Living In A Dollhouse

Check The Horoscope

A spiritual realization to things, just wonder maybe life is filled with mysteries and the government is being controlled by reptiles.

Or wait someone tells you your a nutcase, and send you into a mental hospital to roam around with the other nut job cases. Maybe life is a made up experiment to test whether how long we can survive on this planet. They're setting up this universal environment piece by piece. who's they, though? That's a question that can simply be answered by the future it self... maybe by a horoscope.

"Where do you come up with this stuff cookie?" Chica's mother combs out her wild mane as she studies thoughtfully at her manic daughter's typewriter. The keys clatter away at the mahogany wood paneling on the sturdy Raven's desk as young Chica ponders away at the enlightening object. "I simply think of a question and then my question asks another question..." Chica blunders as she licks her fingers while plunging her fingers into a bag of crisps. "Okay sweetie, not to much you know your father doesn't like when you do that," Mrs. Doreen scolds as she snatches the tin away.

As Mrs. Doreen slips away and the tired oak wood flower creaks beneath her fuzzy bunny slippers. Chica yanks a photograph from under her tattered pillow case and plasters it on her cork board, the floral vintage wallpaper sheds from the aching hollow wall, from the years of icky peanut butter stains and fingernails scraping and or toying with the wallpaper. She unwraps the charm bracelet tied around her wrist. a charm dedicated for each memorable and or favored moments that she had undergo through the small fractions of her life, as she stuffed it in her jewelry box and plunged the silver key into her plum shaded corduroys she yanked out another clean sheet of parchment and ripped away at the hems of the last paper she had written on.

My mother is mad. We are mad. Call us mental and we'll be grand.

"The framed photograph hangs on the wall in the family room, her mother cleans away at the island that is plastered high with fruit tarts and the darkest of chocolate cakes you could ever imagine to be true. She rings in the children with her soft sweet voice as they all come clamoring in with bellies growling and stomachs twisting, their beet red cheeky faces and sweaty palms are scrubbed clean and prepared for the feast before them.
But soon as the children splurge themselves and dig their silver forks into the scrumptious delights they soon feel awfully ill. But of course in return their mother would tell them that all would feel better once they are well rested and tucked away in bed, and their nightmares wouldn't touch them in the shadows of the pecking night."

"Mother how come you read me these stories every night?" Young Chica retorts as she tugs the sheets off of her.

"Oh my little cookie, your father used to tell you these little tales all the time. After all your father knows best," her voice starting to crack as she said the last of words to her before she turned off the lights and pulled the covers tightly over her as the bright stars peaked through the cracks of the metal barred windows that allow her to see the only real natural light there is out there beyond her little doll house caved bedroom.