The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?- E.A.P.
All is still as Wichita is consumed by the nothingness that is now her head. Have I died? She thinks, laying or existing against the sea of garbage. Did she exist even? She wasn’t sure, she felt like nothing and something all at the very same time. The pain was gone, for that much she was grateful. Her sense of touch seemed to have left her, the moment her body had separated from her head.
A blinding light greets one chocolate painted eye, her world awash in brilliant fluorescence. She had died, she was sure now. The voice that greats her lonely ear is sweet, soft, soothing. She is filled with a sense of contentment. “Oh no. Another one. Poor dear” The voice frets, as Wichita’s sight slowly returns. At first it is blurred, but she makes out a hand, a large hand she is relieved to note. Not a child’s. This hand is different, though it is rough, it is warm, and brown. No, not just brown, it’s like coffee and cream, running gently along her dial.
It lifts her, though she has no sense of the movement, only a sole eye to discern the occurrence. “She really did a number on you, huh, little one? I’ll see what I can do to put you back together. Or…well, barring that, at least turn you into something beautiful again.” The yellow head (that was once a mare) watches as her body is removed from the bin as well, they both are sent tumbling into a rather large purse. Wichita wonders, What did that woman mean, put me back together? Like many things, Wichita was sure she couldn’t be put back together, and if she could would she want to be? She remembered the scene in the bedroom, the girl and the dog pulling her apart. Her tail gone, probably stuck somewhere in the bowels of the golden animal now. No mane either, and only the one eye and ear. Her body had been mangled by puncture wounds, so many puncture wounds. A leg was half gone, how could that be fixed? Wichita didn’t know. What she did know was, she was in a purse, with her bodice, clanging around the bottom with the change. She could hear its soft clank clink clank as it made contact with its copper brothers. She wasn’t sure the length of the journey, time meant very little in limbo, but it didn’t seem horribly long. Not like laying in the waste bin, time seeming to stretch eons as she laid in the dark, nothing but her thoughts.
A key meets a lock. A door swings open, tapping lightly against the wall on the other side. “Lena, Mija, I’m home!” Again the woman speaks, Wichita wonders to who. Lena? Who’s that? She must admit she was worried, the sound of footsteps like ice against her conscious. “Mama,” a child’s voice dances in her ear, a sweet tone. Entirely different to the loud cacophony of shrieks and hollers that the other had presented. “I’m so glad your back mama, I missed you.” The little girl pulls her mother in for an embrace. The yellow mare only knew this because the sides of the purse caved in, the little light filtering through the top had momentarily ceased. “I missed you too Mija,” the woman says in a loving tone “I have brought you something.” More movement before the purse is set on a hard surface, ever so gently, much to Wichita’s surprise. The worn hands reach in, carefully pulling both her and her body from its contents before setting them both on a table top.
A worn face looks humbly down at her, the woman’s. Her years etched in lines, around her eyes, at the corners of her mouth. Dark pools of earth look down at her, thoughtful, a bun of dark brown hair sits atop her head. Just to the side, peering ever so innocently is a young girl. Barely older than the other child, perhaps 10? Her skin is the same coffee and cream pigments, her eyes a green tinted hazel. Waves of a lighter brown fall in curtains around her face, and past her shoulders. A cowlick evident at her crown. Her smile is soft, shy, lacking in teeth as she seems unsure whether or not to commit to it. “Oh mama,” she whispers, “what happened to her?” The child runs a finger over her missing ear. “I’m not sure Mija, but how about I fix her up, hmm? Like the others?” her mother asks gently. Wichita can see very little around her, but she does catch a glimpse of paint, different yarns, tubs of what appear to be playdoh. This was some sort of, arts and crafts table, the thought enters her mind unknown from where.
“What shall we make?” the mother places her hands on the table. An old gold ring sits on her left ring finger, they were otherwise unadorned. Lena, the little girl, turns and heads off excitedly to another room. She returns with a well-worn book, its pages yellow and its spine peeling. She flips through the delicate pages with care, before she finds whatever it is she was looking for. She shows her mother, “How about this one mama?” she asks gently, as though she does not want to ask too much. Her mother’s dark but gentle eyes float from the picture to the table, taking inventory of all that is there. “Oh yes, Mija, that is a wonderful idea.” She runs her rough hands gently along her daughter’s cheek, “now let’s have some supper before I begin. I should have her done before the weekend is over.”
