Molly. An unfinished short story.

Oct 2, 2006

A miniscule grey spider paused on the ragged edge of the cracked porcelain before diving into the darkness. He spun his web inside, behind Molly's tattered face. She named him Ned. For a few days, they spent quite a lot of time together. Ned scurried around trapping gnats for dinner and Molly would talk to him while he slurped, but Ned wasn't much for conversation. Eventually, he realised he had not, in fact, chosen the perfect place for attracting his meals and Ned left for good. He didn't even bother to tear down his snare.
Years before, Enid Snitchkins, the blonde, skinny and bad-mannered neighbor girl decided Molly wanted to bounce on the trampoline, when Molly was quite sure that she did not. One good hop and Molly was tumble-soaring. She saw the sky, blue and speckled with white clouds. She saw waves of green bushes dotted with purple and blue flowers. And, just a second before her cheek made contact with the rusty metal bed, Molly saw the bright yellow dump truck, forgotten in the tallest grass. That was the day that Mrs. Welsh, having seen the jagged hole where applish cheek should be, declared Molly 'ruined' and banished her to the dark, musty attic. Since then, a plethora of eight-legged friends - some for days, others for weeks, rarely for months - had rented out the space in her head. Needless to say, Molly had cobwebs for brains.
When Molly was first given to the Welsh's oldest daughter, Cynthia, she was flawless and terribly excited. She was soon disappointed. Cynthia was nice enough, but dull as a butter knife and did not like to play with dolls. So, when she finished brushing Molly's lovely chocolate brown hair, she always put her right back on the shelf. Molly felt like a very bored trophy. She longed for full on adventures.
Most people forget as they grow older that every toy that's handcrafted with care, as Molly was, has a bit of the maker's soul built in. That toy (even the simplest grandma-fashioned ragdoll) has emotions and desires, same as anybody. As the toy is played with, they collect the love and laughter of children, which becomes a sort of battery charge. Mix the charge with the toy soul and you have what some call "doll magic". It takes a lot of concentration, but occasionally when a toy has built up enough reserve, they can use that doll magic to move or speak. Toys that are especially adored and played with, build that charge quickly and sustain it for longer. Adults, and some mean, spiteful children will not notice, but if a little girl squeezes her beloved, fuzzy brown teddy bear, he really returns that hug. Now, this is not the same with plastic, factory toys, because they are mass-produced by machines with no soul.
It was one year, nine months, six days, seventeen hours and forty five seconds before Molly had charged enough from her occasional brushings to explore the rest of the house. The journey down from the shelf alone was arduous. She hopped onto Cynthia's bureau with a faint clack of porcelain, and then slid carefully down the wooden face. Molly found her legs were sturdy enough to hold her upright, but it took a few minutes to adjust to the soft, cloth joints that connected her firm limbs. The fluffy, white petticoat ruffled softly under her royal blue velvet and Queen Anne's lace frock, and she glanced at Cynthia. The child did not even stir. Molly raged with excitedment as she neared the dark doorway, and peered out into the dimly lit hallway.
The first room Molly encountered smelled awful. Sometimes, Cynthia made funny noises and soon after a similiar stench would fill her bedroom. Molly determined that this was the designated spot for the entire family to engage in such foulness. By this time, she was down to about a quarter of a tank of magic, but she couldn't stop. Just one more room, and then she'd return.Molly.