The Spot Writers – “The Girl and the Doll” by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt is to start with the sentence “When he was a child, he’d been told dolls were for girls.” 

This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara is currently in Berlin, Germany, doing her best to catch up with semi-abandoned writing projects. Her YA novel “Mi chiamo Elisa” (My name is Elisa) was published in Italy by “Le Mezzelane Casa Editrice” in September 2020 and recently in Turkey with the title “Benim adım Elisa”. Her children’s book “Şebnem ve Schrödinger’in Kedisi” (Chiara and Schrödinger’s cat) was published this year in Turkey by Sia Kitap and in Italy with the title: “Chiara e il Gatto di Schrödinger”.

This story is dedicated to my amazing brothers,

who always attended my banquets with great enthusiasm

***

“The Girl and the Doll” by Chiara De Giorgi

When he was a child, he’d been told dolls were for girls. Which was quite confusing, given that he came from a planet where things worked in a different way, where there was no distinction based on physical appearance or other details, and everyone was just a living being. On Earth, he was a boy. And dolls were for girls. Okay, got it. He didn’t really like dolls anyway. He liked trains and dinosaurs, which made it easy for him to act as the boy society expected him to be. He made friends with other kids regardless of their sex, and always made sure to bring dolls to those who were girls. Some of them were happy to get a doll, some were puzzled, some were not interested at all. One, his favourite, accepted the doll he gave her with a big, toothless smile.

“Thank you!” she said. “This is exactly what I needed. Will you play with me?”

“Sure”, he replied, but he was actually not sure: how could he play with the girl who played with the doll, if he wasn’t supposed to play with dolls?

He was intrigued by the child’s nonchalant invitation, however, because he would often watch her play, sometimes with other children and sometimes alone, and she always seemed very caught up, as if the game she was playing were the real world for a while, and anything could happen.

The little girl stuffed the doll into her backpack, then she called him.

“Come on, we’re done with the shopping”, she said. “Let’s get back to the banquet.”

She pretended to open a car’s door and sit behind a wheel. He did the same and pretended to sit beside her, then followed her, keeping her pace as she started to walk and then run around the schoolyard. It was very funny: she honked, braked, yelled at other drivers and even turned on the radio, which played silly advertisements.

She finally stopped and they both pretended to get off the car and slam the doors, then she ran behind the bushes, and he followed her.

“I’m back, my friends!” she said, throwing the backpack on the ground.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked. And she showed him: there were several figurines made of stones, sticks and flowers, which were supposed to look like people, sitting in a circle. In front of them, were small clumps of dirt decorated with pebbles and blades of grass.

“These are our friends!” she said. Then she opened the backpack and pulled the doll out. “We’re having a banquet”, she explained, “but the cook disappeared after the appetizers were served, so I had to go find some food to prepare something special.”

She laid the doll down in the middle of the circle and embellished it with small clover blossoms. She inhaled deeply and encouraged the boy to do the same.

“Mmmmh, can you smell it? Isn’t roasted chicken just the best? I added wild herbs, you know.”

The boy nodded, but he was quite puzzled. He had never seen a girl play with dolls that way.

Some kids joined them, they were clearly familiar with the girl’s banquets.

“Wow, you really outdid yourself this time!” said a blond-haired, scruffy kid.

“Yes, it smells delicious!” added another one, sitting down and clapping his hands.

A girl arrived and offered her own doll. “Take this, I brought more chicken!”

“Oh, how wonderful!” laughed the inventor of the game. “But isn’t that a goose?”

“Of course, you are right, this is a roasted goose.”

“This banquet is amazing!”

Everyone seemed to have a great time pretending to share a grand meal made of dirt, grass, flowers, and dolls.

The boy was confused, so he approached his new friend and told her: “I have never seen a girl play with dolls this way. Aren’t they supposed to be babies?”

The little girl rolled her eyes and made an impatient gesture. “Dolls are toys! Believe me: I have a bunch of small brothers at home, and they are babies. Dolls are toys and they can be whatever you want them to be. I love roasted chicken, so today my doll is a roasted chicken. Do you understand?”

