Made Flesh
MADE FLESH

Dick Wiles' childhood Teddy was frayed at the ear-ends, threadbare in the belly, loose by the limb and more than a trifle doleful at the loose eyes. A sorry sight, but one he loved.

Some people said it might be valuable - such ancient toys were now part of the great revolution of memorabilia. In fact Dick had thought the whole thing was going too far, since nostalgia seemed to be catching up with the present day itself! He cringed at the idea of teddy bears, such as his, passing through the sparkle-nuggetted hands of antique dealers.

He stared at Teddy, its eyes brighter today. Tears made eyes brighter. Rotted the stitches.

Then, Dick had a girl friend called Val. A strange creature, if ever there was one. She pointed out that the jet liners skimming as close to the top of the blue as possible, with strung-out streamers of cloud, looked like Christian crosses - reminding those of us below that God was everywhere. Symbols of pantheism.

SHE was beyond charisma. She was evangelism incarnate, whose cause was merely self-evident. Her eyes literally beamed faith. Why she got hold of Dick Wiles was a mystery, but that did not matter: mystery was the bedrock she built herself upon

She wanted nothing from him, other than the sounding-board of his wide-eyed face. Dick shambled around, tending to her needs. He wanted nothing from her, only recognition and her acceptance. He'd never known what there was with girls, in any event. In the first blush of womanhood, Val was far more pretty than was good for her. She did not harness up her ripening breasts, merely expected everyone to ignore them, as they prodded the loose silk of her blouse. Her open leg stance was one more of innocence than flaunting. The short leather skirts were simply artefacts of convenience. She just had to wear SOMETHING, didn't she? The high heels were a trifle superfluous, but she preferred teetering to padding: made her feel more human and less like an animal. Also something to do with hair-shirts, not being able to balance properly, toes so compressed they became raging wicks of fire.


Hated Dick's Teddy, she did. Loathed the furry little bundle. Said it was worse than a false idol. If God had meant men to have comforters He would have made soft christs on crucifixes.

No doubt, Dick's Teddy hated HER.

Dick recalled the old days, far too recent for comfort. Val had eloped with Teddy. Her parting words were that it was the supremest hate-love-indifference relationship she could possibly hope to have. As the jumbo jets droned loneliness into the night, Dick Wiles tried to look down at his belly . . . with the stuffing coming out from below. His blunted hands couldn't even attempt to stuff it back in. Nor could his eyes look back up. Hanging by the thread. Nostalgia Disincarnate.


(published 'Hobgoblin' 1991)