Page 1 of Hard as Wood

Chapter one

Clara

Surrounded by people, and yet I always feel alone. As I push through the bustling cobblestone streets, I curse myself for forgetting the midday rush when deciding to leave for the market. A tall man elbows me in the nose, and when I cry out, he barely gives me a sideways glance. I huff, holding my burlap sack closer to my chest and slipping through the cracks of people so I can walk on the outskirts of the walkway. That’s the third person to accidentally assault me in the last five minutes. It’s getting ridiculous.

It’s always like this. I’m invisible even if I’m not in a crowd. Of course, my build is partially to blame, considering I’m five feet one and barely occupy space. I grew upfeeling cursed, but my father told me that most people are too caught up with themselves to see what’s right in front of them. I’d do anything on days like these to hear my father’s sweet voice again.

I sigh and turn off the pathway, deciding that the rest of my errands can wait for a less busy time. Luckily, there’s a route home through the woods. It will take longer, but I don’t mind being alone with nature. I’m always alone. At least in these woods, I can hear the birds and rustles of creatures around me.

It takes me thirty minutes to glimpse my squatty wood cabin in the distance. My heart sings once she comes into view—the home my father built for us—one of the few things I have left of him.

As I push through the oak door, I’m greeted by the scent of the fresh bread I baked this morning. “I’m home!” I sing, placing my sack on the table and pulling out the new set of paints I picked up. “Oh, Molly. I forgot to get buttons for the sweater I’m knitting you. I’ll have to pick them up when I return later this week.” I walk to the large shelves adhered to the wall, parallel to the windows overlooking the outside greenery.

“Pineo, I have a surprise for you.” I pull the small canister of green paint and the fine-tipped brush from behind my back. “I told you I’d get that eye taken care of.” I leanforward with a steady hand, placing a small dot of green paint on the chip in his eye. “There, all better!” I exclaim, placing my hands on my hips and stepping back to look at my work.

Pineo sits at the center of the shelves, his two eyes back to their matching joyous glow. All around him are other wooden puppets of various shapes, sizes, and species—all beautifully crafted and intricate. But Pineo has always been my favorite.

It’s safe to say that these puppets are my only friend. My father crafted each one with love and care before he passed away five years ago. They’ve always held a special place in my heart, but now that I’m alone, their spot is even wider. Besides my chores, taking care of my puppets consumes all my time, but I always make sure to give Pineo a little bit more of me.

When I was five, my father surprised me with Pineo. He performed plays for me using a wooden box as a stage. Pineo was the Prince Charming. My father never crafted me a princess. He always told me there was no need for two princesses in his kingdom. Almost twenty years later, I still view Pineo as my prince. I know he’s not a real man and will never be—I haven’t fallen that crazy yet. But I like to keep him as the archetype. If a man doesn’t live up to Pineo's standards, he doesn’t cut it.

Who am I kidding, though? It’s not like there’s a line of men outside just waiting for their chance to date the mousy brunette who still plays with dolls. It’s fine with me, though. My puppets serve as much better company than the smelly, pushy men I’ve had the pleasure of meeting in town.

However, sometimes, an urge takes over me on a cold and rainy night. I think of the fairytales I grew up reading and imagine what happens after the big true love kiss. What does it look like when the prince sweeps the princess off her feet and brings her back to his castle? I’ve never been with a man, but I’ve seen the dirty pictures hidden behind the town bookstore. I’ve witnessed couples embracing in alleys in the dead of night, their hands lingering in forbidden places. I may dislike men, but I wouldn’t mind being touched like that—in the way my fingers dance across my skin when my loneliness takes hold of me.

I spend the rest of my evening sipping tea by the fire, looking out at the forest as the sky grays and opens up, gradually turning into a heavy rain. The cold seeps in, beating the fire’s attempts, and I curl up with an old quilt, glancing at my wooden puppets. Pineo’s eye catches my attention.

I sure did a good job repairing his eye. He’s so handsome, even as a wooden doll. He has a strongjaw, a large nose, and his brown horsehair just grazes his painted-on eyebrows. If he was a human, he’d be my type. I stand, holding my quilt around my shoulders, grab Pineo off the shelf, and kiss his wooden face before placing him back in his spot. “Oh, Pineo. If only you were real. I know you wouldn’t ignore me. I’m sure of it.” I shuffle back to my spot in my chair and lie down, capturing his wooden eyes across the room. There’s always been something about them, even when he had the chip. It’s why he’s my favorite.

The rain subsides, and I turn to look out the window. The sky clears, and bright stars shine through the black. One star stands out amongst the rest, bright and beautiful. My eyes droop as I stare at the light. “Oh, I wish Pineo was real,” I mutter as my consciousness blinks out, my dreams of my wooden man already pulling me under.

Chapter two

Pineo

My awareness opens as a rooster calls in the distance. Something flutters against my face, startling me, but the thought dulls in comparison to the view before me. Was I moved in the night? The room doesn’t look like it did when I fell asleep. Everything is smaller—the proportions way off.

My beautiful Clara still sleeps on the chair near the window, calming my initial nerves for her safety. Her chest rises and falls, and a soft smile splays over her face as the early morning sunlight illuminates her features. Her brown wavy hair hangs off the cushion along with her outstretched arm. Ever since my creation twenty years ago,Clara has been the reason for my existence. I’m just a wooden doll—a plaything, but every fiber of my being buzzes for her attention.

I often wonder if the other wooden dolls around me feel the same. We can’t communicate. I can’t open my eyes or mouth or move, but the thought that Sam or Emily might feel the same way I feel fills me with rage. Sometimes, I wish Clara would get rid of all the other puppets so that I could consume her attention. Whenever I think the thought though, I reprimand myself. The other puppets bring Clara joy. I’d never want to take any ounce of happiness away from her.

The flutter happens again, and I startle—actually startle, my body shaking and hitting the wall behind me. I bring up my hand to my face, feeling my eyelashes flick against my palm. Wait. I brought my hand up to my face? I scream, the deep sound startling me even more and making me tumble off my shelf and onto the floor below me.

I’m in a heap on the ground as Clara’s screams ring around me. I jump to my feet. “My Clara, what is wrong? I will protect you?” These are words I’ve always wanted to say. Clara’s sweet name whisps across my lips, and I want to bite my tongue just to taste the word again.

“Who are you? Get out of my house!” she yells.

I look around, ready to attack whoever she is referring to. I’m not registering that I can talk, stand, or move; I’m thinking about how to protect my love.

A pillow hits my head, and I turn back to Clara. She’s jumped onto the chair, another plush pillow coiled back in her arm, ready to be thrown. I capture her eyes with mine—her rich brown irises sucking me in. My shoulders sag, and something twitches in my pants as I gaze at her, making me forget my mission of protecting.

“What are you looking at?” she barks, fear strewn across her face. “What do you want from me?”

It’s me. She’s afraid of me. I don’t understand. She’s always told me I’m her favorite, given me the most attention, and watched me as her fingers dived beneath her skirts and moans bellowed from her mouth. What has changed?

As if she can read my thoughts, she asks, “Why do you look confused? Did you stumble into the wrong house or something?” Her expression changes from petrified to concerned. My sweet girl, always caring for others first.

I look down, shocked to find my body has changed. Well, actually, I’m shocked I can even look down. I raise my arm, bringing it to my line of vision. “I can move,” I say in awe. “And I’ve grown.” My voice startles me again, strong and deep. I cover my mouth with my hands.

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