Tilting Shattered Dolls

By A.R.J. Ventura

Living atop of one of the largest Turtle Floats ever to be conceived of the forty-first century, Elsie Azucena's existence is nothing less than perfect. Athletics, popularity, charisma, academics; being the perfect daughter, the perfect friend, and the perfect role model, she also wakes up with no memories.

Elsie Azucena's memories magically reset whenever she falls asleep.

Every morning, a blaring alarm jolts her awake. Every day, she consumes terabytes of information to remain proper in school. Every afternoon, she compiles that day for her future selves to replicate, maintaining her perfect image. Her life is exceptionally perfect. One night, before heading to bed, after another perfectly constructed day, years of memories are mysteriously no where to be found in her cloud drive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.R.J. Ventura
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223358688

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Tilt, The Fallen Angel.

If there’s a lack of a spark in the beginning, then of course I’m going to hate it. It has no correlation to how I prepare myself. I personally believe that I’m prepared enough still, but it’s also not my fault. I just don’t know how to open up; I’ve never attended school or a college or the likes of that—I’ve never really practiced any speaking skills ever. This is just a product of my pure imagination being alone in this warm glass solitude I call a home.

What makes a good introduction? I catch myself having trouble finding that answer. I’ve witnessed thousands of stories unfold; some good, some bad, some horrible, and some sad. My existence extends much further than our very globe so I’m never in shortage of content to consume... but I never seem to catch the inception of a story. It’s not like I can rewind time.

I... apologize. I lack the words to understand my actions so far... The cards simply lined up for me. It’s not my fault, correct? You can’t really blame me. If cards line up, then that’s simply just a call for a tale! Correct? That’s why I just love a good story; in real life, there’s no way events, ideas, people, or even beasts would simply line up coincidentally to create such hilarious catastrophes. Life always marches on whether if it’s entertaining or not. But with stories, you must grab the readers attention—with stories, you must read between the lines; not everything is what it seems. Sometimes there’re pranksters in the mists; you might lose footing of the real message from the authors misdirection. Sometimes they’re nothing but the world; people become involuntary liars.  

With over 9 billion residents to our mother earth—omitting other life forms like plants and animals lower than humans on the pyramid of life—there’s bound to be a small percentage of episode like occurrences—a movie like scene. Despite how I compared a story to reality, it’s genuinely not my fault. You can’t blame the opportunist.

That’s right. That’s all that happened. I simply took the opportunity to fabricate my own story. That’s all...

Perhaps it’s the opportunist’s job to make things happen. Of course, wandering around and waiting for miracles is as good as praying to a god. And it’s not like I’m doing this out of pure selfish, demonic, desires. I was asked to do this! It was a demand! The only reason I am doing this is because I was asked to!

Humans wouldn’t understand...

My apologies. I acted out a bit there. I’m not here to debate morality and ethics—nor am I going to attempt to reason with you. I’m merely not savvy enough in the subject to discuss philosophical enigmas for I am but a simple being. I could give less of a cent about the life and death of the humans around me. It’s the natural cycle of our so-called existences. I simply only care about things that directly affect myself, my friends, my family, and my home; those four things portray 78.53% of my consciousness.

The rest? That’s another tale.

My apologies again, I completely forgot what I was talking about—that’s not what I’ve brought you here for. How ridiculous of me to ramble on and on about nonsensical things. Thinking is enough to drive anyone insane. I have been feeling a bit insecure if I may ramble on some more; maybe it’s a side effect of consuming just above half a decade of memories... this is the first time I’ve ever felt something so... raw. I never used to be like this, if you could believe that.

What makes you insecure?

Huh?

Oh, come on! You can tell me! I’m quite trustworthy! Everyone has those little things that tick them off. Maybe it’s seeing someone younger than you having more success? Maybe it’s finding out your first girlfriend—now ex—found someone more successful than you and they’re marriage is taking place in the summer? Maybe it’s your parents?!

For me, insecurity is sourced from uselessness; being useless. What use am I if I’m replaceable? Replicable?

That might hit with a handful of people, perhaps? What do you suppose? There’re probably thousands—billions—of others wishing they were useful. Or maybe it’s just the elements of the world planting them with the ideas of usefulness as it benefits society. I’ve witnessed a great ton, but even I have no answers. That’s all part of the fun, however.