Wichita is left again, for a time. She hears the clinking of pots and pans coming from what she guesses is the kitchen. Voices, as the two say a grace, laughter when they share their days. How very different this small family was, the little pony wondered if she was even on the same planet. Had she truly died and gone to the other place? Soon though the woman returns, her child had been put to bed with words of ‘good night and sweet dreams.’ A pair of plain wire rimmed glasses sit crookedly on her nose, threatening to slide down. She reaches to the side and turns on a small lamp, adjusting it until it hangs just right. “Ah, sweet Caballo, we’ll have you fixed up soon.” She lends reassurance to the tiny plastic toy, a genuine care in her voice. The book is left open somewhere on the desk, but with just one eye Wichita has no hope of seeing it. Her nimble fingers first pick up Wichita’s mangled body, a tut tut tut escaping her pursed lips as she turns the object over in her hands. There wasn’t much to save really, if anything at all, and she picks up an item out of Wichita’s line of vision. A single blade sits on the end of a stick, looking much like a scalpel, exacto knife, her thoughts somehow provide. The tiny knife slices through her chassis like butter, separating the intact forelegs (just past the shoulders) from the pock marked and missing hind end. With great satisfaction the pony felt nothing, not a single ache ravaged her body as its deformities were cut away. From somewhere else another thing is retrieved, and the mare is confused to see the body of a lion. The front legs were a melted mess, though the golden plastic was untouched at the rear, the sinewy tail curving before it ended in a tassel of black hair. From this she removes the warped front legs, much like she had with Wichita’s own body, the blade cutting through with ease.
The two halves are about the same size, and the little mare watches through her solemn eye, as the two are affixed together with some sort of, glue is it? The two pieces melded together, a soft pastel yellow at the front ending with the golden form of the lion. The woman places these aside before continuing her work. “There, there caballo, now to let it dry, you’ll see.” The woman’s espresso hands, reach into what Wichita thought were playdoh buckets, however on closer inspection she learned it was in fact polymer clay. It is then that the pony’s head is lifted, turned this way and that, before the knife is again used to remove her other ear. What? I need those to hear, Wichita thought, her words once again nothing more than thoughts in her own head. She is now not only half- blind, but to complete her disabilities she is deaf as well. Perfect, she thinks rather saucily. A smile spreads on the woman’s face, she has been pinching and rolling very small pieces of clay and is pleased with the results. She stages the pieces atop Wichita’s head to see what they will look like, and the mare is filled with realization. Ooohh, ears! She says happily. However, these were not the same ears, they were small, rounded. Wichita wondered why the woman would pick these ears for her, they didn’t look like pony ears, not like her ears. The ears are removed and placed back on the table, as the woman begins to remove what is left of her mane.
She hums a tune, a slow almost sad song, as she goes, making short work of her task. Again, Wichita was laid down but now she took quite an interest in what exactly was being done. This was an odd way to fix a pony. A pair of wings, with soft brown feathers were lain out, with special care to smooth the feathers. Things are getting really weird around here, she thought. After this was done her body was again grasped, the glue having dried, and was given a coat of paint. More so, a soft blending of colors to the midsection, where there had been such an odd contrast. Now the pale yellow met with the golden tone smoothly, instead of an abrupt change. To this the wings were added, with such care Wichita was under the impression that they may break, and while they were drying her only eye was removed. Blind, deaf, what a maddening state to be in. What is goin’ on? Hello? Ma’am I really do need those eyes, shouts and questions, just for the sake of shouts and questions.
