Hello brothers and sisters! 

I would like to share with you one of my very short bizarre tales. My writing isn't for most people but maybe a few will like it and take something from it. I also have this story in pdf format if anyones interested. The story is in four parts but its the whole story. It's a prequel to a much longer story of mine. Enjoy! 

TOY BOX ~Flesh and bone, fire and brimstone~

The pain was too much and perhaps more than that it was too much to ask her other half lying lazy over there for a very small favor, if she could carry the burden for once. If even whispered from the heart the porcelain ears she spoke to were cold and closed; unable to enter and echo. The whispers a child tells their dolly and the things she never heard. The silence was kept shattered in a non-existent bowel deep within a replicate of a child. There were no butterflies in this box. Lillian would put her ear up to her dolly’s torso and listen closely for a sound. Deep within dolly’s chest lay the grave of Lillian with all her spoken breaths. If she had one wish, a wish she wished every second she was present, was a wish that her dolly would save her.  To say her name was two knocks with the tip of your tongue followed by a deep breath let out while climbing a step “Lil-lian.” You could almost sneeze from the dust you’d inhale from saying a name said so rare. The one that was birthed from the smoky train, but the one that couldn’t put the train to sleep. Lillian was a pretty hideous girl, wearing the hood of ugly. An eye pry of terror, a shy away from death. There was a lot to this girl, worth as little as an appetite next to spilled rot. When she smiled it looked like someone beat train tracks with the back of a hammer, a tedious job, a job too frightened to finish off its own monster. What she wore could also be said reversed of itself, she was scrap-booking the shadow. Lillian looked a bit zombie. She was a brainy and heady child under a bright bulb that hummed and hissed, if to tell her to “shew away fly!” And what of her heart? A heart that Edgar Allan Poe could have used as a pocket watch. It would have served him well while having writer’s block... something to torment. It ticked only to bother tock’s annoy.  Dolly, the one that stole Lillian’s heart but held onto only the dead skin of her. The name she chose for her dolly was a humble and flowery name, "Kim-ber-lee" which you couldn’t finish saying without a cheesy forced smile. Cheese! Not an ugly or frightening doll, just a serious doll. A quiet, but deep fake little girl. Dolly was a doll of great, realistic, meticulous detail. A gorgeous doll that mimicked life so well it rather simply mocked it; cruelly. She had freckles of a spicy dash. The royal Irish blush like immaturely picked strawberries sweltering on ready patted pale cheeks. Long, chopped, medium brown animalistic hair sat dazzled on her shoulders like freshly trimmed flowers. Strangely enough, Kimberly appeared to be smiling. This one had teeth. Two front rabbit teeth stuck out among the rest of the perfect laid out tracks. A shining carrot in the flowery bush of fury animal collectives, Dolly was. Lifeless, but perhaps more real than the idea Lillian had of herself. Lillian was the folded flower beneath Dolly’s flat bottom, a hippies fallen poppy.  If the two of them had one thing in common it was that both their eyes were stuck in stares, sharp distant stars in can opened eyes. Constantly they searched for God while finding nothing but there equal amounts of space and quirkiness. Through her dolly Lillian knew she was playing peak-a-boo with God. With heaven humbly returned but not received as the bible opened exclaimed it to mutually be, Heaven was the fly on the dollhouse lie. Lord of the fakes, she was, with a doll pretty with her flakes. Lillian and Dolly were porcelain sisters: One bruised, the other cracked, one’s flowers were fake, the other’s dead and dry. One tragically lacked a small wet kiss and the other lacked nothing for a crack was nothing, may as well be a beauty mark. All that happened, all that was seen was viewed from Dolly’s eyes in the hands of Lillian like God holding the world's glass eye to magnify and fry. They were each other. They were one. They were nothing for the other. 