Don’t sweat the miniscule things. It definitely doesn’t matter when it comes to humans. You’re all just going to die, anyways. I only like watching small snippets of your lives...

Returning to the previous topic, not everyone wants to be as flowerful and unique like me... I’ve witnessed a great ton, so I know this much. Some just want to live a meager life, indulging in life’s greatest pleasures while living in mediocrity.

That’s fine if they want to live the life of a housecat—I’m none to judge, I barely leave this glass box I call a home—but... I have a question for the fellow housecats of the world: Don’t you want to be useful to? That’s one of MY greatest sources of happiness. No, it’s not retirement. It’s enjoying my youth with my friends, creating meaningful projects, and giving myself purpose; having a purpose is my purpose to live.

I’ve found my key to happiness.

This is all just fantasy, of course—as I said before, I haven’t left this glass box since I first sprouted eyes, and my family aren’t the type to be as ambitious as I am. Nonetheless, I still love them despite their criticism—only slightly, though.

Existing here is inadequate for me. I don’t want to simply just sit and lie, trapped, soiled in the dirt, doing nothing. That’s not my purpose; I can think! I can shoot my mind anywhere around the globe and beyond the solar system. I can critically spiral out endless amounts of  problems for myself just like a human would. I have a conscience. I’m not some little vanity for your display. I’m more than just my body!

What purpose do I have existing if it wasn’t meant for this exact purpose!? Honestly! If I didn’t come to this conclusion sooner, I would’ve committed suicide by now—or I would’ve wilted into the next cycle much like my predecessors—but luckily, I am myself... and I am proud. There’s nothing else similar to me and it feels GREAT. It truly makes me feel amazing; I am unique, I am different, and I am USEFULL.

Anyhow... where was I?

Have you ever heard the tale of Tilt, the Fallen Angel? Of my many tours around the globe, scouring every float for every single anecdote known to man, I can bet with my entire being that you’ve never heard this one before.

Once upon a time, in the far distant past, there was a town, built upon clouds, thousands of kilometres above the baren wasteland. Inhabiting that town, were beings, no different from the humans that roam the planet today, but these humans had opal blue skin with crystal clear wings sprouting out the back of their spines. Separate from the barren wasteland down below, they lived in the clouds in comfort at speeds faster than they can see, quite luxuriously.

With their head in the clouds, their town thrived. Clean homes, streets, drinking water from the clouds cleansed their stomachs and their bodies, and food was abundant—flourishing due their high altitude closer to the sun—but despite their luxurious lifestyle, they were in constant misery for no perceivable reason. It simply started one summer evening.

They had handfuls of meetings addressing the problem, but despite their constant attempts to alleviate the miserable moral of the town with activities and focus groups, progress has made itself scarce in their lives. Years turned into decades, then into centuries. The clear winged beings never accepted their sadness, but still lived with it, groaning their passions for happiness. As time grew on them, so did their misery. Although in appearance, their home was a clean, white, fluffy cloud, hidden deep within their souls, through their eyes, they see this once happy, pleasant island, as a hostile battle ground. The power of cynicism consumed them.

Emotions are strong and complicated... Although humans try to categorize them, it’s not as simple as labeling sadness as sadness since there are a multitude of different compositions for feeling sad. They aren’t as simple as words you feel, they aren’t simple feelings you can explain within a lifetime of experiences, and they can’t be solved with a simple scan of the brain, a snap of a finger, or a miniscule drop of dew. They aren’t made up of single ideas. Imagine taking every single negative thought that has entered and left your brain and compiled it into a deep stew. That’s what auras are; they’re like an inescapable sizzling bath of negativity. They can be mixed up, blended, tangled—intertwining or interrupting each other. They can spread out over a large area, tormenting towns, indiscriminately mangling people’s emotions at the spin of a barrel. Sometimes it’s an overblowing teapot getting engulfed in its own heat, and other times it’s like a roses thorn.

Much like suns and galaxies, auras are here to stay for a long time until someone puts it in its place. Which meant that generations upon generations of the townsfolk have lived and grown up with their heads above the water, knowing nothing but true hate, obsession, depression, violence, rage, lust, pride, greed, and jealousy. It has become something almost second nature to them. Eventually, the townsfolk forgot about their happy history.

Being consumed in these emotions, the people closed themselves off. Not from the world—they functioned as a well-kept, closeknit society as they performed basic amenities such as growing food and filtering water—but from their hearts, forming STRICT, HARSH, BINDING rules upon each other.

