The Marionette #4

Desperate to avoid aggravating his wounds by attempting to tidy up the debris, Arthur placed his puppets on the equally battered stool by his bed and left their remains to waste.  He lay back, kicked off his shoes and wriggled out of his jacket. Above him the mood had changed; the alcohol had set in. His parents were laughing, dancing and singing along to Vo-Do-Do-De-O Blues. The music was distorted and skipped occasionally; the record had been played a few times too many. Once more, dust fell from the ceiling; it too danced across the room, and as if dropped by a fairy, it seemed to glitter in the light.

His eyes were dragged up towards the solitary caged light dangling in the middle of the room. The light appeared brighter than before, bearing down, consuming him. His empty gut was pulling in all the energy of his body. He became light-headed. His senses numbed and all bodily boundaries began to disappear. He felt enormous and expansive like he could reach the distant stars and digest their cosmic energy. He was the pulse of the water, the convulsions of the earth, the breath of the wind and the explosive heat of the fire.

The Marionette #3

Arthur pulled his puppet parents out of the wardrobe and dragged them across the room by their necks. Sitting down on the bed to rest his leg, he grabbed the two wooden control bars of the puppets and hoisted them onto their feet. His parents hung before him helplessly – his father in his left hand and his mother in his right. Arthur was finally in charge. The puppet show began.

Arthur stared intently, imagining an old stage, huge red curtains and a packed audience in which he had a front row seat. He mumbled a fanfare and as his hands twitched and bounced, the smiling puppets skipped to centre stage and burst into a slapstick fight. His father swung at his mother and managed to chip her painted smile. She swung back at him, knocking off a loosely fastened eye. Whimpering, he half-heartedly looked around for his eye while she laughed at him through the gritted teeth of her broken smile.

Arthur could hardly believe that he was grinning. His jaw jammed ajar as though his joints had rusted or some higher being had possessed him. Perhaps he too had only a painted smile. Regardless, the two helpless demons continued fighting, getting increasingly battered by the brawl. Each hit brought whimper and howl as the parents deconstructed one another and the audience cheered.

This continued for a while until, arms aching a little, Arthur did away with the stage, the curtains and the audience. He sat his parents down on his lap and tilting their heads, he made sure they were paying close attention.

 ‘How do you like it, huh?’

He forced his father to nod his head and a response fell out with near perfect timing.

‘Rotten child.’

Arthur suppressed a scream and quickly discarded his mother before he began repeatedly striking his father. Soon, his anger bettering him, he hit his father a little too hard. He grazed one hand, and lost his grip with the other; his father fell to the floor. Reaching down to regain control of him, he noticed the puppet’s other eye had broken off and was lying beside him. His mother was damaged too. All but a few red and white spots of her painted smile had worn off. So with one blind and one mute, his puppet parents would no longer torment him.


Read part 4

The Marionette #2

So there he was, locked in his basement bedroom, battered and bruised for a few misplaced words round the dinner table the day before. Then – SNAP – the door unlocked. It opened. In the doorway stood the silhouette of his mother.

‘Come, Arthur. Dinner’s out.’
The words barely escaped through her gritted teeth.

‘You’d better hurry up or you won’t be getting any!’

Reluctantly, Arthur approached her with fists clenched, bracing for impact. As he walked forwards she put her hand round the back of his neck and forced him out of the room.

An hour later the defeated form of Arthur returned, trying his best to keep the weight off his right leg. His father was close behind. As Arthur turned he noticed the bulging, bloodshot eyes, gunning him down.

‘Rotten Child!’

Before Arthur could dare to respond, the door slammed shut and all that remained of his father was the pain in his right leg.

He hadn’t been given much to eat and it wasn’t long before his stomach began reminding him. However, the dinner wasn’t a complete disaster. Concealing them inside his jacket he had managed to smuggle a couple of bread rolls back to his room. Desperate to eat them, he devoured the first in a couple of seconds. It wasn’t easy to deny himself the other, but he knew better. He took his seconds to the wardrobe.

Opening the double doors, he stuffed the roll inside one of his shoes. The wardrobe was old and had been slowly dismantling itself for decades. Yet for many years the wardrobe had seemed the perfect escape for a young Arthur when the shouts and screams got loud upstairs. Above his shoes – some of which were still squashed from his refuge there – hung old clothes that no longer fit him and a pair of battered puppets that were dented and limp. Their strings were ragged and formed nooses round their necks. They appeared to have been hanged in a rush, as though there was a fear of them escaping.

One puppet was masculine, with a pointed nose and huge red eyes. The other character, with a poorly painted smile, was a woman. They were no Punch and Judy. These demons dangling in his wardrobe were a product of his plight – effigies of his parents.


Read part 3

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From the sun lounge I see It suffocating, masked with prints from sweating fingers;

I, in safe solitary contentment, sip whiskey in the depths of the Barcalounger.

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Debris cartwheels round the remains of It, a cosmic carousel of splinters,

of covert cold war creations and the last of the American dream.

DJ Kessler’s desolate shriek is on repeat through the toxic fog.

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With fading memories vacuum packed into photographs

scattered around, I sit in slippers and dressing gown.

Today is my birthday, and It is going to die

with us final few flung deservedly off

across the distant candle light stars

and I’m blowing them out

I’m making a wish

as we drift off into

.

the wasteland of

.

Infinity

The Marionette #1

Arthur peered weakly through the rusting keyhole of his bedroom door. Among the dust and cobwebs of the old stairway, he could just about make out a glimmer of light coming from the kitchen above. A faint shadow entered his view, stealing the spotlight for a moment before a second, clearer shadow chased it out of sight.

The cold basement ceiling trembled under the force of a falling object in the room above him, displacing new dust and old plaster, which scattered about the room. His parents were home. A few anxious beads of sweat soaked into the outer bristles of his straw hair and he jerked back, away from the door, shaking. Clutching his torso, he lifted his shirt and counted the black and blue kisses from Mummy and Daddy. As he got up his hollow stomach writhed and resonated with the walls around him as more objects fell above him.  A final thud rattled the room and the procession on top of his chest of drawers suffered the worst it; a series of old framed pictures of his grandparents scattered and shattered into every available cavity. Then fell a stillness in all but Arthur’s brain.

He stepped lightly across the room, delicately navigating the present silence. He began to collect the remains of his grandparents and stow them bit by bit into one of the now open drawers. The drawer was mottled with relics from a puppet theatre his grandparents used to own. For years they shared with him the magic of the marionette, and naturally, when his grandparents took their last bow, it was all handed down to him. Soon, he began making his own puppets and out of scraps of wood and old tin cans he crafted his best friends. He’d put on shows to vacant seats saved for his parents, yet as far as they were concerned, there were no strings attached.


For more, read part 2