quick initial nod echoing a job well-done slowed, as she looked at Stanley with a burgeoning wince. Her glance moved upwards towards mine, and she stared at me in a way in which I had never known, as if she was penetrating so deep that something in me was being exposed, making her wonder who this child was that stood before her. She said nothing, but I could hear her friend’s distant voice on the other line asking in a slightly worried voice if everything was alright. As if realizing I was caught in, or maybe causing, a spell, I quickly stepped back, departing the room as fast as I could, making sure to hide Stanley out of her line of sight. An icky feeling spread through my bones and over my skin, like the thing my mother had seen in me was wrestling my body for its debut. I dazedly entered the next room, feeling slightly sick that I had not only somehow disappointed my mother, but stirred unsettling thoughts in her about me, and, within myself, brought the creature called self-doubt to life. ### My sisters were in the next room, hypnotized by the TV until they sensed what I can only imagine was some sort of impish presence. I only partially realized I was clutching Stanley, wrapped up and buried from sight in my size-too-small shirt, causing my belly to protrude, and my sisters interests to be piqued. Usually I would have been more defensive around them, even if it was something of which I still had a shred of pride about (being the youngest it was necessary for domestic survival), but still confused by my mother’s reaction, I said nothing. This only fueled their curiosity, intriguing them to the point that the oldest stood up from her near perpetual spot on the couch; the sound of her skin being unstuck from the faux leather couch mimicking the feeling of innocence I felt being sucked from my mind. ### All I could do was tighten my grip on Stanley, and bury him deeper in my shirt, not being able to speak and not knowing what my words might invoke. She struggled with me for a bit, and, being six years older, quickly snatched him from my grasp, sending my shirt snapping up embarrassingly up over my belly as she tore Stanley away. As I turned to run off with tears welling to sting my eyes, I heard dual screams as high-pitched and short as if they had both unknowingly come too close to the largest insect they had ever seen. Then, the sound of a small fabric doll with a ping-pong head being kicked to its grave.

Justin

The frightening aura about this doll is more than just a feeling you get when you look at it. Within this doll lies a great amount of evil energy. It was this same doll that wiped out an entire island many years ago. How can one little doll destroy an entire island? Read on to find out. ### It was the island of Menzel, a very small, secluded island that was home to a handful of villages. The people who lived in these villages were very normal, and they lived a simple lifestyle. There were farmers, blacksmiths, miners, fisherman, craftsmen, and many other people who practiced normal trades on this island. However, there was one craftsman who added an unusual aspect to his trade. ### This craftsman’s name was Stivanitz, and he made dolls for a living. His dolls were very popular, too. Every child in the village wanted one, because each one had such an attractive charm to it. No one could understand what it was about Stivanitz’s dolls that made each one have such a distinct personality. When each child picked up their doll, they felt as if they were holding a little person in their hands. In a way, they were. ### There was a dark secret to the dolls. It was a secret that Stivanitz kept from everyone. The secret was that Stivanitz was a necromancer who used magic to take souls from the netherworld and put them into the dolls that he made. Stivanitz was also a very mischievous fellow. Before sending each doll off to its owner, the craftsman told the doll to cause trouble at its owner’s house. Usually, Stivanitz would get the doll to steal money for him. However, there were some dolls that Stivanitz infused with elemental demons. One doll that was possessed by a flame demon caught someone’s house on fire, and another doll that was possessed by an earth demon caused an earthquake that damaged nearly every house in one of the villages. ### Stivanitz thought this was all quite funny, and he kept trying to top each one of his antics by putting more powerful demons into his dolls. However, he soon fooled around with too much power to handle. That’s where this doll comes in. The very doll that you see in the picture was made by Stivanitz to house the most powerful demon he could find in the netherworld. It was a light-elemental demon named Kaischlik. As soon as Stivanitz put Kaischlik into the doll, the cute plaything rose into the air with a light aura surrounding it. ### “You made a big mistake by bringing me to this world!” The doll shouted in a sinister tone, “I hope the magic you used to bring me here is powerful enough to protect you from the magic I’m going to use to wipe out this entire island!” ### After that, the doll used a burst of light energy to disintegrate Stivanitz’s shop. Stivanitz died from the energy, and everyone in the village saw the flash of light. Thus, the villagers gathered around to see what was going on. Among the villagers was a mysterious man with sunglasses who pushed his way through the crowd to get to the front. However, before the man could get to the front, the doll used a much larger burst of energy to destroy the island of Menzel and everything and everyone on it. Even the other demon dolls were reduced to nothing by the powerful light energy of Kaischlik. ### As the lone doll hovered over the empty waters where the island used to be, he commented, “The foolish man who summoned me here died from me yawning, and the entire island was destroyed by me stretching my legs? This world won’t stand a chance when I bring the Day of Destruction!” ### “Kaischlik, I presume?” A deep voice came from nearby, and it turned out that the doll wasn’t the only thing hovering above the waters. The mysterious man with sunglasses was still there, and he said to the doll, “My name is Robert Sparrow Jones. I’m an undercover demon hunter who was sent to the island of Menzel to investigate a case of living dolls. Nice to meet you.” ### “Oh, so there really is someone in this world who can contend with my powers.” Kaischlik responded, “You haven’t seen my full force yet, though. Take this!” ### The doll launched a focused energy beam at Robert, but the demon hunter simply caught the beam with his bare hands and broke it into tiny sparkles. Robert then pulled out a very fancy-looking gun and fired a dark beam at the doll. When the doll was hit, Kaischlik was sealed inside of the children’s toy. Instead of a body, the doll became a prison for Kaischlik, and it could never do harm to anyone again. Robert kept the doll as evidence of the event, but he eventually dropped it by accident somewhere in New York. It’s no big deal, though. Kaischlik cannot escape the doll. Thus, when you pick up this doll, you are holding in your hands one of the most powerful demons ever to exist.

