Ventriloquism (noun)
- the production of the voice in such a way that the sound seems to come from a source other than the vocal organs of the speaker
- the expression of one’s views and attitudes through another
The puppet comes alive when the hand enters them. Fills them with life. Or, at the very least, agency. Their act is about to begin. They have rehearsed this for years. Decades. Even as the paint dulls around the puppet’s eyes and cheeks, the bags under the ventriloquist’s, they have their act down, every single blink a necessary pose in their performance. And it begins…
The back hand moves and buttons are pushed, buildings are flattened by missiles; some letters, such as f, v, m, b, or t evade them. Freedom, trust, mercy, valiance, balance, friendship, tradition. None of these words will work for the performance. Bismillah. Thekla. Falastin. They cannot say them, feel them fully with their fatted tongues. Never mind, they say—turn stage right.
Fingers turn the puppet’s white wood smile toward the audience, barely holding back the blood swishing about its tongue. Blood from the bodies of children flattened by missiles, that its throat cannot make disappear. Even after swallowing.
Tips come in—The money given to the puppet is divided among the crew. The figure chews on half, gives some to an arms manufacturer. Some goes to a company who specializes in artificial intelligence made for spying on migrants. A chunk goes to corporate media arms. The rest goes into the ventriloquist’s pocket.
The back hand moves again, pushes more buttons. A hospital turns into a shattered carapace. Its shell is, despite this, not empty, but lined with the lost, the soon-to-be lost, and the broken. Limbs, bones, flesh, blood of all ages. Premies, newborns, toddlers. Preteens, teens, young adults. Siblings, cousins, mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, grandmothers, grandfathers. Neighbors. Futures: most shattered, a gem-rare few able to emerge or remain intact. One hospital becomes dozens. The puppet’s smile becomes redder by the moment. Begins to drip, then bubble, then overflow. Its eyes sink deeper and deeper into their sockets until it can see the void behind them. Until it sees the hand inside it, staring back.
The hand takes a rest, moving out of the puppet’s back. Takes a drink of water, a bite of bread. Checks their phone, their email, their fingernails for evidence to wipe away. The blood on the ventriloquist’s fingers gets excused as strawberry jam. He suckles each fingertip, savoring the iron of their taste. Nothing to see here.
The hand returns to the puppet’s back. Quarter turn, stage left. The next act begins.
Maroon Almanac 