Ally Doll Novels & Stories

Pelin stammers, “I didn’t touch your things—” “Were you supposed to touch my things before?” Dolly snaps back. Pelin hesitates, then mutters, “I just saw the designs you made out of you and Dolynara’s baby things.” She winks, sly. Dolly freezes, then sputters, “What—what did you just say? When did I—what?” Laughter ripples through the circle, weak but real. Even Dolynara can’t hide her small, stunned smile, though her gaze lingers on Dolly longer than the joke deserves.

How had things come to this? "Make it strong," Dolly was telling the bartender, and then she turned in her stool to face Jia before crossing one leg over the other. Her green-eyed stare bore into her like a power drill. "So?" she asked, nearly yelling over the noise. Then perhaps she thought better of it, because she leaned in clarified her question. "You playing babysitter today? What's the deal with the kiddos?" Jia shifted uncomfortably on her stool. She wished she could pretend that it was too loud to hear the woman. "Um...yes."

Next year, her first great-grandchild would be born. She gave the sausage she just grilled to a cute little girl and even patted her hair. “Dolly’s getting cuter as she grows. You look just like a doll! Your mom gave you the perfect name.” Dolly took the sausage and said sweetly, “Thank you, Old Mrs. York.” Grandma May smiled kindly. “What else do you want to eat? I’ll grill it for you.” “I want a drumstick.” Dolly was not afraid at all to say what she wanted, probably because she interacted with Grandma May often.

“Poor Tino. Maybe he just wanted to play with your tower.” “Nooo, Papa, he’s a menace. That’s what Mama says. A menace kitty! But I built it again, and this time it’s even better. It has a secret hideout for Rica-dolly!” Rica-dolly was her Barbie doll, which she had named in honor of me. It had been incredibly hard to pretend I wasn’t dying laughing at the name. “Rica-dolly has a hideout now? That sounds fancy. What’s inside?” “Um, snacks! Rica-dolly says she needs snacks for her adventures. I put crackers and a juice box in there, but not cookies ’cause Mama says no crumbs in the living room. But I bet YOU would let me have cookies, right, Papa?”

The doll rolled out and stopped with its big blue eyes staring directly at Raina. “Is an Annabelle doll.” The crowd erupted into gaps and stifled shouts. Looking at the creepy-looking doll on the ground, Areiza could not help smiling border and border. “What’s the matter, Raina? Don’t you like my gift?” What a pity. I choose her specially for you!” Areiza said, pretending to be sad.

We are sweating even though the AC is on. He nuzzled on my shoulder and said seductively," My doll!! you are like a drug for me. what are you doing with me? huh!! I can't resist myself around you! You are making me lose my sanity!! Saying that he rested his one hand on my belly and I felt shivered. His every touch always makes my whole system filled with fear.

15 Momma’s told me once or twice—and sometimes I remember—about the doll I had when I was really little. Samelsa. A name I made up myself. Mom says I wouldn’t stand for it when anyone dared mishear me and try to call her ‘Sam’. “Sam is a girl-name for hookers and strippers. Maybe waitresses,” she says. “I think you knew that, too. Even then. If people dared call your doll ‘Sam’ you’d give them the blackest evil eye. That look on your face! It was like a witchy old woman who’d just caught her neighbor’s dog peeing on her front porch.”

"Good night, doll." The familiar nickname made her smile. "Good night, Leaf." This time, neither of them moved away. And as the silence settled around them once more, Sahara found herself hoping that maybe—just maybe—this was what peace felt like.

"Trust me, Isabella. You're not there to belong. You're there to conquer." I look at myself in the mirror. Maybe it's time to show New York I'm nobody's property. "Okay. What time?" "Seven. I'll pick you up." Two hours later, I stand before my closet. I choose a navy silk dress. Simple, elegant, with a back that plunges dangerously low. This dress is a weapon. Every step I take is a promise of war. The doorbell rings. My heart pounds. Julian stands there in a white polo and khakis.

Desire and fury collided in his chest, an unstable alchemy that made his beast form strain against the edges of itself, as though his own skin no longer quite fit. He turned back toward her. His little doll. The thought tasted wrong the moment it formed—doll suggested fragility, obedience, glass. She was none of those things. She was a knife that had forgotten it was meant to stay sheathed. She scrambled to her feet. Blood dripped from her palms. Her dress was torn. Her hair tangled. And yet she stood tall and proud. The forest clung to her—leaves in her hair, dirt on her knees, his blood on her hands—marking her as surely as any rune.