An Assemblage of Dolls

The doll continued sewing in the dark corner, greeting the needle spiders as they clattered across the wooden shelf. Many avoided her, if possible, so solitude was the only constant friend she could rely on. Besides that, she had patients who screamed at her tattered face until

she finally stitched tight their eyes, ears and mouths, though not before stuffing them with moth eggs until they bloated up unable to move, at least until the hatching began. The grimy nurse doll spasmed again, her lidless jaundiced eyes rolling back into their perished sockets

as her head swung back, then rolled forward again as her head came back down. The poor nurse doll looked absolutely horrible, but not as horrible as she felt. She simply wished she could voice her feelings and that someone would listen.

What she really needed was a puppet. The puppet could speak for her, speak the truth. People would listen to a puppet they trusted. Kermit! He’s a news reporter, after all.

All she had to do was get rid of her first Puppet, Mr. Gizmode. With his complete lack of human enthusiasm it would be no contest who should speak for her. The obvious choice was Kermit! Right? Was she right? Gizmode was a loose cannon for sure but he was a survivor. It came

as no surprise when, upon attempting to put the puppet down the incineration chute in her apartment hallway, Mr. Gizmode’s eyes opened and his mouth flopped agape. “You can’t KILL me, my dear!” he shrieked. “I’m going to kill YOU!” She dropped the puppet and ran back to the open

apartment door. She slammed the door with a hard thud. Suddenly, the phone rang. She answered the phone as chills went up her spine. “I am going to kill you!” the puppet screamed into the phone. She hung up the phone and ran to grab her gun.

She rummaged through her tool box, desperate, only to come to a terrifying realization. In her haste, all of her weapons - her knives, guns, and bombs - had been replaced with a hefty collection of action figures.

She traced her fingers over the action figures in the tool box, wondering who could have replaced the weapons. Before she could fully consider the ramifications there was a sharp metallic ting at the door. Then again, and again. She had no idea if the door would hold.

The knocking grew more persistent with each moment. The Wonder Woman and Cat Woman action figures were of no use to her now. She would have to open the door and face what had come for her. But first she would create a disguise.

So she went to bed, cut two holes into her bedsheets with her Catwoman’s sharp fingers, threw the sheet over her head and prepared to confront the knocking as Casper the ghost !

The knocking grew louder as Catwoman waited, building up her courage. At last, she grasped the doorknob through her bedsheet and flung the door open. To her amazement it was Batman, dressed as Frankenstein. "I thought you were gone," she said. "Batman dead," he said. "ME ALIVE!"