 by Julie Carpenter Camping with Barbie and Ken The following story is based on actual events He must have trembled from his vantage point in the shoe box under the bed When he saw them packing the plastic motor home with sleeping bags made from old washcloths and toilet paper. Maybe the first time he thought it would be fun. He probably didn’t understand when three of the Barbies were plucked out of the box before the trip by the small hands. Nurse, Doctor, Reporter said the owners of the small hands. He must have been puzzled but maybe not afraid. The manipulations of the small hands were the substance of his life. But after that time? The motor home surely smelled like fear. He was never chosen as Nurse, Doctor, Reporter – he drove. Skipper was always a passenger too – always. Sometimes Midge and Theresa went, sometimes they stayed. Sometimes along with Ballerina Barbie they were chosen to be Nurse, Doctor, Reporter. Cut up Malibu Barbie was always a passenger as well. She had no expectations – maybe the fear had dried up in her. Her breasts and hair had been hacked away in the hopes of making her a boy. She would die. She always did. The small hands were sometimes kind to Skipper. Some days she lived. Some she died. Ken never died. No he was never allowed the peace of death. Unlike the Barbie who had been buried and forgotten, he was forced to carry on. Every time he was the witness. Sometimes after the small hands had plunged the motor home off the side of the ditch, He found himself crawling with a broken leg trying to drag Skipper to safety He’d given up on cut up Barbie – she was always dead. Sometimes the small hands pushed the camper down the steep hill Bouncing, careening towards the inevitable stump or tree Ken’s hands were never on the wheel Reporter Barbie showed up to take pictures And Ken watched her dispassionately taking notes She was glad to be on the sidelines this time – no room for compassion. Then to the hospital – cut up Barbie always DOA Covered with a horrifying tomato blood If the small hands could steal it. The others were in various stages of death, twisted up. Once Midge was decapitated. Ken crawled out to find her head staring at him, next to one lime green shoe. Back in the dark box there was nothing to do But wait to pay again for sins he’d never committed The small hands would come again tomorrow.
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 Liberation 1. Serving Wisdom Tha wants to hear 'ow tha nannan saved tarn al tell thee. a were nowt but a serving oik to big bosses on r tarn. serving 'em sup a were an they were in a reet tacking seein as son lads from another tarn as said 'Thas best do as we ask else we'll beat thee black and blue. Know what am saying?' "We want tha lasses, wives and girlfriends fort neet or maybe longa." In a reet to do. Well as bein a serving oik a 'ad an idea. So a pipes up "al sort it for thee." an they continued wi their yammer. " a said, al sort it. For thee." an their still yammer, yammer. a slams full pint pot dahn so's it splashes all o'er "Lunk'eads! A said al sort for thee!" Well, they eyes me up and dahn like a were summat art a tarn. A were a bit on a looker then, tits pointy, reet curve on ma hips and dash a blonde hair. Then been so engrossed they'd not noticed us. "Well!", chief boss says. A outlines plan to 'em while they're eyeing up me goods, int plan a volunteered a stack o' me female mates to join us. An it were on. 2. Second Best Dress Bosses telled their wives an girlfriends o' plan, an telled 'em to keep stum. Some o'them lasses as doubted us lot lower dahn pecking order could do job reet. Snobby bitches. They says "We'll tek 'em in an teach 'em how to play part." A told our stack o' lasses an they were game. So all on us volunteers turns up at posh lasses doors and got a reet pampering. "Tha dunt want too much, else tha'll stink like a whore." she dabs rose petal scent on us, rouge's me cheeks, chooses second best linen for us "Dunt want you showing us up." an a were saving her. Other lasses had been tret same, but now all on us were off to meet wi enemy artside tarn. a gev lasses advice. "Play hard to get, first. Thas posh, remember. Up to them to woo thee." 3. Liberation When us turns up they've laid on a reet spread for us, hot meat and fresh fish platters, rice, pasta and sweet wine. bearded enemy is all in a line up to the tables. "Are you their wives and girlfriends?", one o' them asks. A walk along line o' men. Stop. Pull a lads goatee beard towards ma tits an say " No, we're shit under thee booit. Av got some goats milk 'ere that wants suppin'." an ma tits in his marth. One o' other lasses, reveals a thigh an says, "ma fig wants chewin' on." Yet another pouts her lips, "a need a tongue to tek, ma nectar" an snogs one o' the enemy. soon all are coupled up, an suppin' place dry an sossled an ma lasses are play fightin' wi enemies weapons an hidin' them away lad on ma breast as his hands all o'er, a gently prise him off, "Time, yet, lover, time." an sneak artside an climb a wild fig tree, an raise a torch art on folds a ma dress leet it so's bosses can see. an bosses come dahn on enemy fistin', cuttin' av blood splattered o'er her second best dress, ma rouge is redder. beat 'em soundly we did, atter wi were gin r freedom fort savin' tarn. an that's why we're 'ere under wild fig tree, suppin' goats milk an lasses play fightin o'er yonder.  Paul Brookes was shop assistant, security guard, postman, admin. assistant, lecturer, poetry performer, with "Rats for Love" and his work included in "Rats for Love: The Book", Bristol Broadsides, 1990. His first chapbook was "The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley", Dearne Community Arts, 1993. He has read his work on BBC Radio Bristol and had a creative writing workshop for sixth formers broadcast on BBC Radio Five Live. Recently published in Clear Poetry, The Bees Are Dead, Live Nude Poems and others.
 We don't believe in invented people We need evidence that you're real. So we test you. Ask you to replicate higgledy-piggledy Upper and lower case numbers And letters, point out the shopfronts in photographs. Invented folk Can't discern differences, you know. How real are you on Facebook, on Twitter. How many personas can you make? How much We want to believe in characters on screen, in books, online. And we should. It uses our imagination. Folk live and breathe in our heads.  Paul Brookes was shop assistant, security guard, postman, admin. assistant, lecturer, poetry performer, with "Rats for Love" and his work included in "Rats for Love: The Book", Bristol Broadsides, 1990. His first chapbook was "The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley", Dearne Community Arts, 1993. He has read his work on BBC Radio Bristol and had a creative writing workshop for sixth formers broadcast on BBC Radio Five Live. Recently published in Clear Poetry, The Bees Are Dead, Live Nude Poems and others.
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