shells and shields
sippin’ mint tea from a tmnt || soup mug pickin’ || popcorn kernels flickin’ || slobbery debris
flyin’ || from gummy molar graves || amidst this || stupid || barbed || wire || infra-struct-ure || that
poker holds and folds || these stubborn chompers || like the stiff deck o’ cards they are || gotta
keep ‘em (in) l i n e || ‘cause even a mouth full of teeth || needs a leo to lead || but that last buttery
scrap || is one tedious son of a gun || —a foreign fragment filament— || which i lollipop lick and
lick || and flick some more || tonguing it with the same insistence in which || i pinball-flipper
toggle light switches || when the power goes out || busying myself with || calling electricity’s bluff
and in the flickering candlelight || we start a war || of obstinance || with these funky foot clan
foreigners || who threaten the security of my sewer lair || to such an extent that we || must enlist
every last || appendage to help || excavate, to help || pluck ‘em out with surgical precision || until
the wet caved worm grows sore || (at me) || all irritated and agitated || (at me, brother) || because
as much as i’d like it to be || a grooved pickaxe || it’s not. || but despite the whole || wrong-tool-
for-the-job thing || we’ve gone and weaponized it anyway || ‘cause if there’s one thing || we can’t
stand || it’s a god-damn alien
occupying our homeland— || this mere microscopic invader || who’s got no business here || in the
sloppy terrain of my mouth || so step back || strap your safety goggles on || and watch || me take
this thing || this innocent bystander || who’s relatively harmless || and blow this hardly-a-crime
scene || w i d e o p e n || we’re talkin’ FBI-file wide || a senseless investigation led by || none
other than || mister the truth is out there || mister(y) fox mulder || whom i’ll take and easy-bake ||
into a full-fledged self-harm obsession || here, lemme jus’ form the coven of duchovny || right
quick
and yes, yes, yes, i know || like my fifth meeting today without meaning || this, too, has gotten
offtrack || and you never asked, but hey || that’s alright, i’ll forgive your lack of consideration ||
(this time) || —the turtle on the mug in question || is raph || (of course) || good ol’ riff raph, rough
raph, tough raph, never-thought-he-was-enough raph || that bodacious dude with a mindset
hellbent || on tough exterior maintenance || (with tenacity tougher than that damn shell of a back)
|| armed with that militarized show-no-weakness men-tal || -ity, that do-or-die to-tal-ity || that
quick fuse, that || gotta-sequester-myself-before-any-tears-leak-out act || ‘cause new yorkers?
never cry.
and okay, yeah we know (now) || just how problematic || that cramped headspace can be ||
...but... || raphael’s still my go-to pal || still a lovable goofball gumball || despite that brick-thick
shell || ain’t nunna that gunna change now || the red in him || clued me in || on the broken || and
that whole pain-equals-depth thing || (the tortured’s favorite pocketed delusion) || and yeah, there
was an attraction || not to his turtleness || don’t be weird ya perve || not to his ninjaness either ||
just his essential raphness
because let’s face it: || part of crawling out || of a broken home is || being lured in || by those with
|| crowded hearts || because you’ve got a shell-shocked history, too || where love was a rarity ||
and so || you continue || to seek affection from those || who can’t || deliver || —until your version
of priceless nineties collectibles || mutates into this wild ebay assortment of damaged goods ||
where you specialize in || relations with || the clinically detached || and you do it for no other
reason than || the familiarity of it all || and yah, that too || is tricky-sticky territory || slippery
slope, ya dope! || but you try tellin’ the attraction that || see if it responds || or goes and plows
right on through || in its own stubborn ways || in its own twisted gps-routed path
so anyway || back to the wrath of raph— || he is me || and we are he || and we are here || with our
pained grimace grins || sip sip sippin’ our tea || in this never-ending endeavor || to soothe || our
inconsolable angst || and sure, it scorches our tongues || we, the self-shredded || are, after all ||
byproducts of || our own impatience || and we the turtly people of united rage || sheathe our
sensitivity || with these cloth masks sewn || from years and years of tears withheld || we, this
nation of modern indignation!
but the truth of the matter here is || we’ve been stuck in these sewers || long enough to know ||
that the enemy we face || time and time again || isn’t shredder. || shredder’s nothing || nothing
but another opponent to tackle || this totally beatable—external—entity || but that thing? || in the
mirror? || that reflection? || in the glass? || that’s our top villainous threat.
and it’s a hell of a lot tougher || than that damn kernel || that’ll dislodge itself—eventually || (in its
own time) || but creatures like us we || just can’t let things be we || toil and disrupt the flow ‘cause
|| fuck you and fuck patience || we didn’t suffer that puddle of ooze || just to sit back and watch ||
as our backs bend || and break || beneath the toxic weight || of socie-tea || —especiall-ea when it’s
all ass-backwards || and painfull-ea arbitrar-ea
–Abbie Doll
Abbie Doll is a writer residing in Columbus, OH, with an MFA from Lindenwood University and is a Fiction Editor at Identity Theory. Her work has been featured in Door Is a Jar Magazine, 3:AM Magazine, and Pinch Journal Online, among others; it has also been longlisted for The Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for The Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction, and the Pushcart Prize. Connect on socials @AbbieDollWrites.