Joseph

After that one week in Nevada, this is all I came back with. Not just in hand, but in resemblance. The living and walking resemblance to this decrepit stick-wooden doll... Those sleepless, unshowered days and nights; amid a forever repeating freeing senseless mindnumbing bacchanalia of burning souls...or rather, bodies in heat. I returned lighter in weight, sun-damaged and aged, but freer and ready to burn through lie in my newly stolen robe (I seem to have misplaced or lost my clothes several nights before) which I found next to the body painting tent, right before I lifted little decrepit Timmy Doe.

Lynn

Doll Maker###

Casey tossed his book bag on the kitchen table. “That Danny is stupid.”###
“What’s the matter?” His mother frowned, her son was always happy.###
Casey pulled out his painting from art class and flung it across the table. “Danny laughed.”###
“Danny wouldn’t know art if it were a snake and bit him.”###
Casey smiled. His mother always liked using that line about a snake, but this time it really comforted him. He watched as his mother walked down the hallway, picked up the hideous little doll he passed every day. The doll Casey always thought was a bit creepy.###
“I think it’s time for you to hear the story about him.” Casey’s mother pretended to walk the doll across the wooden table and plopped it in a sitting position right in front of him.###
“Grams was about seven or eight, your age, when she made this little doll. Grams’ dream was to be a doll maker. Her family didn’t have much, but she collected scraps of material from where ever she could. When she finally had enough stuff, she went to work and created her first doll. Painstakingly she painted the head. I know that seems hard to believe. Grams even plucked hair from their German Shepherd to put on top of the doll’s head.” Casey’s mother chuckled. “Can you imagine what that poor dog was thinking? Grams didn’t care how hard it was and she kept working at it, doing her best.###
“She ran outside in the field where her Papa tilled the land. She held up the doll, ‘Look Papa! Look what I made!’ And do you know what her Papa said to her?”###
Casey shook his head.###
“He told her, ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’ Grams tried to explain that she made the doll all by herself because she was going to be a doll maker one day. Her Papa grumbled, ‘Doll maker… what a little dummkopf….’ Papa’s voice grew louder and he told her to go do her chores and quite wasting time.”###
Casey scrunched his eyebrows. “So am I wasting time?”###
His mother hugged him. “Oh gosh no. I’m telling you this story so you don’t let anyone, I mean anyone, ever crush your dreams. Grams died young. Her heart gave out. And I know it’s because she never did what was in her heart to do—what she loved. To make dolls. I found out that a day never went by that Grams didn’t think about making dolls. But also etched in her heart were her Papa’s words. She kept her little doll hidden between her mattress, secretly dreaming. And also breaking her heart, a tiny bit each day.###
“So Casey, don’t allow Danny or anyone else to fill your head with what you can’t do. Follow your heart. Believe in yourself and do what you love.”###
Now every time Casey passed the little doll, he didn’t think of it being so creepy. He knew whatever he decided to be, that’s what he’d become. Maybe even a doll maker.###