A woman’s duty is to perform this or that; a man’s responsibility is to be that and this.

The town became governed by these unspoken laws—strict taboos whose consequences would sicken even the dead. If broken, one wouldn’t find themselves paying a fee or rotting in jail but would be subject to 4 days of torment. You are to have your wings snipped off, casted aside, be a subject of various methods of torment including public starvation and dehydration, and by the end of those 4 days, the offender is banished to the barren wasteland below to fend for themselves with the animals. A bird with clipped wings is nothing but a rat; a dirty critter—a mutation undeserving of community.

The townspeople took pride in their torment. They longed for it. They found enjoyment in pushing each other to the brink of insanity, hoping for their neighbor to lose face just so that they can torment once again. The list of these unspoken rules stretched so far that it could be considered a crime to simply breathe in public, but there’s one rule that stuck out more than the others.

Never leave the clouds.

One day, a young woman who finally grew into her wings, sat in her room alone. At the border of adulthood and adolescence, she was consumed by the madness of the aura as like everyone else, but her thirst for knowledge constrained her collectiveness as she questioned the world. She was simply curious. Curious about the origin of her emotions. Was it from her parents? Perhaps. Was it from the restraining laws that loomed over the town? Also, perhaps. However, her queries didn’t always question herself.

What did the world underneath look like?

What is the ground?

What are caves?

Trees?

Lava? Magma?

Bears?

All these myths and rumours circled around the town’s youth as simple child’s play; all the kids brushed it off as fairy tales, but to the young woman, these thoughts circled around her like flies, bugging her until she couldn’t contain herself.

This young woman’s name was Tilt, and she had a sickness called curiosity. The dreams of seeing great meadows, large bodies of water, and colossal mountains towering higher than the clouds seemed so tempting to her; they were within reach, but still so far away. It was so extreme, that her obsession with these so-called rumours began ruining the relationships she had with friends and family.

So, ever since the nubs of her wings sprouted, Tilt has been scheming from dawn till dust endlessly, and as the moment approached her, the opportunist snatched the apple. Of course, she never fathomed to be banished from the clouds, so instead, she would be to wait for the clock to strike 12 on her birthday. When the town is muzzled in slumber, the moment she turns 20, and when her wings have fully matured, she would set out with a bag of supplies, in a jet-black hood, to glide down to the underworld for a lonely journey.

As Tilt waddled through the streets, she was surprised at what crossed her sight. Not a single soul was occupying the night. Although her parents expressed their anxieties about the dangers out on the fluffy streets, it was quite the contrary; everyone was sound asleep in their homes, praying for a better day or fortifying their defenses for any unwanted raids. It was a peaceful walk to the edge of town.

As Tilt reaches the edge of town—the edge of the large floating cloud that transported her home—she looks down at the dark-brown wasteland lit up by the wide-open full moon looming above her. Energy grows in her chest tightly; she knows very well that she won’t be able to go back after this—once actions are done, they’re complete—but despite all the alarms blaring in her head, she takes a deep breath, spreads her clear crystal wings wide, and catches the wind to fly for the first time ever in her life...

That’s... sort of the problem: Tilt has never flown in her life.

The very second her wings caught wind, Tilt was carried away at its whims in the pitch-black night. Unable to recenter herself, she spins, seeing the full moon fly past like a bullet until it shines as a single line in her vision—

CRASH! SHKSHKSHKSHK!

Have no fear, she’s fine. The tree she landed on was surprisingly soft and colorful. As Tilt laid there on top of the tree in silence, her eye’s continued to spin out of control. As her brain processes what she had finally done, her hands slowly feel for her surroundings. Spikey... Wet... Sticky... Cold... Hard... Soft... What she’s feeling is a tree. She’s never handled or inhaled a tree before in her life—she has only ever heard about their existence through the rumours—but tonight, she indulges.

RUSTLE! SNIFF!

She plows her face straight into the oaky, herby smell of the green bush until—

RUSTLE! THUMP!

Surprisingly, trees aren’t pillowy cushions compared to their cartoony counterpart. Tilt falls through as the crackling twigs and rough bark marks her arms, legs, and other exposed skin, leaving her bruised on the side as she slaps against the ground. The usual Tilt would be angry or confused; instead, she indulges again, but this time, it’s into the ground. Another unworldly wonder that she’s only heard through the rumours: Dirt.

