The Toymaker

by Sergio Gomez

“We’re all puppets, Laurie. I’m just a puppet who can see the strings.” —Alan Moore, Watchmen

It was always the same when someone dear to you died. Heaviness in the heart, disbelief in the mind, and a piece of you leaving—the part that your loved one takes with them to their grave, perhaps.

Victor’s face lit up. “You got it! I’ll get there as fast as I can. Want me to bring muffins?” “Muffins? What the hell are you talking about?” Victor shrugged. “My dad makes good muffins. Banana nut, blueberry, cranberry—” “Victor, shut up.” Twist said. Then he reconsidered. “Yes, bring some muffins.”

Lucas turned his head. The movement was natural, not herky-jerky like when a wooden dummy was being moved by a hand, but like the wood had taken on the properties of real, living flesh. Something organically alive, something like muscle and skin. “No need to sacrifice anything for me to come alive,” Lucas said. “I already am.”

If it was a guardian angel, it was the strangest guardian angel he’d ever heard of. One that wore a rabbit mask and attacked people with hammers, he wasn’t sure where in the lore of angels that would fit.

The bullet pierced his brain, and then there was nothing to hear, or see, or feel, or fear anymore.