The little boy nodded: he understood. His friend’s explanation made sense. Actually, it made more sense than the rule someone had imposed on him, to not play with dolls because he was a boy.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

The Spot Writers – “How Bleak Is Our Future” by Phil Yeats

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is to begin with this sentence: “When he was a child, he’d been told dolls were for girls.”

This week’s story was written by Phil Yeats. In September, 2021, he published The Souring Seas, the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards, appeared in May 2022. Book three should be out soon. For information about these books, or his older cosyish mysteries, visit his website–https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

***

“How Bleak is Our Future?” by Phil Yeats

When he was a child, he’d been told dolls were for girls. A child psychologist challenged him with that politically incorrect statement. His response. “Don’t care. I play hockey.”

Twenty years later, he sat in a psychological officer’s cubicle in the Department of Mental Health. Her appearance was cookie-cutter bland and her little space had the mandated, slightly homey look. She exuded the government-sanctioned image of a dedicated public servant, ensuring the wellbeing of every citizen. She thrust the page with his childhood words in his face. “You remember saying that?”

He shook his head.

“Course not. You were six years old. Most little boys said something about different toys for boys and girls. Some even sounded like they wished they could play with dolls, but not you. You digested our statement and answered the implied question. What does that show?”

“That’s your business. You tell me.”

“It suggested an unusual thought process for a six-year-old. Were my predecessors wrong to shrug it off as meaningless?” She paused for effect before drawing his attention back to the page. “How would you respond to the statement today?”

He stared at the meddlesome woman for several minutes. He’d grown up in a society that insisted on a happy population that worked together. Through his school years and during his university education, he had to get along with his fellow students. He was now a gainfully employed adult with a job he did well. The fruits of his labour were his contribution to the feel-good society the political elites promoted. Why should he play their game and pretend he was interested in others?

He looked her in the eye and told her the truth. “I’d laugh. I have no interest in the activities of others. They can play with dolls or hockey sticks. It doesn’t matter to me.”

“So you’re an anarchist, a believer in every man for himself.”

“Not at all. I have an important job. It’s my contribution to society. Anything else I do, provided it does no one any harm, is my business, and mine alone.”

She pulled forward a manila file folder, a large one with accordion-like sides. She slid the page she’d been waving about into it. “This is your file, an extensive dossier that documents your successes and your failures. It shows you’ve gained an impressive array of technical skills, but you’ve failed to apply your obvious intellectual abilities to working with others.”

“I worked with others at the university, and I interact with my work colleagues when necessary.”

She nodded as she tapped her forefinger on the file. “The record documents that, but the university’s a closed environment with forced collaboration. In the real world, you must seize the initiative. And collaboration is more than factual communication with others. Working together produces results that are greater than the sum of the individual contributions.”

He took several deep breaths as he corralled his anger. “I understand the meaning of synergy, but some jobs are solitary. They don’t need collaboration.”

“Fewer than you think. And work isn’t everything. You must try within and outside your work environment to contribute to the interpersonal synergies that provide the foundation for our dynamic society.” She paused, presumably to let her message sink in, but she had no real message. She returned to her mindless government platitudes. “It’s clear you have the intellectual capacity to do this. Get out there, pull your weight in the greater society. It’s a requirement, not an option. If you don’t take advantage of the carrots we offer, we will bring out the sticks.”

He left after learning she had the authority to increase the frequency of his forced visits from to any frequency she chose. She didn’t explain why she might do so, or what punishments she could inflict. He wondered about her ability to enforce her will and her willingness to do so. But he wasn’t inclined to challenge them.

A young woman accosted him after he stomped down the broad steps outside the Department of Mental Health building. “Hey big Luke, how’s it going? The ogres give you a tough time?”

Her name was Ella, but he wouldn’t have remembered her if she hadn’t called him big Luke. Her choice of nickname was totally inappropriate. He was shorter than average and slight, nothing like the cowboy image produced by big Luke.

She was a popular girl at their rural high school, someone he never spoke to. At university, in the city, he got to know her slightly. They were in different programs but took two courses together. She occasionally asked him questions about the courses. That’s when she started calling him big Luke, a tease that meant nothing. She became his only friend.

After graduation, she moved on to a creative writing program, and he fell into his current job. He hadn’t seen her for three years.

She steered him to a bench in an urban green space. “Do they have it in for you?”