Cilla

I see you watching me. Your mismatched eyes flat and expressionless – oh, you’re good. But I’ll figure out what you’re up to. You think I haven’t missed all the things you’ve stolen? Just little things. Things that most people wouldn’t notice. But I do. I notice more than most people. A bead, a button, a penny. Small, round objects, dropped to the floor. I hear them rolling across the scrubbed wood like paper tearing and then… gone. I search the floor, crawl under the tables, move the chairs. And then I look up to see you perched precariously on the shelf. Your little foam head tiled comically, your benign cherry smile mocking me. It’s true I’ve never caught you at it. You’re too quick for me. But I’m patient. ###
Where are you hiding your pilfered treasures? Not in those ridiculous clothes. No; I’ve searched you many times. But your pitiful wooden skeleton flopping in my frantic hands doesn’t fool me. I know a fox when I see it. And I’ll find out what you’re doing – and I’ll stop you. ###
You see, I’ve been smart. I’ve been almost as still and clever as you are. And now I know your tastes. I know the type of things you’re interested in, and I’m laying a trap for you. Tonight. Tonight I’ll drop the spool. It took weeks of digging through the musty shelves of every fabric store in town but, at last, I found it. A spool of ribbon. A tiny spool small enough to tempt the snatching little hands you hide so nimbly in those billowy sleeves. The ribbon is bright and tacky like all the other things you’ve stolen. You won’t be able to resist it! Tonight I’ll drop the spool and let it roll across the floor. And when you reach for it… I’ll catch you!

PJ

Melissa glanced around the room, she had ignored this job for too long. She could barely walk by the room without crying. The last several years had been unbearable. The doctors, the nurses, the sickness, the diagnosis, living with the diagnosis, losing their only child. ###
The room had been empty now for over a year, the bedroom door shut like a tomb of a sarcophagus- the family crest was a poster of the Jonas Brothers.
Molly had loved the Jonas Brothers. As young pre-teen, she felt robbed of the natural beauty so readily present for girls her age. Girls her age, but not girls her age with cancer. ###
Molly had been a strong athletic child – nothing frightened her, if she wanted to do something, she just did it. We were all astounded by her determination. She wanted to swim, so she jumped in and swam, she wanted to ride a horse, she climbed on and off she rode, When she wanted to ski, she just did it. She did everything she wanted. We all loved her for that and wanted to be like her.###

At the height of her illness, Molly begged for normalcy. She had no hair to comb and no hair to style. She had no cool clothes like her friends, hers were bath robes and surgical gowns, she wore no dress shoes, her footware was comfort u-g-l-y with elasticized slip-ons of blue paper consistency.###

One late afternoon, Molly asked me to create a play pal for her, something or someone uglier than her. So, Threadbone was created with remnants from my sewing kit, old ribbon, sewing tape, left over fabric, black duct tape, and white medical tape to form an odd-shaped head. ###

Molly love Threadbone, who was with her until she passed, June 2, 2010. Melissa thought of giving ThreadBone away long ago but with ThreadBone here, Molly would be too. But then ThreadBone became to represent Molly in the worst way. It was time to give Thread Bone new life on a thrift store shelf to be found and loved by someone in their own special way.

Heather

Larry

“I’m sorry to tell you that you’re being replaced.” ###

She felt her heartbeat in her hot ears. “Donald, maybe I had too many drinks at the Christmas party, but--” ###

He knew she would keep stammering if he allowed it. “Leslie,” he looked up at the ceiling tiles, “the economy is garbage. No one can keep a full staff. Your presence will be missed. Here’s the package we’re giving you. It’s not generous, but it might get you through.” He put on his empathetic face and reached across the desk to pat her hand. “You have until the end of the week, so if you would box up your things today or tomorrow, that would really help.” ###

“It’s Wednesday.” She looked into his perpetually sweaty and relentlessly half-smiling face, thinking about her desk. She would leave everything in the break room for the wolves to drag off. Clearly, there was nothing left to say. She nodded, picked up the papers and turned to leave. As she touched the door handle, she looked back and asked, “Who’s replacing me?” ###

He sighed loudly. This was taking longer than he’d anticipated. ###

“I just want to give them what they need from my desk.” She cleared her throat. “If that’s okay.” ###

“Larry. He has great ideas about how to redistribute your workload.” ###

She smiled the smile that women give when their gynecologists ask, “Is that too cold?” and nodded. ###

Larry. His cubicle was directly outside Donald’s office, so she couldn’t even avoid the little bastard for the rest of the day. There he sat, as always, tilting to the right. “Hey Larry,” she sneered as she passed his cube. ###

She could not figure out why he was so popular with management. For starters, he was eight inches tall and he dressed like a lunatic. His cheap karate uniform was accessorized with rainbow suspenders. Every day. She hated his stupid face. His head looked like a golf ball covered in toilet paper. He never looked directly at anyone. Actually, you couldn’t really tell. One of his eyes was—at best—lazy. She had heard some of the younger girls whispering about him in the break room. They speculated if he was attached or not. Sure, he was handsome in a dopey kind of way, but she didn’t find him attractive. Worst of all, as far as she could tell, he didn’t do anything, even though it seemed like he never left the office. ###

Now that he had her job, he was probably just a few weeks away from being the VP. Well, he could have all of it: the passive-aggressive email chains, the bullshit team-building activities, and the pens that only scratched through the cheap notepads. She smirked and took a few steps back to Larry’s cubicle. Leaning deeply over the back of his chair, she put her mouth directly next to his head and whispered, “Larry, I just heard you’re taking over for me. I want to wish you the best, buddy. You’re going to do great.” ###

