Day 1

It’s been twenty-three hours since I first found myself in this dark world of dusty puppets. A few have tried to befriend me, street rats, eyepatch-wearing cats, strutting chickens trying to make a quick bawk, but I’ve so far denied their advances. I have remnants of memories, scattered here and there of a life before, whispers of a name, but that is all. By the look of things, we seem to be in Paris, but everyone here speaks with varying British dialects. I fear I may not last the night.

Day 3

My hunger has grown to such a peak that I fear I am too weary to keep my wits about me. Toothsome aromas have lured me to the shop of a small Swedish baker, aflergel blergel-ing from his warm golden windows. Perhaps a simple baguette will suffice, tide me over until I figure out the strange source of song and dance lingering in the air here. I am not conventionally a man who steals, but what choice do I have? Besides, it is only bread. What true bad could come from that?

There is a very stoic eagle searching for me. I should not have stolen that loaf of bread.

Day 402

I no longer remember the whispers of my old name. Time has passed here in such a way that I now know of myself only by a five-digit number stamped across my chest, one that conveniently rhymes with everything. We work in the boat yard, the prisoners and I, and they sing songs to pass the time. I feel an urge to sing along, and think surely I have lost myself to the throes of this strange realm. The eagle is vigilant, cruel. My parole approaches.

Day 6,945

How many years has it been? Nineteen? Twenty? All sense of time is lost on me. Set free from my chains, I’ve traveled far, searched high and low for work, but have found I am a marked man. I fear my only solution left now is to run. Hiding out in a church, I begged God to send me back to my realm, but received no answer. I’ve begun to wonder if God can even exist in a land like this, or if he, too, is made a mockery of, enrobed in synthetic fibers. I was met by a kindly small orange man of the priesthood. He sang to me only in mee-mee-mees, but despite the strangeness of his words, their piercing sounds carried the shrill voice of an angel calling my higher plan to action.

Day 9,855

I’ve done right by my vows to build a new life among the creatures here and have hardly a thought these days of the world I knew before. My daughter, who fell into my care only as a gift from God, came to me as the child of a fallen chicken and was kept as a house girl by an oft-sotted, wisecracking bear and his shrimp of a wife who owns an inn in town. The small pink babe is my only constant, as the eagle’s watchful eye still looms nearer each day, threatening to take me away from her. We sing to ease our spirits.

Day 12045

We are here on the brink of war. If not for my daughter’s growing age, I’d lose count of the years. I fear for her love of the young green soldier who visits at our gate. She is the picture of innocence in this volatile city, her plump pink skin and hair spun gold, with a voice of deep resonance. If I could spare her the heartbreak of losing love so young in her life, I would die to do it.

Day 12073

There is a presence here, in this realm. Different from our God. A silent hand, someone somewhere pulling the strings. I can’t help but feel I was fated to be here, for her, and I must set out to save the melancholy frog who holds the heart of my daughter.

I have enlisted myself in the resistance to fight alongside him. Our leader is loud and brash and violent, swinging himself hither thither, and yelling REVOLUTION REVOLUTION REVOLUTION. We are accompanied by an ensemble of strange fellows: some beaked, some covered head to toe in dense fur, some intent on explosions, and of course, our small Robin, whom we lost early on in the throes of battle. I am reminded again of my peculiarness among them, though they do not seem to bat a felted eye. The enemy approaches. I fear we’ve given our positions away by singing too much, and soon a wall of bullets will rip through the ragtag wall we’ve built around our square. I fear a calamitous end awaits us.

Day 12075

All has been lost.

I fear my time in this land is coming to a close. I managed to recover the green soldier from the throes of battle and will leave him now to fend for my daughter’s heart, and then I must go away. A life of running wears on a man, especially with so many tripping hazards at thigh height.

I do not recall the man I was before, yet I pity him, for he knew not that to behold a lumbering vibrato or the love of frogs and pigs is to see the face of God. And you can behold it too, for as low as $9.99 a month on Hulu.