“Not sure. My first post-graduation visit was only months after I started working. It seemed meaningless. Then one year later, they called me back in. Another friendly visit, but I started wondering what it was all about. Now I’m really confused.”

She took his hand in hers and gripped tighter when he tried to pull away. Her expression was wistful. Her grip, anything but. “I always admired how you focused on your agenda and ignored the crap going on around you. But you’ve missed the impact of declining fertility rates on government policy.”

He shook his head. Suggesting he didn’t understand problems associated with declining fertility was unfair. “I keep the incubators in the university research hospital’s neonatal unit working properly. We’re improving the survival of premature babies, one of several government programs designed to increase fertility. Anyway, how do fertility rates impact my visit with the thought police?”

“You’re talking technical stuff. Our wonderful government is obsessed with inspiration and psychological motivation. They’re trying to convince everyone to boost the fertility rate not for pragmatic reasons like improving the technology, or encouraging immigration, or tax incentives to make child rearing less expensive. They want to generate a change in attitude that will show Canada’s civilization is superior to everyone else’s.”

He stared with his mouth hanging open. “You’re joking!”

“Dead serious, and the Mental Health Department is in the vanguard, convincing everyone it’s our moral duty to breed like rabbits.”

“She never mentioned our declining fertility rate during my two-hour visit.”

“Not surprised. You should have been listening in on my session. It was all about fertility rates and the wonders of motherhood.”

“What does it mean?”

“Intellectually superior women who understand their moral responsibility will lead us into this brave new world. Your job will be to provide support for this women-led initiative.”

“With our sanctimonious political leaders lurking in the background. Sounds like an effing dystopia in the making.”

“Yeah, but a Canadian one led by moral superiority, with no need for guns.”

*****

The Spot Writers – Our members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

The Spot Writers – “Girls and Dolls”

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

Along with several short story collections and books of poetry, Cathy has published two novels: WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel/stand-alone novel. She has also written two volumes of grief poetry in memory of her son Matthew that she hopes might help other grieving parents: MY HEART IS BROKEN and BROKEN HEARTS CAN’T ALWAYS BE FIXED.

This month’s prompt is to begin with this sentence: “When he was a child he’d been told dolls were for girls.”

Cathy continues with her Melvin saga (someday to be a complete novel!)…

***

“Girls and Dolls”

When he was a child, he’d been told dolls were for girls. Melvin didn’t know what to make of that statement. Both his mother and his father had told him that, but he’d buried the statement away for many years—until his girls died, when childhood memories resurfaced…

When he was a child,

He’d been told dolls were for girls,

Girls! Diamonds and pearls,

Sugar, spice, everything mild.

*

But who believes parents, fools,

And other stodgy old folk?

Melvin thought it a joke,

Never enjoyed following rules.

*

He stole a doll from his sister,

Kept it close to his chest,

Always had it well-dressed,

Too often he kissed her.

*

He played with the doll

Hidden from everyone,

When day was done

In the dark he did sprawl.

*

When his kids were born

The girls received dolls

And William received balls,

Melvin burnt his old doll as if porn.

*

He’d never allow his son

William to play with dollies,

Those Millies, Pollys, and Mollys

Despite the fun they spun.

*

Alas, his girls sadly died,

Their dolls in the trash, tossed

By Marie, Such a monstrous loss!

But Melvin’s hands were not tied.

*

He managed to save one

That he hid in the closet, in a box,

What a sly fox!

And his lie continued to spun…

*

He reached for that darling doll

When missing his two girls,

Their blue eyes, blonde curls,

And he did painfully bawl.

*

He’d pretend his sweet girls

Sat calmly beside him

Whether in light bright or dim,

And he’d stroke their curls.

*

Marie’d never understand,

It was his only (cough!) white lie

From her, But why?

Would Marie have him banned?

*

But when Kailani appeared

He decided to end his obsession,

Quit the occasional doll-session

That people would term weird.

*

Kailani gave him such sweet joy,

But ’twas another secret in life

That he must hide from his wife,

But better than craving a girl’s toy.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

The Spot Writers – “The Gift” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. The prompt is to start with the sentence “When he was a child, he’d been told dolls were for girls.” Today’s post comes to us from Val Muller, author of the Corgi Capers mystery series.

