Saturday, August 18, 2007

~Untitled 12 by Fran~


The wigheads were so pretty to Walter. He loved to gaze upon them, to consume their rigid beauty with his eyes.

For a long time, since mother died, Walter lived alone. Working at the factory, cleaning the floors and toilets for more years than he could fix upon in his addled brain.

When it all started he was young and shy. Walter was a bit like a flower that would bud, but never open. Then the rotting comes, guaranteeing no bloom.

Mother grew ill in his second year of college. Oh he was shy, never good with women. In his head he had many lovers. And he treated them with respect! Not at all like the other fellows. They had cars and money. They had confidence. They were unkind though, disrespectful. Walter could just tell.

Mother got ill, Walter came home, one year turned to ten years, ten suddenly became thirty years.

Why couldn't Walter remember why he bought the first wig?

*** This is creepy, but we can't figure out why. A very sympathetic character, in his way.***

5 comments:

FranIAm said...

The wigheads were so pretty to Walter. He loved to gaze upon them, to consume their rigid beauty with his eyes.

For a long time, since mother died, Walter lived alone. Working at the factory, cleaning the floors and toilets for more years than he could fix upon in his addled brain.

When it all started he was young and shy. Walter was a bit like a flower that would bud, but never open. Then the rotting comes, guaranteeing no bloom.

Mother grew ill in his second year of college. Oh he was shy, never good with women. In his head he had many lovers. And he treated them with respect! Not at all like the other fellows. They had cars and money. They had confidence. They were unkind though, disrespectful. Walter could just tell.

Mother got ill, Walter came home, one year turned to ten years, ten suddenly became thirty years.

Why couldn't Walter remember why he bought the first wig?

Cynthia said...

As I looked at photos of myself, I thought, "Hello, Barbie."

Who wouldn't want to look like her? She is so perfect. A plump, kissable mouth that never loses color. Huge eyes with long, thick lashes surrounding them. The button nose. Legs a super model would kill for. And don't forget the big, undrooping boobs and tiny waist.

I adored Barbie when I was young. I had a collection that made all my friends so jealous. But I didn't bother with Skipper, Midge, Ken, or any of the other silly hangers-on. Who needed them? I had Barbie.

Even though I'm an adult, I still have all my Barbies. How could I just toss them? They're a part of me.

One night, after I bleached my hair blond, I went to a bar by myself. A cute, really well-dressed guy started talking to me. He told me that I looked like one of his sister's Barbie dolls. And, guess what? He was a plastic surgeon!

Well, how could I not date him? I did what he wanted, and I got what I wanted. My crappy health insurance wouldn't pay for the surgery because it wasn't a "medical necessity" so I had to do what I had to do.

He was a nice guy, though. I haven't seen him in a few months, and I kind of miss him. Maybe I should call.

But I'm getting away from me and Barbie. Every night I look in the mirror and hold a Barbie next to my face. There's still something I have to do to make me perfect. I just don't know what it is.

Maybe that doctor could tell me. I think I will call him.

Sometimes I dream that I have a daughter. That would make me very happy. I want to give her my Barbies.

easywriter said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
easywriter said...

This is what I see - wooden me. Staring eyes. Don't blink. Painted mouth. Don't speak. Pale blonde wig. Hold up your head. Thanks Mama for making me your little doll, but, I wanted to be real.

Rion said...

Pull my hair when you think anything of me. Pull the yarn from my sweater, run my stockings. Pick off the stickers from my plum.

Demolish me. I'm the older model with an obviously fake blonde wig. I smell like drugstore perfume. Ah, but I have stories and I can drink. Peel off my clothes and the only shy modesty you get is that that you ask for.

Just promise you'll imagine interesting secrets for me, an interesting shameful life of cigarette burns and videocassette tapes.