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May 25, 2005

Volume 1, Issue 13

Hey, little girl

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Find your inner demons and let them loose.

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Comments

Apple Girl. Them kids always call me Apple Girl. Just cause I sell apples.

I don’t really mind them kids makin’ fun of me. Shoot, I know they all comes from folks with lots more money than me and Ma gots.

We make by, I suppose. Ma takes in other folks laundry and I sell apples and such. Ma is teachin’ me my letters and numbers, too, when there’s time.

‘Course when them kids made fun of my Abigail, I had to do somethin’ bout that. Didja know you put rat poison in apples by dripping it on the stem?

Posted by: Jim Parkinson at May 24, 2005 9:49 PM · Permalink

Weird ...
This reminds me of the poem by William wordsworth
'Solitary reaper'
What do u say?

Posted by: not at May 25, 2005 12:11 AM · Permalink

Mary’s toy was an odd one, but she loved it. If you asked her its name, she’d coyly respond, “Polly.” Then she’d look up, at you, shyly and slyly, as though there were more to tell but she wasn’t going to tell it.

Late at night, she’d sneak to the toy chest where “Polly” slept and pull out her friend. Then she and Wilkersen – the toy’s real name – would duck out the window to fly around a little. Once she told her mom, who said it was a dream. Why her slipper turned up on the neighbor’s roof is unclear.

Posted by: Geoffrey Barto at May 25, 2005 12:40 AM · Permalink

"Mr Snuffles wants to know if you'd like some more tea, sir."

Charity invited me almost daily, as I passed the orphanage on my route, but since I was early today, I said yes. Now we were sitting at a tiny table in the overgrown garden, with a pot of weak tea and several dolls.

"I'd love some more tea, Mr Snuffles. Thank you."

When I awoke in darkness, tied to an old tractor in the shed, I could hear the police hustling her into the wagon. It was too late for the minister and salesman tied next to me.

Posted by: Tanya at May 25, 2005 5:03 AM · Permalink

"Hey, mister, want to kiss my doll?"

I looked at the poor, dirty child, noticing that her smile looked a little off. There was a twinkle in her eye as if she was waiting for me to get her joke. Then I looked at the doll baby that she was cradling.

"No, thank you," I offered politely. Then I noticed the sores on her arms and face. What could that be? I remembered and backed away slowly before I broke into a run home.

As I scoured my skin I hoped that I hadn't caught small pox from this waif.

Posted by: The Scarlett at May 25, 2005 5:30 AM · Permalink

“Sweet Jesus, Vic, now we’re lost!”

“Shutup, Stacy.”

“Shortcut, my ass.”

“Shut-the-fuck-up.”

They glared at each other over the hood of the car.

“Where the hell is everyone?”

Even the gathering dusk couldn’t hide the griminess of the town.

Vic noticed her first. She stood across the street, as tattered and dirty as her surroundings, cradling a doll. “Hey! Little girl!”

He crossed to her and kneeled, “Can you tell us …?”

She smiled and leaned in, as if to whisper in Vic’s ear.

And Stacy’s screams echoed down the street as the blood appeared and the little girl fed.

Posted by: Darleen at May 25, 2005 6:36 AM · Permalink

Accepting the proffered paper cup of lemonade, I handed her a nickel. A grimy thumb and index finger extended and the nickel was squirreled away in a flash.

“What’s your name, little one?”

The girl looked up, but not as far as my face.

“Ruthie.”

“Well, Ruthie, that’s a very nice baby doll you have there.”

‘Taint a doll. It’s my new brother. Mama had him on Thursday.”

“Oh, new brother, is he? Well, he certainly is well behaved. What’s his name?”

“Well, I wanted to call him Danny, but Mama called him Stillburn.“

Considering this, I sipped and smiled.

Posted by: Mr.Parx at May 25, 2005 7:22 AM · Permalink

They used to get the kids from adoption agencies or kidnapping. Now they have baby farms in the desert. Less paper trail that way. Sometime during the fifth year, the parts of the brain that control higher reasoning are scooped out and replaced with remote-control circuitry. People don't live more than a year like that, and these guys aren't Lolitamongers, so the next step is to remove most of the gut and implant high explosives and prefragmented shrapnel. They're then programed to pull the little lost girl routine until enough victims gather, then...boom.

Just another face of the enemy, boys.

Posted by: Jeff R. at May 25, 2005 8:36 AM · Permalink

Just...damn.

Posted by: Sekimori at May 25, 2005 8:55 AM · Permalink

She lived across the street. Only neighbor I had, really, considering the street.

She had a name, certainly. I knew it once but I can never remember the names. She always looked so sad.

And every day, every damn day, at the end of that driveway. I took to the back door, to avoid her.

Looking, nearly all day, until her whore of a mother came to collect her.

Looking around and,
-stop, fucking stop. stop fucking looking at me!

I'm screaming at a closed window.

Enough. I draw the curtains and almost fall over what's left of her sister.

Posted by: hayner at May 25, 2005 11:43 AM · Permalink

He studied the picture intently, hoping that some detail might provide the inspiration he needed. Her smile obviously had more than a trace of malevolence. And the way she cradled that doll was more than a little creepy. He saw all of this, but knew that everyone who looked at the picture probably saw the same thing. He wanted an entirely different angle.

Then he realized that he was waiting for the picture to speak to him, and found that extremely creepy. His phone rang, reminding him that he was at work, and probably shouldn't be writing at the moment.

Posted by: No One of Consequence at May 25, 2005 1:45 PM · Permalink

Mama had dressed me like this for as long as I could remember. I don't think that I ever thought to complain.

Mama pulled my hair up and sent me outside to play with my doll, my only toy. I always minded Mama.

But, I had a secret and Mama had told me to never tell.

"They won't understand, Samantha," Mama cautioned.

"Yes, ma'am," I told her, always the compliant child.

No, I never thought to complain. You see, I liked the way the panties felt although I was the only boy I knew that looked and dressed this way.

Posted by: Sue Ellen at May 25, 2005 2:11 PM · Permalink

The walk down the dirt road was one of the few moments of purpose in the day. She would come down to meet the kids that are returning from day camp and share the day's adventures. She never was quite sure if they were sincere in their exclamations of joy on seeing her. Every day was a trepidation anew, would they be there, would they still like her. Every day she wanted to be a part of the real world and belong. No matter what the previous day showed this was different, she could never be sure it was real.

Posted by: Blaine at May 25, 2005 2:27 PM · Permalink

"There you are! Dad, we got to go. Gee-gee put off leaving just as long as she could, so Taylor wouldn't fuss in the church. Ah, you know how new mothers are. But if we're to going make it in time we really have to leave right now."

Her voice trailed off as she followed the old man's gaze, toward the photograph on the nightstand.

It's strange, she thought, how such a fragile thing could survive that fire.

Jeannette sat down on the bed and took one of the old man's hands into her own.

"I miss her too, Dad."

Posted by: Carthoris of Helium at May 25, 2005 8:08 PM · Permalink

As iconic as Lange’s “Migrant Mother”, she namelessly personified the bombing of Dresden, a little girl with crazed eyes and loving arms. Finally found (living in suburban Shreveport of all places) she had no memory of the photo being taken, but most certainly remembered the doll. “Her name is Anneliese. Her first muter was Anya, my friend, the rabbi’s daughter. Both are ashes now. I will be ashes soon. I wonder which of us she will call “Mama” in heaven.” Pause. “Probably nobody. Both are just ash. Still, I like to think Anneliese lives. And somewhere she has a mommy.”

Posted by: Jon at May 25, 2005 10:25 PM · Permalink