Soft brush strokes meet her head, and slowly, slowly they become an eye. A new eye, one with which Wichita looked up through a magnifying glass. The ladies own worn and wrinkled eyes, staring back at her. A look of concentration filled them, her tongue poking out just so from her mouth. That way that they do when one is truly in the ‘zone.’ She was glad that at the end of this, she had two eyes, and not just one. Two brand new eyes, hot dog! Her little voice fluttered aimlessly inside her empty cranium. Her ears were molded to her head, the thinnest layer surrounding her jaw line, and she was at last lain to rest for the night. “Buenas noches, caballo.” Said the woman, turning off the light with a click. She touched a picture, on the way out of the room. The one with the man Wichita had not seen at all today. Where was he at anyways , she thought, as she rested in the darkness. Eyes closed as she slipped into sleep, dreams of flying….
The housekeeper returned once again late that next morning, only to begin with sanding the excess clay from her head. Gentle fingers running along the area until it was smooth and cohesive. The last thing to be done was shocks of raven colored hair, placed atop her skull. The locks were smooth, and straight as a board, Lena’s mother cut them into blunt straight edges. Lastly, she returned Wichita’s head to her body with a deft and practiced hand, the little mare overwhelmed as she once again could feel. Her new body troubled her not, she was pleased to discover. It merely felt rather foreign. She still didn’t know quite what to expect should she ever see her own reflection. The woman tugged on her wings a bit, merely making sure everything had adhered, before calling her daughter. “Mija, come here I’ve finished!” the request was soon met, a very excited round face entering the room. “Oh mama! She’s beautiful, just like the picture.” She was passed from worn hands, to soft gentle ones. The child did not squeeze her too tight, she did not pull at her hair, or throw her around. “Thank you Lena baby. “ Her mother responded, giving the child a kiss atop her head before rising from her stool. “Now you go and enjoy her sweetheart, I have a few chores to do” she smiled, before heading away.
“Look, this is you.” Lena says pulling the worn book ever closer. The strangest picture adorned the yellowing paper, a creature she had never seen. A mirror is brought to her face, the child smiling broadly. “See, just like the picture. Isn’t mama wonderful?” she asks the pony as if waiting for a response. Wichita doesn’t know if this is wonderful, not yet at least. The reflection that stares back at her is an entirely new toy. Her brown eyes have been repainted to a sparkling blue, lined with a cat’s eye and thick lashes, her eyes smoldering against her will. Her new ears she discovered, had been that of a cat, rounded at the ends and rather small compared to her old ones. She had a medium length black mane, with bangs and she was attached to a new lion winged frame. “It’s a Sphinx.” Lena says rather studiously, tapping her unpainted finger against the parchment. “You’re a bit different,” she admits “but that’s okay. That just means your special.” She presses her button nose to Wichita’s maw, rubbing them together affectionately. “Let’s go play now okay?” she says once again a question Wichita could not answer. As they made their way to Lena’s room the girl chattered away. “Sphinx’s guard temples, so you can guard the castle for me. Oh, and ask them riddles before they can pass okay?” as though to make sure Wichita understood her request. She was carried so carefully across the house, and taken into what could only be Lena’s room. It was modest, a homemade quilt lay across the made bed, a few stuffed animals (perhaps those most treasured) were propped up by the pillows. Books were held on a painted blue shelf, some more worn that others, the piece leaning if just a smidge to the right. There were no clothes laying around off their hangers, no sweets spilled or spread across any surface. Even Lena herself was humble, she finally took a moment to notice. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, down a simple red t-shirt, and a pair of blue jeans completed the look. Her feet were bare as she padded across the tile floors.