He didn’t say anything. He faced his computer as always, smiling with those unnaturally red lips. He smelled like mildew. “I hope you settle in with Janet and have nineteen lazy, stinky mold babies,” she muttered, walking back to her desk. ###

She hefted a full banker’s box onto the edge of her small plastic trashcan and overturned it. Most of the papers slid onto the floor. She swept the forms from the top of her desk onto the pile. The banker’s box was quickly filled with seven years of accumulation. “I can donate these god-awful shoes too,” she mumbled to herself, slipping off her brown pumps and tossing them on top of the box. In went two sweaters with the company logo, a big red novelty button, and terrible tea from her secret Santa. Where the hell did this guy even come from? Someone had said he’d previously been at a nonprofit. And maybe he had some bogus degree in marketing or something. She’d never heard him say anything, but when management had their closed-door meetings, they all looked at him in admiration and chuckled in approval. He got invited to those meetings to take notes. Why or when they first let him talk, she would never know, but the VP referred to Larry as “Mr. Zinger.” They all said he was full of great ideas, but he seemed hollow to her. ###

Barefoot, she sauntered into the break room and hoisted the overfull box onto the counter. She stopped at Larry’s cubicle again and knelt by the side of his chair. She noticed that his computer wasn’t even turned on. That’s probably why he never returns anyone’s email, she thought bitterly. “You’re not even a person, Larry,” she whispered. Still, no response. ###

Secretly, she had hoped to be fired for at least a year. But it was different to have it actually happen to her. It was exhilarating. She could live on unemployment. She would make hats and sell them online. Maybe she would send one to the office so Larry could cover his ugly head. “What the hell did I even do here?” she asked herself. “Email. Lots of email.” ###

She slung her purse over her shoulder and realized she was going to have to walk to the parking lot in bare feet, but it didn’t bother her. She said her goodbyes silently. Goodbye, horrible squeaky chair. Goodbye, toilet that sprays water everywhere. Goodbye meetings and memos and bickering. Goodbye monitored email, worker satisfaction surveys, and all you poor miserable bastards who live for the weekends. Larry included. On her way out, she spun Larry around in his chair and knelt so that her face was only an inch from his. “Good luck, Larry. Have a nice life.” ###

Bill

"It was a dark and stormy night." Ok, that is likely to be a pretentious lie. It was neither night, nor stormy. Perhaps dark it was, if you could classify the void or pre "big bang".#### No storm, no night, no day, no light: no time, no nothing or the absence of something. No one knows, nor possibly will. The story of this dime store doll is not solely about whom made it or precisely how, it's the alpha to omega or succinctly, the journey of eons from creation to end user. That's where I find the romance - the billion of years and mystery of impending ones. #### Whence the universe ignited from a quantum fluctuation to evolving atoms that find form in a child's doll, who perhaps creates her own island universe where tales and imagination are endless with hopes, dreams and fears. #### To view a happy, sad, beautiful or dirty, decrepit and mangy doll - admired or indifferent, it's stellar excursion is nothing short of controlled chaos. No quantum jitters, no big bang; no atoms, no molecules, no stars, no planets, no beasts, no man, no doll, no story. Paraphrasing many, 'to make an apple pie from scratch - or a simple doll, first you must create a universe'. #### Regardless of how this doll was crafted, mass produced in a Chinese factory or special care from a lone soul, it took 13.7 billion years and conscious beings to weave it's form. Randomness or miracle?