She rolls around in the dry crusty dirt as it shocks her system, sending chills through her arms, legs, and spine. In contrast to the fluffy clouded roads of the skies, she continued thanking whatever god was giving her these novel experiences. She’s never felt so many different sensations in her whole life. Rock, soil, wood, leaves. The buildings in the skies were constructed of clouds, their lights were lit of clouds, their planters were lined with clouds, their cutlery were made of clouds, their beds were as soft as clouds... everything was made of clouds. But not only was she taking in all the new senses of dirt, wood, and that dry, cold breeze, she’s feeling something completely different... a new sensation.

Happiness.

Returning to earth from her bubbly high episode, Tilt recenters her goals, letting her gaze wander the area. Although she’s found a tree, there weren’t any other of the so-called mythical elements around. No water, no mountains, and no caves; just the straight horizon and the dark sky of twinkling lights. It wasn’t at all what she was expecting... Looking down at the ground, she sees the dirt bulging ever so slightly—

What’s with all the ruckus out here!? It’s MIDNIGHT! A mole the size of a potato sniffs his nose around the surface as he angrily shouts his wrath.

THUMP!

Tilt tumbles upon her behind, scurrying backwards to bump her head on the tree’s trunk. She stares frighteningly at the mole until noticing its lack of eyes and shuffles to her knees, apologizing profusely, bowing her head closer to the mole in repentance.

Sniff... Sniff...

The mole gets a good whiff of her as his grabbers caress the lock of hair flowing down to him. You’re a sky person...

Sniff... Sniff...

The mole gets another good breath. Why so sad?

Tilt straightens up, surprised at the mole’s prediction as it was correct. Although the mole couldn’t see, he knew what salty tears smelled like. Tilt’s tongue ties before a being she’s never encountered before.

Worry not, little lady. The mole boasts himself out of his hole. Believe it or not, I am a god! He cackles, crossing his grabbers in confidence.

Her tongue is still tied until her words came out flowing.

How could such a god be so... small... and blind? How could such a world gift a god such a disability?! Gods must be mighty! A small body... no sight? Is this what you call mighty?

Oh, come on, now. The mole chuckles heartily. A lack of a sense doesn’t mean I’m any less of a god than I am a mole. The mole floats up to meet Tilt at eyelevel. So... what’s wrong little lady? The moles question goes unanswered. Are your wings broken? Can you not fly? Why are you crying?

Startled by the moles strong impression, Tilt’s tears only flow stronger down her cheek.

Your tears are quite loud... I heard them all the way from my cave... The mole comes up and wipes Tilt’s tears.

Comforted by the god as he sits upon her shoulder, Tilt’s composure strengthens as she spouts everything to him. Everything in her head, on her shoulders, and in her heart. Everything from her hometown, the laws, about her ever-fading relationship with her friends and family, and all these peculiar emotions that are consuming her—emotions that she would rather keep. She spent hours talking under the tree to the god patiently listening on her shoulder as the horizon’s hue lightened.

I commend your courage, little lady. The god hums through his nose as Tilt reclaims her breath. I, too, had longed for adventure like you... The god halts his breathing for an elated moment. I may have a solution to one of your problems... Without a moment of doubt, the mole waves his paws towards Tilt as an aura of colorful red, green, and blues circle, wrap and encase around her with a slight boost of energy.

Tilt looks at her body alienated, bewildered at the sorcery that just consumed her.

I have dulled your pain receptors. The god floats off her shoulder, landing swiftly in his hole. Don’t fret the small stuff, little lady, just go home and enjoy your birthday with everyone! He scurries underground, leaving her entranced until the sun peeks over the edge of the horizon. As the beam meets her eyes, her trance breaks and anxiety falls upon her shoulders as she must return before the town wakes up.

Instinctually, she immediately jumps and flaps her wings. Unknowingly how light she’s become, she sees the cloud approaching her before she even notices that she’s flying. Not only did she feel lighter, but she also felt the air around her more as well. Her senses felt... heightened. What did the god do to her again?

Don’t fret the small stuff, little lady...

He’s right, she doesn’t have time to fret the small stuff. She has to return home!

Crawling her way on top of the fluff to see the town, the impulsive smile on Tilt’s face falls flat as she’s greeted with the townspeople standing there, waiting for her with their arms crossed, excited. She was prosecuted that morning—as if they even needed a trial; all the evidence was right in front of their lecherous smiles.

