Allegory of the Playdo

Pink residue stained the half-moons at the end of her fingernails and the salty taste tickled her tongue as she chewed at them. She was deep in concentration, the makeshift tea table with plastic plates and chipped cups hastily abandoned. Mr. Fluffy would have to wait.

In front of her stood three figurines, bright pink and crudely sculpted. Attached to each figurine was a piece of thin blue thread, knotted tightly around the legs. The figures sat on a miniature couch, watching the blank screen of a television set. Behind the couch was a small pile of trash; scrap pieces of paper, legs of a broken doll, a clump of grass from the backyard.

She fished a matchbook from the pockets of her sundress. She struck the match head against the side of the box, and it sparked after the third try. Slowly, she lowered it to the pile of trash and watched as the flame caught and ignited.

She didn’t quite know why she felt compelled to light a fire, she just knew that’s what the figures would need to finally be free.

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