“Hey guys,” the girl called to her toys, as if they often spent the afternoon chatting away. “This is the Sphinx, remember I told you about her last night?” she paused as though coming up with their responses all in her head. “She’s going to guard the castle, and ask riddles. AAannnd,” she exaggerated “if you guess the riddle you get to be a knight.” Wichita was placed on a drawbridge, looking out into the room and over the faces of the other toys. One was a dinosaur, its wings repaired with a shiny fabric that clashed terribly with its green skin. There was a patchwork stuffed elephant, more patches than anything else really she discerned. A man in fatigues was held up by a wooden leg, his hair tied back in a ponytail. Clay also seemed to be used with this repair, a black eye patch covered his right eye, and atop his shoulder perched a very well made parrot. No one was tossed around, or cut up, or tortured in this game. Lena’s small hands handled each gently, careful to not fuss some of their more delicate parts. Wichita was taken then, making to pace the drawbridge back and forth back and forth. “Who dares answer my riddles?” The child spoke for her “Who is brave, and strong and worthy of knighthood.” The girl giggles at her own words, making Wichita sound rather confident and in charge. Something she had never been. “I do, Mr. Tusks at your service, oh beautiful Sphinx.” the elephant was made to bow before her. Lena cleared her throat before returning to Wichita’s ‘voice’. “Tell me, oh, Mr.Tusks. At night they come without being fetched, and by day they are lost without being stolen.” Oh, Wichita thinks, that’s a tough one. You see, she herself did not really know the answers, so it was just as much a riddle to her as anyone. The elephant is made to think, tapping an arm against his forehead. “The answer is: Stars” he responds and bows. “That is correct” the girl makes her say. Stars? Oh! Stars yes that does make sense, the pony, or sphinx rather, tells herself. She makes him dance, a jubilant little jig, upon learning he is correct. He is then permitted into the castle. Next is the Pterodactyl, whom is a lady believe it or not, and she is also permitted into the castle after having solved a riddle. Last but not least, is the pirate Lt. Longbeard he has been called, but he fails to guess his riddle. Instead he answers with a most funny joke himself, sending them all (mostly Lena) into a fit of giggles.
“Lena, come here.” The child’s mother calls from another room, and the gentle girl leaves, answering her mother’s call most promptly. Upon her absence, the pony (now Sphinx) finds she can once again move. She flexes her limbs first, stretching her new claw tipped legs in wonder. Bringing them close to her face, a more thorough examination. Next she moves her wings, just slightly, afraid of the awkward appendages. They move, rather seamlessly, flexing as though she had had them always. Well almost, she thinks, after managing to poke herself in the eye with one of them. Curiously she steps towards the green dinosaur, and it awakens with a sqwaaaak . “So sorry, but can you help me please. See, I’ve never had wings before and- I- well, how do they work exactly?” The creature clacks her beak nodding, “Ah yes, welcome, welcome. What were you before my dear hmm?” it asks. “I was a pony before, just a pony.” She responds delicately the subject still rather bizarre to her. “Oh a pony you say? Well, you must have gotten roughed up a good bit, yes indeed.” Fluttering its wings, as it begins to amble about, a bit of a waddle to its gait. “Not me see, just a couple of torn wings. Lena’s mom fixed me right up though, and now I have the prettiest wings on the block.” She swishes them about, before realizing what she had just said. “I mean yours are lovely too dear, I didn’t mean to insult.” “No ,no” Wichita cuts in ”yers are right nice ma’am.” she assures her with a quick word. They have an impromptu flying lesson, Tessa (as Wichita learns her name) is a very informative and patient teacher. During the lesson, Wichita wakes each toy, and the atmosphere is warm and inviting. The elephant offers words of encouragement, with each failed attempt, celebrating her triumphs with his best dances. The soldier or is he a pirate lends his own words of encouragement though Wichita can’t decipher most of them, he spoke as if he had a pint too much rum. No one hurts her though, perhaps because they are happy here. She thinks she could be happy too, but she missed her friends. She wondered if they would still like her like this, this Frankenstein body that made her something else. A fairytale creature from a book.
Their festivities end as the door opens and Lena re- enters the room. “Well guys, momma says she needs me to tend the garden. We will have to finish our game later,“ she announces as she digs in a drawer. She slips a worn pair of garden gloves over her too small hands, and a straw sun hat covers her head. “You can come with me though” she scoops Wichita up and heads out the door. The afternoon sun is warm, as Wichita rests watching Lena from her place beneath a tomato plant. The girl works quietly, and with intent, not a tear or a frown from the labor. This girl is good Wichita thinks, she could live in the Gates if she wanted. The girls mother too, she adds but she doesn’t linger on pipe dreams. A bone chilling sight passes her vision, and conveniently she is already frozen in place. Rounding the corner, is Nerissa, her eyes wide and full of hate as they rest on Wichita’s familiar dial.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing doubting… -E.A.P.
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