WOMB TELEPHONE ~Children are born to play in the playgrounds of his watching eyes.Left unattended as they are they become the devil’s playthings.~

The Madepie family was still connected together from the bloody umbilical cord in a cyberpunkish way similar to a hospitalized astronaut still in full suit. When the end of your flesh becomes a weapon against you, you flirt with the idea of giving your mind an abortion. Orifices were open wide and raw in a mix of norm and foreign, it was a bizarre complex to say the least. Lillian was the only child. Neither of her parents had the heart to sell her off for good, for drugs. So they gave up there first newborn son instead. All for a wholesome fix. There little girl was a tragedy to their already disaster. Above their heads their halos already viscously showed fiery. Those rings interlocked eternally around the devil’s third horn. Only the flesh, only the veil, only thinness separated them from their damnation. At least you can repent when soiling the wearing dress of earth. The two of them would rather turn it onto their own white dove to soil. The mentality of it couldn’t be interpreted yet. Though there was hurt and reaction, it’s all that it was, hurt in a colorless form and action in a body’s way. An animal cannot tell you to stop, but it can’t help but need your love. It is hurt under your wing. Asking becomes doing, wanting becomes carrying. Much as one would think of any dolly, Lillian was more the doll than any. The rag doll pushed to the side below the belt; hanging out of the pocket while the other pocket was fatly filled. The crutch that continued to clench. At least at these times of ghastly crimes, she held tightly the hand of Dolly. A marionette with a little life next her. The heart was the rhythm, the mind the rhyme and the soul the metaphor.  There was absolute shame in this picture frame. Lillian was the doll between her parents, their life-size, real life doll that they could meticulously pick and poke or shape and mold to be or do anything. Both parents would animate the inanimates that were open and bare before them. They peeled fruits with their eyes alone and bathed them with their child’s feet. A licking love to start the kick, to start the flutter and the abrupt squawk. Without control she’d ooze and overflow like butter melting into thirsty hot pancakes. In her nervousness and uncertainty butterflies would flutter and turn her stomach till she pushed and pooted out their dust. There was some beauty to her yet! No matter how hard she’d fight it, Lillian built little and broke aplenty. The bruises bled in purple and red all over her limbs scattered on the bed. Side by side, Lillian and Dolly were crashed dummies that hit the wall of parental control without the consent of acting alive. The parental smiles they flashed were as haunting as ones from the grave, all for what pleasure the slave gave. Their rapid and exhausted inhales and exhales made the train come alive! It was a barbaric tooth ache. It felt like a train was curling itself securely around Lillian’s poor little head.A blare of a tea kettle whistled and a pound of a persistent hammer pounded. A metal rusted butterfly coiled in bondage by its own folding wings. The only release or relief this train gave was in its trying to make head cheese, for it’d spill out all over her little dress of sleaze; already a messy portrait. A pretty picture, she begged please! She’d always pass out before it could blow its horn for the last time. The nightingale never sang for the midnight train.  

DEJA VOODOO ~In a time before the butterflies there was just the whispering air, but by the time the butterfly was, its flutter made not a sound~

