Monastery Dolls
By Tantra Bensko
My doll is a hundred years old. She contains the edges of my mind.
Inside her little house, she wanders, looking for windows. She finds skulls instead. Those are carved from my fingertip bones: our master at the monastery requires we show devotion by cutting them off in the ancient tradition.
The doll's perpetual childhood in the adult long dress disturb my fingers that are left, which want so much to lift her skirt. I stare at their tips, imagining the faces I could carve if they offend me by reaching out to her secrets. Next, I could create the skull of an ape in the tiny bone and add it to my necklace. Soon, I will have no fingers left to carve with. I will no longer have to struggle to keep myself from looking under her dress.
Every recitation of scriptures which I let my thoughts wander away from takes me into further reaches of doll-house rooms of thoughts. Spider-webs, peeling wall-paper, mildew. Her damaged eyes look black as if from whorish make-up. They tease me. She wanders from room to room. She has seen my secrets.
Alexander calls out and knocks on my wall. The stone has no echo. I'm excited for company. We have no pets in the monastery, even stuffed, houseplants, visitors, babies, nothing to take care of, no one to touch, only our dolls. Without those I think we would go mad.
When I let him in, he says: "Hurry. I have to show you something. Put this mirror in your doll house." He holds up his palm sized mirror, and I take it. I would do anything for a friend. He pants, saying, "My doll doesn't show up in the mirror."
And in truth, I'm startled to see that neither does mine. A flake falls off the beige wall, falling onto the skulls along the edges. "What does this mean?"
Fear holding my breath, I poke my head down into the doll house, and look at the mirror, my hair falling in my face, my cheeks covering my eyes, and I am real. I am very glad.
We go down the hall and knock on Merwin's door, our eyes wide. When he lets us in, we ask. He says: "What are you going on about? No, I'm not going to put a mirror in my doll house. Of course the doll is actually there. What are you thinking?" But she isn't. I try looking at her with the mirror. I want to cry. I shake. Merwin looks out the window, silent. He says it's time for bed. His left eye begins to twitch.
Alexander and I run down the hall, and hug. I could have lifted the doll's dress all this time without it being a sin, because she isn't there at all. We dash into my room. I reach into the empty living-room, which is burned and ashen, and take her out. I lift her grey lace dress, and peer underneath. I wouldn't be so rude as to turn her upside down, whether she exits or not.
I have never seen anything like it: a bland space between the legs with no penis at all. I have heard of such from the brothers. In fear, I strip my pants and hold the mirror. Thank goodness my genitals are real. We scour the room with reflection. Everything shows up but her.
We decide we must eat her tomorrow, to make her one of us.
- - -
Tantra Bensko teaches fiction writing through UCLA X Writing Program, Writers College, Lit Demon, and her own academy. She has books out and a couple hundred flashes, short stories, novelettes, and a novella in journals and anthologies.
By Tantra Bensko
My doll is a hundred years old. She contains the edges of my mind.
Inside her little house, she wanders, looking for windows. She finds skulls instead. Those are carved from my fingertip bones: our master at the monastery requires we show devotion by cutting them off in the ancient tradition.
The doll's perpetual childhood in the adult long dress disturb my fingers that are left, which want so much to lift her skirt. I stare at their tips, imagining the faces I could carve if they offend me by reaching out to her secrets. Next, I could create the skull of an ape in the tiny bone and add it to my necklace. Soon, I will have no fingers left to carve with. I will no longer have to struggle to keep myself from looking under her dress.
Every recitation of scriptures which I let my thoughts wander away from takes me into further reaches of doll-house rooms of thoughts. Spider-webs, peeling wall-paper, mildew. Her damaged eyes look black as if from whorish make-up. They tease me. She wanders from room to room. She has seen my secrets.
Alexander calls out and knocks on my wall. The stone has no echo. I'm excited for company. We have no pets in the monastery, even stuffed, houseplants, visitors, babies, nothing to take care of, no one to touch, only our dolls. Without those I think we would go mad.
When I let him in, he says: "Hurry. I have to show you something. Put this mirror in your doll house." He holds up his palm sized mirror, and I take it. I would do anything for a friend. He pants, saying, "My doll doesn't show up in the mirror."
And in truth, I'm startled to see that neither does mine. A flake falls off the beige wall, falling onto the skulls along the edges. "What does this mean?"
Fear holding my breath, I poke my head down into the doll house, and look at the mirror, my hair falling in my face, my cheeks covering my eyes, and I am real. I am very glad.
We go down the hall and knock on Merwin's door, our eyes wide. When he lets us in, we ask. He says: "What are you going on about? No, I'm not going to put a mirror in my doll house. Of course the doll is actually there. What are you thinking?" But she isn't. I try looking at her with the mirror. I want to cry. I shake. Merwin looks out the window, silent. He says it's time for bed. His left eye begins to twitch.
Alexander and I run down the hall, and hug. I could have lifted the doll's dress all this time without it being a sin, because she isn't there at all. We dash into my room. I reach into the empty living-room, which is burned and ashen, and take her out. I lift her grey lace dress, and peer underneath. I wouldn't be so rude as to turn her upside down, whether she exits or not.
I have never seen anything like it: a bland space between the legs with no penis at all. I have heard of such from the brothers. In fear, I strip my pants and hold the mirror. Thank goodness my genitals are real. We scour the room with reflection. Everything shows up but her.
We decide we must eat her tomorrow, to make her one of us.
- - -
Tantra Bensko teaches fiction writing through UCLA X Writing Program, Writers College, Lit Demon, and her own academy. She has books out and a couple hundred flashes, short stories, novelettes, and a novella in journals and anthologies.
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