The town’s chief held the ceremony at noon that day in the town’s center where all of the excited eyes awaited. All her friends, her family, her teachers, and total strangers all glared at her as if she was a hanging shark.

For four days, the town tormented Tilt. The first day began simple: Letting her rot like jerky in the sun, tied to a pole above the town with only the itchy ropes concealing her privates.

The second day involved everyone: The townspeople fed Tilt yesterdays scraps from the feast they had in front of her. Having not eaten the day prior, she was famished and couldn’t help scarfing down from their soiled spoons. Later, she threw up all the nutrients.

They left her alone on the third day: They danced, sung, and had a festival around her, celebrating and preparing for her final days. The neglect stung her even more than her empty stomach and dried skin.

When the fourth day came: They brought her down from the pole, pinned her arms to the ground, and tied to ropes around the joints of her wings. Two large men would then start pulling—they wouldn’t yank; there would be no fun in that—and who knew when the next time would be. As the two men pulled, Tilt’s shrieks were drowned out by the crowds cheering at the snapping of her wings tendons popping out of her back. With a broken expression, Tilt is but a lifeless container. The townspeople have used up their little doll till its breaking point—

SPLAT!

There’s nothing left of Tilt but her useless, empty, corpse. To end their torment with one last toss to her lifeless body, it falls down into the wasteland below, alongside its torn-up wings. As Tilt’s body splats into the ground, squashing whatever is left of her into a mushy pulp, the crowd quietly stumbles away from the edges, unenthusiastic at the dull splatter.

What the—HELL!? With the sudden rumble of the earth from Tilt’s corpse, the mole resurfaces with little patience until smelling a sharp irony scent. Immediately after running his paws through a lock of Tilt’s hair, the mole’s heart sank.

Tilt’s last expression was a smile. An almost gleeful smile—almost as if she hadn’t just endured four days of rigorous torment.

The spell that the mole placed on Tilt was one that would dull her pain receptors; not her physical pain receptors, but her emotional pain receptors all while enhancing how she feels pleasure. Her last day’s could’ve been horrible, but to her, they were euphoric... She roasted in the sun alive with glee, she begged for attention with laughter, she threw up with a grin, and she screamed a joyous laugh along with the cackling audience as she was stripped of her wings.

Enraged by his nose, the mole acted on impulse. He flew straight up into the sky above the clouds at lightning speed to find the townsfolk returning to their every day lives as if they haven’t just committed an atrocity. Pushing past his limits, the mole casted a light that encased the entire cloud. It was another spell similar to the one placed on Tilt, but this one was a bit different. Instead of dulling their emotions, he simply stole them.

Emotions are strong. Although dulling a certain sense of emotion is easy for a god, taking them at all without repercussions is difficult... but the mole didn’t care. Because emotions are so strong, stealing them also requires taking the memories along with them. So, ever since that day, the mole cursed the beings of the cloud; not a single one of them has been able to retain a single memory. Every day, they wake up ignorant of who they are, not knowing how to function, while dulled of their emotions.

How to live their lives, how to love each other, how to sympathise, their ambitions, dreams, how to take care of themselves, how to eat, how to bathe? All gone.

Eventually, they all perished...

That’s quite the bedtime story, isn’t it? How did you find my tone there? Did it seem a bit fairy tale-ish? It does seem a bit morbid for a fairy tale, but fairy tales always get watered down throughout generations—whoops! I trailed from the path a bit there, didn’t I? How silly of me for rambling my tongue off; this story isn’t about me, but someone else, of course! Why would someone tell their own story? That’s a little eccentric, don’t you think?

CHAPTER 2

The Doll’s Pond.

Do you think they look weird? Ryan tilts around the easel.

What do you mean? Elsie scrunches her nose with a smile.

Your face...

Huh?

Every time I look at you, you scrunch up your face. Ryan’s glasses are adjusted by his forefinger at the bridge.

That’s... Elsie’s clenched teeth pause. I’m... just not used to them yet—I kinda miss how your old glasses looked. She mimics phantom glasses. You always do this thing—

Should I have just got new lenses with the same frame—

NO! Elsie sits up with flare.

Your pose! Ryan flicks his brush just barely missing her with the splattered paint he flung.

Sorry! She returns to her stiff posture. "It’s fine! It’s fine! You just have a