Matt

Jess loved trinket shopping. ###
“Look at this Cozumel shirt!” She holds up a white shirt with the word Cozumel glittered across the front. “Your grandmother would love this.” ###
“Why would my grandmother love that? Why would anyone love that?” ###
She sighs. “You’re no fun.” ###
“No. I just don’t like spending money on junk that no one wants.” ###
We leave there, pull our shades down to block out the piercing sun, and head to the next shop full of useless nick-nacks. ###
“Ola.” This lady comes out in this dress, the brightest purple I have ever seen. ###
“Hi,” Jess replies. ###
This lady starts pointing at this and that, grabs one of those Jesus candles and presents it to us. I shake my head “no.” Jess peers at me. ###
“What? I don’t want to waste her time.” ###
The lady sets Jesus back on the counter. ###
“Stop it, Michael.” ###
“What? It’s junk.” ###
We follow this lady around this place full of Jesus and Virgin Mary candles, crosses in every color and size, rosaries. There’s more religious clutter than walking space.
After several wasted minutes, out of nowhere, this tiny doll falls to Jess’s feet. The lady picks it up, dusts it off, and looks it over. ###
“Ah, si. For goo loke.” ###
“Ah, look honey. For good luck.” Jess bats her eyes at me, and then turns back to the lady. “How much?” ###
“Oh.” The lady’s smile reverts and this intense look washes over her face. “No. Ees not for sale.” She shakes her head. ###
“What? There’s a price tag right there.” I point to it. ###
“No, no. Thees doll, he find you.” She places the doll in Jess’s hands, squeezing them. The lady’s smile returns. Her eyes glimmer. “He’s yours.” ###
“Well . . . Thank you.” ###
We leave there and the sun hits us. We pull our shades back down.
“Margarita?” I ask. God knows I need one after following Jess around all day on her little shopping spree. ###
“Sure.” ###
We get to the restaurant and order our drinks. ###
“First wan ees free.” The Mexican bartender tells us after handing us two giant margaritas. ###
“Wow. See honey, maybe this doll ees good luck.” She laughs. ###
We lose count after . . . I don’t know how many drinks. I feel clumsy getting off the stool. Leaving the bar, we are stammering drunk. Jess wraps her arms around me and smiles up at me. I smile back. The aggravation we felt toward each other earlier had lifted. ###
We get back to our room and walk out on the balcony facing the beach. It’s going to be sad leaving this place: the aqua-blue, pool-like ocean, the glowing orange sunsets, the salty breeze. Down the beach, are the faint sounds of xylophones and calypso drums. ###
The next morning, we fly home. We get off the plane and walk up the jetway. We get through customs much faster than anticipated, as the airport seems almost empty. ###
“See.” Jess rattles her new so-called good luck doll in my face. She’s held onto it the entire trip. “It ees good luck.” ###
“Eet stinks.” I knock it away. ###
She smiles childishly. ###
I shake my head at her and snigger. “You’re crazy.” ###
We get home and unpack. Jess sets her new doll on the nightstand next to the bed. Exhausted, we both lie down for a nap. Jess rests her head on my chest and she smiles up at me. I smile back. ###
When we first got to Mexico, I wasn’t sure we’d be coming back together. We had lived together for two years, and all the small things were starting to get on each others’ nerves. Everything was. There was nothing left to say to each other. There was no passion. There was . . . nothing. We almost canceled the trip but decided not to, as maybe a trip like this is exactly what we needed to salvage our relationship. The travel there was awkward, silent. But by the final night, we were both reminded of all the things we loved about each other in the first place. All of the things that annoyed me a week ago, now made me love her more. ###
I wake up to hear Jess vomiting and crying from the bathroom. I rush in there to see her head hanging in the toilet. ###
“Oh no. Montezuma’s revenge.” ###
She gags and more vomit comes up. I go fetch her some water and say, “Drink this.” ###
She does. She sits down onto the floor in a curled up fetal position. Her face displays an expression of agonizing pain. ###
“Oh, it hurts, Michael.” ###
“I’m sorry, babe.” I rub her hair. “I love you.” Seeing her in pain kills me. ###
Her vomiting fit went on for a couple of hours. Once stopped, she lied down. But after a while, her overall condition seemed to worsen and soon after, she stopped responding to me. I called the hospital and within minutes, we were in an ambulance heading to the emergency room. I grabbed her new doll for good luck and placed it in her hands. ###
“I love you, honey. I love you.” ###
Nothing. ###
After pacing around the waiting room for . . . I don’t know how many hours, forcing myself to breathe in and out manually, the doc came in to speak to me. ###
“Sir, you’re girlfriend . . . she contracted some sort of rare parasite. I’m very sorry, she didn’t make it.” ###
My stomach dropped out of me. I remember shaking my head, the room around me blurry, the floor beneath me nonexistent, and then falling to the floor. Darkness . . . ###
In that same week, there were fourteen other deaths. They were able to trace the parasite back to Cozumel and then narrow it down even further. They quickly discovered all the victims had been to this one particular shop in Cozumel and all of them had come home with these tiny good luck dolls. ###
“See honey, maybe this doll ees good luck.”

