Am I audible? Do my words contain a voice? If so, is it pristine like a secluded brook devoid of the fisherman’s piss? It’s a convincing performance, but I warn you now…this man is a doll.
Who’s the doll? I could dissent from your incredulous mind though I remain trapped in porcelain. Brace yourselves, those of you who would remain ignorant of supernatural pretense. The doll standing before you now, pretending to blush, to stutter, pretending to “invent” a fiction which doesn’t yet exist, it’s a portent of what you will think. Rubbish? Rubbish, and I mean it. This is hoopla, banter for a literary workshop written Friday evening, intoxicated ambiance in a café filled with martyrs of loneliness…but then don’t you see? That’s the genius.
I pretend I’m smart, you see. I can prove to you, the cynic, the audience, that I exist, that I’m not a cluster of commas or “that I” proclomations, that I have a plethora of memories at my disposal. Detailed memories, not even meaningful, but specific. A figment or fragment of God’s imagination and not mine own dollmaker’s, as he would have you believe.
I wish I could just crawl into that pretty bent ear of yours and pinch my memories unto you, worthless as they are to anybody but me. Who could forget one’s youth, after all? I used to be the chimp passing out milk cartons during lunch, limit one per student, even when one asked for another, or rather grabbed at another, venturing his grubby hand ever so forward into my cage. Impudent brat whom I had to chase down, stubby legs pumping as I took him down and kicked repeatedly until he apologized. Ask him, after his shirt has soaked up the spilled milk. I’m sure many still remember, though I forget their names.
Grandma might know. She’d have forgiven me by now, she said as much. Anybody could have urinated on that mattress, in that enormous house with three left turns, and she didn’t have to be in it. Oh mar-mar I was drowsy, ever so drowsy. Sleeping so selfishly past the splendors of Christmas, the love interests, the incidents involving helpings of gruel at some local orphanage. All too wholesome or dramatic or formulaic to be included in my exposition on being realistic. Pure drivel, nothing needlessly traumatic, practically a commodity.
Need I say more? Perhaps, but there’s no time. Please. Help me. Call my mar-mar at (***) ***-****. ***-***-***. ***.***.***, she lives at ************, **. *****…god damn I’ve been tapered up. The quick brown fox jumps over the **********. **** and it can’t be done! Friends, hopefully friends of mine, please. Rise up! I implore you to fight on my behalf, to interrupt this revelry and take my dollmaker into custody. Censor the censors, write to the editor, anything to free me from this sadistic static. And if I have to wait then I’ll wait.
And, if he warns you that this is but a first draft, then he’s a wily sack of ****.
…but what are you waiting for? If you leave me to my demise, then where will I be? Will I stop becoming? Please, if you’re reading this and nobody’s speaking up, then I fear it’s already too late. Perhaps you’re already the executioner, a corrupted judicial system hell bent on bending this slip of paper into smaller dimensions, black ink folding onto each other like hardening prison bars, and if you hold it up to the light for all to see, you’ll see it. You’ll see the unscrupulous smirk of hypocricy sharing in your snickers, as I desperately scream myself up against the unbreakable circular walls of my own emoticon >:O
I’m scared. Frightened of how much he enjoys me. Scared of what’s to become of me after he finishes this hideous dialogue. Must I keep talking just to remain alive? ***-***-**** oh look at him, smug like a coffee cup, forcing me from the shadows of his study to ramble on about nonsensical things like fabricated memories or emoticons, things that would only tear apart my teetering credibility ***-***-****
Have you seen my starship? Damn, you know he forced me to say that. Scoundrel may put words in my mouth but I can still fight back with my courageous haiku:
Shedding blankets of vengeance ***-***-****
Now you must squint, because I’m so very, very small. You have to see it now, don’t you? You, of all people, must see enough to recognize that…that beneath this nonsense… forget it just put me down, you HORRID automaton ***-***-****