***

“The Gift” by Val Muller

When he was a child, he’d been told dolls were for girls. By his dad, of course. It was always Mom who offered hugs for scraped knees, who always had an extra arm to sling around a shoulder after a rough day. Dad was always stiff, like a soldier or a robot, and he expected the same stoic compliance from his son. All Dad offered a scraped knee was a straight face and a monotone comment about toughening up for life.

When the gym teacher died halfway through the year, Josh’s sisters went to bed squeezing their dolls for comfort. Evelyn had Suzie-doll, a plush doll with yellow yarn braids and a blue-print dress, and Ashley had Mr. Koala, a threadbare plush wearing a Santa hat and elf shoes. Josh went to bed with a fleece blanket pulled over his basketball and pretended it was a big teddy bear.

For years Josh thought something was wrong with him. He had emotions. His dad seemed not to. When Mr. Hadley died, it was okay for his sisters to cry. Hell, Dad even hugged them for a minute or two after the loss of the teacher. But Josh—he guessed he wasn’t supposed to have emotions about it. He wondered secretly if he might be a girl and just not know it.

He was also expected to become a doctor, following Dad’s footsteps. He was allowed cadavers—or at least dead mice and spiders and frogs to take apart. And once in a while, Dad allowed Josh to perform pretend surgery on Evelyn and Ashley’s dolls. But playing with them or offering them comfort—that was a girl’s job. It always fell on Evelyn and Ashley to tend to the dolls after their pretend surgery, to dote on them, to administer medications. It was his sisters who developed a proper bedside manner.

Josh felt lucky to meet a woman as terse as he—a fellow med student who didn’t want children of her own, who was focused on becoming a famous surgeon. She carried no pesky emotions. Everything was clean-cut. They lived together for financial support and convenience, but they barely spent time at their apartment, nearly living in the hospital instead during all the residencies. At first it was sexy, having a woman so competitive, but soon Josh came to see it as being married to his father. She got mad at herself and mad at him if either of them missed a question, misdiagnosed a patient, or failed to outshine all the others.  

When Jess won the opportunity to practice on the other side of the country, he decided to stay where he was. They weren’t splitting up, not exactly, but for practical reasons, he told her, he wanted to stay where he was established. Two days after she left, he got a cat. He’d been thinking about it for a while now, in the back of his mind. A cat was not a doll. It was a living creature. He could study its anatomy. And at night, when it happened to curl on his lap on the couch, well—that wasn’t cuddling. It was—well, he didn’t know what it was, but while he was cuddling with the cat, he decided to switch to pediatrics.

And it was there, in the pediatric hospital, after he’d just skimmed an email from Jess about her latest exploits, that he did it. The patient, a nine-year-old male, presented with symptoms of MIS-C, and his regular doctor was having a hell of a time treating it. He was admitted to the hospital for IV treatments and observation.

The boy’s father visited often, and he tried to look brave. He neither smiled nor frowned, but Josh caught the quiver in his lip as he walked away at the end of each visiting hour. The boy, too, attempted stoicism in the presence of his father, but the tears started as soon as his dad walked away. Josh saw on the boy’s face the same feeling that had emerged at the death of Mr. Hadley. And now, of course, Josh knew that emotions belonged to all humans, that his father had forced him to deny a part of his humanity. The boy’s lip quivered as he tried to stifle tears.

Josh held the bear behind his back as he returned to the children’s ward that night. The plushie had been sitting in the window of the gift shop. It was blue with a hospital-logo sweatshirt and incredibly soft. “It’s okay to cry,” Josh told him. “You’re going through a lot. Nothing is certain—except that this will make it easier.” And then he slid the bear into the boy’s arms. The boy’s face lit up, and he wiped his tears on his new stuffed friend.

Josh’s phone vibrated. Based on the number of texts coming in, Jess had read his email about his decision to switch specialties. Really, children? she texted. You were going to specialize in internal medicine. We were going to…

But he stopped reading. He didn’t need that. He knew their relationship had already dissolved, it’s just that neither of them had articulated it yet. He would find someone different next time, someone softer, someone who liked teddy bears and hugs, someone who wasn’t afraid of dolls.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/