Rhiannon

It is late at night and I am at Gabby Butler's house. We have been up for hours, giggling and passing an empty Coke bottle back and forth filled with a kitchen sink mixture of all the alcohol in her parents' liquor cabinet. We are calling boys. But only the ones who have their own phone lines or whose parents don't mind the late night ringing. Gabby knows these things. She knows who's safe to call at such a late hour and who isn't. She spends most of her life on the phone with boys, while I can barely even get myself to talk to them at school. ### Right now we are on the phone with Jimmy Madison, who's in eighth grade and has a skateboard. Gabby is doing the talking while I listen with a hot face, my hand wrapped around the mouthpiece of a separate receiver so Jimmy won't hear me breathing. ### Suddenly Gabby says, "Hey, Jimmy, what do you think of Amanda DeVino?" #### I am in the middle of taking a vile swig of our evil-tasting concoction when she says this and I choke in surprise, sending a strangled gurgle right into Jimmy's ear on the other end. #### "What was that sound?" I hear him say. #### "Nothing, I have to go." #### Gabby hangs up the phone and punches me a little too hard in the shoulder. #### "What the heck? I was going to tell him to make out with you!" #### "But I don't want to make out with him," I croak, still fighting a tickle at the back of my throat that's threatening to turn into a cough. #### "Well, you should," She says, rolling off her bed where she had been lounging elegantly. I remain as I was, pressed anxiously against the wall. "He's a great kisser." #### I roll my eyes. #### "Come on," She grabs my hand and pulls me upright. "Let's go down to the basement." #### I follow her out of her bedroom and down the stairs into the living room. Gabby's house is one of those suburban mini mansions with spotless wall-to-wall carpeting and crystal bowls filled with M&M's and placed on as many mahogany surfaces as possible. Upstairs their house is spotless and painstakingly put-together, but down in the basement it is a festering disaster of every single item her parents have ever discarded in their entire life together. It is an endless quarry for mining old VHS tapes of R rated movies and for digging up Gabby's frayed and beaten up Barbie dolls if we're feeling nostalgic, but we spend most of our time down there looking for relics of her parents' relationship that will make us giggle in embarrassment at the mysteries of being an adult. #### Tonight Gabby loses interest quickly after sifting for a few minutes through boxes stuffed with old papers and decaying photographs of people she doesn't recognize. #### "I'm bored," She says and starts towards the stairs. #### I turn to follow and step on something soft in my bare feet. At first I think squeamishly that it's a bug, but when I look down I see a small white orb poking out from under a box. I bend down and wrench it free, exposing what looks like a homemade wire doll with a sad egg-shaped head made of cloth and stuffed with cotton. It's features are sewn inexpertly with thread so that one black eye is much bigger than the other and its mouth smiles uncertainly at me as if knowing it has lost it's way and is asking sheepishly for directions. Its skeletal wire body is covered with a simple white linen tunic that's held together by criss-crossed suspenders of rainbow-printed ribbon. It is a pathetic attempt at toy-making, but I can't help liking it for its honest simplicity. I also can't figure out how it found its way into such an austere, cookie-cutter household where anything handmade is immediately imbued with the infected stench of socialism or living out of your parents’ garage. #### Gabby notices that I've fallen behind and double backs to see what I'm looking at. #### "What is that?" #### I show it to her. #### "Ew," She says. "Only you would find something that creepy." #### She turns back around and skips up the stairs two at a time, switching off the light when she reaches the top so that I'm left to fumble blindly around the piles of junk on my way to the staircase. #### Back in her room, Gabby is already in position on her bed and dialing another number. #### "What took you so long?" She says without looking at me. "We're calling Mike Sutton now." #### “Okay.” #### I look down and realize that I'm still holding the strange doll. It smiles up at me with that look of good-natured bewilderment and I just can't stand the thought of abandoning it here with Gabby. I duck down, pretending to search for something, and slip it discretely into my sleepover bag. #### "Come one," Gabby hisses from above. "It's ringing!" #### I straighten and pick up the other receiver, covering the mouthpiece with my hand and keeping quiet, just as the pimply voice of a pre-teenage boy announces itself on the other end.

Neil

I was a certainty for the Olympics until Woodberry delivered that triple-aero kick which impacted on my left knee and did for its cruciate ligaments. A kick whose malicious intention – if it was lost on the coaching staff – was perfectly clear to myself. He needed me out of action in order to compete at the summer games.###
The resulting operation was a success, and yet it did nothing to place me back in serious contention for London 2012. The road to recovery was far too long for such a goal. And so, in the following months, while I underwent light physio, I nursed my grievances as well, and gave much thought as to how I might implement them.###
It was my therapist, of all people, who finally recommended the key text. A book called Competitive Voudon. The author remained anonymous and the platform I read it on was a Nook. Here I could access all the practical guidance a vengeful soul might need and I spent long hours familiarising myself with these spiteful requirements. Anything to keep a precious medal – gold or otherwise – from being strung around Woodberry's neck.###
By the time of the London Olympics I was perfectly prepared, and even though the first round draw for the Taekwondo competition was made on the preceding afternoon – leaving me with a mere twenty-four hours in which to sculpt an appropriate effigy – I was equal to this task.###
At this initial stage Woodberry was to face Narayan Lobsang, the pride of Tibet, and so I built up a fetish of his opponent that I might turn him superhuman for the duration. Finally I sourced those two symbolic ribbons which shared their colours with the Tibetan national flag. These I criss-crossed over the fetish's chest, just as instructed, creating a 'Twin Bandolier of Wrath'.###
On the day of the bout – as the referee blew his whistle and the fighters sprang from their corners – I watched nervously from the stands. Meanwhile the fetish stayed in my coat pocket and I kneaded it to distraction like a string of worry beads made of soft clay. To my great delight, I saw that Lobsang was out for blood, incensed by this very prospect, subject to a violent resolve which I had helped implant in the Tibetan's mind (I could also see that his right eye, just like the eye of the doll, was somewhat larger than the left, and all lit up with perspicacity).###
From the first moment of combat, Lobsang had the true measure of Woodberry: to such an extent, it was as if my former team-mate had his defences down altogether like a man being fitted for a suit. As a consequence, the damage done was exquisite, the justice poetic, and the ending perfectly brutal. My fellow Briton got what was coming to him and no mistake.

