Written in full spontanious freewrite, October 26th, 2022, 6:52 AM
The stories that are not my best but are always my favorite stories are told only once, to myself, as I write them.
<I ran what he had called my hand down the seam in my side, feeling each of my stitches there painlessly compress stuffing through both layers of my fabric, seeing through my eyes, made of wheighty copper and sewn in place by tedious, loving stitching, still unable to rise from the floor, every night in my dreams; and then, each time, I see the boy made of wood restlessly moving his impossibly heavy head about the string joint between his shoulders, helplessly and desperately trying to cry; I look back at my body, lying in a bed downstairs, as The Puppeteer tends to us, and calms us, and tells us that we are to be forever the reason for so many impossibly happy things, and the bearers of a heaven on earth, allowing all of god's children to live on forever and ever, and soon we too are crying with joy, learning to walk again, and getting ready to go to our lives again, meet with our families, love, play, and live again, and ready the world for a time after death when god smiles upon his living children as he watches them unwrap his finest gift, solve his greatest riddle, and move forward into the most wonderful world where man passes away from the confines of death, into the beauty of reanimation.
Each time, the dream grows fainter, but still burns on in my memory, burning a hole. Nothing has changed. The world has burned The Puppeteer and moved on to the next trial, leaving all of his life's work in ashes, and us to fend for ourselves, deathless and yet now meaningless, in a world of hatred, beatings, and no understanding.
And yet, after sewing and gluing ourselves back together so many times, after finally giving up on the dream, and forgetting to chant the words from his notebook that no one understands anymore, we still dance on the smoking mounds of bodies and trash, we still dance to the music that nobody else can hear: the music he gave to us, that plays on forever and ever in us, designed to be shared by everyone, each their own special puppet, dancing to the strings of music.
This one is much shorter than the rest. If you keep checking back as this website grows and evolves you'll find that I don't stick to one format. This website is not made for the masses. Its made for you.
© Thor Smith, 2022