The wicked marionette’s eyes leaked thick tears like the
crusted, yellow drool of a dying wolf.
“Daddy, daddy,” it droned. “Up, daddy, daddy.” But this was
not my child. My child rode with his mother to the safety of the church parking
lot.
No, this was not my child. The marionette reached its hands
toward me. By the cracks and black mold covering the palms of those hands, I
guessed this imp to be much, much older than me.
I removed two rattan sticks from my satchel, and twirled
them in a steady figure eight. This was not my child. I would not be
disciplining it for what it did to the people on the busy street behind us. There
would be no time outs, no spankings, no forgiving hugs.
“Want cuddles, daddy?” The marionette tilted its head and
tried to hug me.
I took a deep breath and delivered a San Miguel strike to
the creature’s stringy shoulder.
(Image by Marco Prelini)
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