“Two-Minute Tuesdays” are a series of micro-stories written in
two five minutes or less. Consider them “public practice,” like shooting free throws in the park. Prompts are supplied at the bottom in case you want to try your own hand at one of them.
“We can repair this.”
I stifled a laugh. Jeremy—sorry, not Jeremy, Officer Burgess—was staring down at the remains of a doll, smashed beneath the wheels of a patrol car. He’d somehow managed to destroy not only the doll, but also every single one the doll’s accessories, flattening a set tiny of metal silverware and shattering a bowl that now looked like a crushed skittle. The whole setup was now a pink plastic pancake in the gutter, a melted flesh soup waiting for plastic scavengers to come across it and suck up little Betty or Barbie or Belinda with a straw. Only the obvious tread marks ruined the impression.
Beatrice’s owner stood on the curb, her lips curled in an imitation of her doll’s death grimace and an uncontrollable onslaught of brief already crashing down, about to engulf passerby and parent alike in a tsunami of tears. They would know her pain, dammit, she would make them feel the death of her child like it was their own.
All of them except for me, that is. Fuck dolls. I’m not about to get brainwashed into spawning, unlike my mom. Look how she turned out.
They used to give me dolls as a kid, you know. I’d bite and tear at them around the neck, starting right where the jaw met the cheek, until their heads came off, and it got a lot easier when you made it about halfway through and it would all flop back away from the torso completely. You can’t eat the plastic flesh, unfortunately, but you’d be amazed at how much doll clothing you can eat in a day when you take it one thread at a time. The hair was trickier, as it tickled my throat going down, but I give it credit for teaching me how to control my gag reflex. Most eyes come off, too, if you really work at them, and they’re not too big to pass.
Like I said. They stopped giving me dolls.