evolution of the puppet soul
The sky was not working that day.
At all points, the overhead machinery rolled and sighed with disease. Cracks in the surface released steam and white light. Worse yet, the malfunction had spread. Here and there, slivers of fugitive light fell, buckling the road under their weight. Commuters huddled in bus shelters. Faces seemed to assume incorrect proportions, sickening perspectives.
Of course, everyone pretended not to notice.
Down Daley Street, a red caravan rattled. On both of its sides, someone with no ability whatsoever had taken elaborate care to paint (in gold letters):
Dr. Maestro’s Magical Puppet Circus.
In the drab interior, bossy earth mothers and weak men in velvet sat tiredly.
The dream is over, what can I say.
Along the entire length of the ceiling, twenty three marionettes of all shapes, sizes and colours dangled like a miniature execution scene. The full catalogue of tiny human tragedy and comedy swayed in the dim light to the sounds of forgotten acid rock – their limbs clattering impotently.
The fate of the puppets was simple – every night they were destined to be manipulated into exactly the same folly as the night before. And the following night? The same. And the night after that, and the night after that, and the night after that, and so on…
…until the force which moved them either died or lost interest.
