Genre: YA Magical Realism
Word Count: 53,000
Pitch: A sixteen-year-old girl isn't the only one writing in her Diary Dearest. Her dolls are, too. Ancestral types named Ragdoll and Porcelain Doll who crave two very different endings for the girl they haunt.
i crinkle to life when her blood spills.
i move in red and breath.
she don’t see me as i truly am and she don’t know that i see,
i am her childhood doll.
i’ve seen since we first found each otha’.
she was four.
that be twelve years ago.
i been ‘round lots longer.
i don’t know how long.
i only remember the smell of smoke and turpentine,
the taste of oiled cinnamon,
the feel of hard straw and needle pinch as it sewed on each stitch of mouth and coarse yarn hair.
i didn’t have to see to know it flamed shaggy red.
it was a long and painful process.
creation always is.
the nimble strength and rough tenderness in my maker’s hands taught me everything
i needed to know
my button eyes were sewn on last.
i saw my maker.
old and weathered, battered by time, her skin dark chocolate, and her eyes rheumatic.
she saw me smile and smiled in return, patting my stuffed arms and legs.
she’ll need you, she whispered in a voice i recognized as my own.
i travelled great distances, through many hands and lives,
none of ‘em right for me,
to find the girl who needs me most,
the one my creator created me for.
Friday, October 31st
My dolls haunt me. They jump inside me and make me write things I don’t want to write. Things I don’t need to remember. I try to ignore them, but it doesn't do any good.