Mimi

The doll. Aw, yes, that sad, sorry, marvelous, magnificent doll. She came into being on one of those cold, damp, rainy Cape Cod summer afternoons when we were stuck in the house for far too long. Tired of reading, puzzles abandoned, she started as a dare. Mom dropped a bunch of “stuff” in the middle of the floor, and said, “here, make something of this.” ### So, we started. To sew. A piece of muslin here. Thrown away hair ribbon there. Discarded piece of I’m not even sure what it was became the head. The penny... well, I guess it might have already been lying on the floor, but we thought it was supposed to be part of the project, so we glued it to her tummy. Scavenged through the leftovers of summer guests past who left all sorts of things in the top drawer of the mildewy hutch, and found some colored pens to draw on the eyes and mouth. ### The price tag? It was leftover from a yard sale or something. I think it was around a candlestick sitting on the kitchen table. So, it became fair game for us to use. ### And ta da. Like that. Annie was born. Poor, lonely, ragged Annie. I don’t know who named her. But that was her name. Funny thing is, she became a part of the family after that. Went home with us when vacation was over. Got put away with the “take on vacation” things in the plastic tub that got put back on the shelf to wait another 11 months for us. Annie was our mascot. Tagged along, never asking “are we there yet” from the back seat of the old station wagon, but always ready to sit back out on the table for another month, watching us silently, with that smile. ### I’m not sure what became of Annie. Perhaps we left her behind one year. Or maybe my brother stole her away (though he would never admit to it.) ### She was born some 30 years ago. Over half a lifetime for me. But just thinking of her, I can still feel the damp summer air, and smell the rain. And the mildew. But in a good way. That way that makes drawers stick. But because it was summer vacation, even a sticking drawer was something of joy. Something to make us say, yes, this is our vacation place. A place apart. Annie, with that silly smile. She knew. ### Miss you, Annie. And the innocence and wonder of those young days. Maybe I’ll go find another pile of tossed away bits, and see if I can create a new life from within. My life. ###

Margare R. Roos

Margaret R. Roos
mrroos28@hotmail.com
914-720-6959

“Grace Margaret!”###

Half-hidden in windswept leaves and staring up at me, were two judgmental dots and a red lined lip that, I swear, was smirking.###

Grace Margaret was not hairless like this woodenhead, but had long blond hair that Sophie brushed daily. Besides, Sophie never would have dressed her doll in such a burlap get up. Maybe it was this doll’s eyes, or the mouth; that made me think of Sophie’s doll, Grace Margaret since she had blue eyes and painted red lips on her face too even if the face was rubber and not wooden like this one I found.###
.
She belonged to Sophie, who now lives far across the country and even farther in our relationship. Why did she marry that jerk? Why was he so successful in molding her? Why didn’t Sophie call, or visit, or care anymore? It hurts, but anger and frustration make a tough callus.###

Cascading memories of big blue eyes, gently tucking herself under my arm, notic-ing details that the others missed, wanting curly hair, cheerleading, taking the driving test two times, summer softball, knowing what you wanted and going for it flooded my being.###

It was obvious to me that Sophie could hold her own when she came home from kindergarten, telling how a boy wanted her crayons; she said “No!” He pushed the table. She pushed back. He spat. She ducked.###

After a summer, as a camp counselor, she regaled us with camper’s antics, and her naivety in using a sponge to clean up after a sick camper.###

Sophie was the most beautiful bride, even made her own wedding dress. She was a great mother to Jack and Gabe, but news about the boys dried up. When? Why is there little to no communication? I want to blame her other half and to be honest, I do… but…maybe I share some responsibility…###

Tears blurred as I fumbled through the leaves, lifting the doll. “You need some care. Come on, my wooden headed, Grace Margaret, we have work to do.”###