Carried to her room by the beasts, piece by piece as if she were big slabs of fat scissored off the breast of a cow. She’d already be dreaming before her head hit and sunk in the pillow. One night, waking some odd hours in a pool of leakings, the two of them laid hurt of the day they survived. It was her sunshine time. A lethal dose. A time of more make believe than a child should have. Play with only the mere thought of the sun’s grace. Playtime for Lillian was an obsession, as sick as a woman that would buy the mannequin ‘as-is’ and wear her outfit in front of her nude plastic. A lady bizarre window-shopping. It became a sticky focus to keep her mind off the still throbbing pain. Usually she would tend to Kimberly’s beauties or comb out her hairy pulp. More often than enough, Lillian would fantasize of different ways to harm Dolly. Most commonly by dismemberment. It’d satisfy her until it’d gross her out. She’d feel the cold spill of vomit on her lap; Dolly’s meal. Shining Dolly’s beauties with it while she believed Dolly was tending to her wounds with her unseen spill, too. Lillian smirked at what had a name but couldn’t cry. Why did Kimberly sit there in dead space, not muttering a word when Lillian twitched and convulsed. There must be something inside of Dolly that Lillian was missing. Lillian could take her frustration out on Dolly’s hair with a comb no more. The sound squawking frustration shredded tears into a small bomb of anger that poofed. With a toy hammer Lillian struck a mighty blow to Kimberly’s stomach, caving it in like a fresh pie. Lillian knew what insides looked like from seeing a dead dog on the side of the road. Its stuffings spilled out in a fly swarming pile of red and black. There was nothing like that here. To be exact, there was nothing at all inside Dolly’s belly. Nothing to window-shop. The womb was cold as a beasts chest. Where were all Lillian’s things? All of her spilled whispers and rippling dreams... nonexistent. Not only did Dolly keep her mouth shut and sit still, she was holding onto a lie all along, a lie that she was never ever alive in the first place. Lillian knew it wasn’t the deepest gash, but she knew it was true that a shadow makes any space or wall a void. For the few years she’s had of life all her secrets, wishes and cries fell out of her deeper into nowhere. Lillian was the puppet master that hung not strings but her very intestines for her Dolly to cling onto. It was a waist, a sacrifice, there were no blessings. It always took a while to creep like an intoxicated ghost forgetting life, then remembering death. In a state of panic, Lillian first tried to deny it but her glue and band-aids wouldn’t hold. Small kisses, if even they were sweet, sincere and sorry wouldn’t put dolly back together again. No. There was nothing to hide the fact that Lillian was alone and that she was as hollow as her dolly all along. The fact was intimidated by her doll-like stare. Above her head a metaphorical light hissed then popped but the little sheddings of glass were real. Dolls chip and shed their casing as well. We most definitely collect it in our eyes, our dolly’s life. Lillian got too close to the shatter and now has pieces of star in eye. The idea of the bulb stayed as a light bulb silhouette, dark but bright. From the panic and pain the shards of glass did permanent damage due to the rapid batting of her lashes. In one eye the vision was warped as a kaleidoscope while the other sparkled a very white hint of glow to everything. It, however queer, was a coincidence to a many bizarre.  The day before Lillian found a hurt butterfly and kept it in a tiny jar, protecting it from harm. Sadly she forgot to poke holes in the top. She didn’t know it would have died anyway from the hurt wing, so she blamed herself for stealing its breath. The breath that carried her whispering voice was no more, too. Lillian understood the soul swallowing sorrow. Opening the tightly sealed jar, she blew and the butterfly moved. It moved!! Miraculously it was playing dead! Her life was rebirthed, alive right there before her, fluttering by her very own blow. Alive by her! Bandaged by a Band-Aid butterfly. The carefully swift exchange of the butterfly to Dolly’s hollow belly was now Lillian’s place of echo, forever. Lillian whispered, “here I lie, a butterfly." If there was a box for butterflies, this butterfly was the first.  

THE TRAIN IS ASLEEP ~A wish is told on only a few hairs of a Dandelion, not the whole. It separates from the first blow~

You’d think a child could whisper all their breaths until they’ve suffocated. It was so for Lillian. Heard by her parents when their high fell, they found at their dirty feets their bundle of a daughter, struggling to breath. It was dark, it was messy, it was all too hairy. If their hearts ever shined it was at this crucial and critical point. They scooped up the cold, stiff, wheezing child and rushed to the hospital. From an awkward tilt and irregular view, Lillian saw the same picture over again. The same page kept flipping over and over. For some reason she felt well and relaxed, full and wholesome even. A warm sensation tickled and clothed her, blanketed her like a caterpillar. The little peach fuzzies on her body from head to toe came alive and brushed the air. There was an aura thinly around of humble color that tugged on the soul in a way to say, “Away. C’mon, child. Come. Fly.” Lillian put out her hand. The tires locked up and smeared a screech of rubber against wet concrete that threw the car head first into a tree. The train now asleep by the first sound of its horn. Outside spun wheels while on its side and cracks down the spine on the inside. She was crammed in tight, sardined. A can opener was too small to pry her out, now she’s bigger than the tool. Lillian’s parents were the crash dummies and dolly was dead. It was their daughter’s dolly they took. In their coming down they didn’t know their daughter from her doll. They must have heard the wind. They could have heard the whispers. They had to of heard Lillian breathing faintly into the hole in Kimberly’s belly that amplified and echoed her little voice. The first butterfly in the box is always the last to flutter free. It’s all been scribbled in a child’s drawing book. Even in scribbles are God’s words written. 

I love this stuff Steven, you are an excellent writer. I only got to read the first one and when it comes to this wonderful kind of writing I like to take my time reading and thinking about what the writer ( you ) is trying to say. Absolutely beautiful. I have to scoot for now, But I assure you I will be back to read the rest. Thank you so much for sharing. Huggs & kiss's. Sara

Thank you, Sara. You a very kind. It means the world to me. I appreciate our blossoming friendship! I'm very happy. I can't wait to hear what you have to say. I'm excited!!!! Hugs and kisses.