“Hi, Soph, it’s me…Guess who I ran into today.”###

Peter

My father made Grodie for me, for no apparent reason- it wasn’t my birthday or anything- when I was in first grade. At the time, I was happy just to get a present, but my older brother Mike, in fourth grade, was quick to use his advanced wisdom to smack it down “ that’s grodier than anything dad ever made me”. Then he jabbed, “put skates and a Whaler’s shirt on’m and you have Grodie Howe”. Still, at least I got something from my dad, and Grodie seemed to grow on me over time in an odd sort of familial way.
###
A few months later, though, I let my ambivalence on Grodie slip out on a Sunday afternoon while my grandparents visiting. With Dad out of earshot, Mike sarcastically told our grandfather I was “special” to get Grodie from our father. I said, well, I’m not sure what to do with him”. “You’re lucky your dad thinks about’ ya ’nuff to make you somethin’ ta play with- when I was your age, I made m’own toys outta chicken beaks and corn cobs”, grandfather sternly addressed me. While Mike fell over laughing, I started to wonder about my roots.
###
I don’t know what ever happened to Grodie, but I sorta wish I still had him. Trying to be different, I bought my own kid a set of Auto-Bots. Probably, when he’s my age, he’ll forget about them.

Aaron

I remember a few times going to my great-grandmother's house before she passed. When she'd get word that my sister and I were coming to visit she'd lay out a few a checkers board, puzzles, matchbox cars, and this strange doll for my sister and I to play with.
###
My sister was 11 and too old for toys, so she'd sit and awkwardly watch me as my great-grandmother asked her how school was. She'd always comment when we left that the doll was weird and maybe a tiny bit spooky.
###
I was 5 and my pockets were always jammed full of miniature action figures. While my sister dodged questions about her future ambitions and social normalcy, I would stage elaborate battles against the strange doll. To my ragtag pocket-crew of skywalkers, wrestlers, and G.I.'s, great-grandmothers doll was the epitome of all evil.
###
Great-grandmother was so relaxed that she hardly noticed when I began trying to pull the arm off the doll to punish it for what it had done. She probably would have laughed had I gone through with it. It took a kick in the leg and a whispered-but-angry "stop!" from my sister for me to reassess my war plan.
###
Next came machine-gun noises which I had really mastered. I lined my small army of figurines in a semi-circle with the odd doll at the center. Several minutes of rapid-fire attacks on the doll lead to another admonishing kick from my sister. She continued answering "fine" and "good" to the series of question great-grandmother came up with.
###
I considered the puzzles. One was of an outdoorsy scene and the other an American flag. I dumped the pieces out to create a bunker for my platoon. The odious doll was still not dead. The boys now had cover. I had to sort of imagine the sound of their weapons in my imagination now. I was on my stomach now so that I could really concentrate on destroying this evil.
###
I sensed that my great-grandmother and sister had reached the lull in their conversation where food was about to be offered. If I declined and they went to the kitchen I could really battle this monster without my sister's supervision. She decided to go for a soda pop when my great-grandmother finally spoke to me.
###
"What are you playing?" she said.
###
"War," I said, distracted.
###
"Your great-grandad was in Korea."
###
"Did he get the bad guys?"
###
"I don't know a whole lot about it. Do you like that doll? I'm not sure where I found it. I thought you'd like it."
###
I stayed silent as the battle had reached a critical point. Most of my men were dead, and it was up to two severely injured (brothers I had decided) to end this threat.
###
"I think my friend from church Joyce might have made that for me."
###
Great-grandmother's attention shifted to my sister as she returned with beverages.
###
"Oh, what a dear," she said.
###
At was it this point that my only remaining soldier launched his last grenade that killed the giant, creepy mutant. I dramatically made the great-grandmother's doll fall in slow-motion to his death. I then had the hero who slayed the beast jump for joy on top of the American flag puzzle. This celebration lasted for some time.
###
Great-grandmother and my sister talked about soda for a while as I scooped my toys back into my pockets and we waited for our mom to come get us.
###
The only other time I would see that doll is when as an adult I helped my mom clean out her attic. It was in a plastic bin with other tchotchkes and relics. She didn't seem to be familiar with it, but knew it to be her grandmother's by what else was in the bin. I told her I thought I'd played with when I was young.
###
"You played with this?" she asked.
###
I nodded.
###
She asked me if I wanted it for some sentimental reason. I didn't. As much as it looked strange as a boy, it now looked only sad. I let nostalgia overcome me for a few private seconds before throwing the doll in the Goodwill pile.

George

Object 2 \

"O christ, will you put that down. Yes, I love you. Yes, you are right."

He looked up, with a smile that was as much guilt as impish delight.

John took the head of the doll, turned it to Mary, then back to himself. "Freddie, I think she is talking to me, not you," John said to the doll.

"John..."

"Yes?"

"You know I love you, but.."

"Umm," John interrupted. "What about Freddie. We are a team."

"Okay... I love you as a team...not so much individually."

John, tilts his head and holds up Freddie.

"Alright."

"Alright what?"

"Your opinion of my dream.. yes you have an opinion, it's not right or wrong."

....

"Where did you get that?"

"Freddie?"

"Yes."

"He was just sitting there on the trash can, waiting for me."