Cracked Porcelain Doll Novels & Stories

“Why did you guys think I called her Lollipop? Since she was tiny she always had a sucker in her mouth. She would always win whatever game with that sucker in her mouth.” “I guess she has always had an oral fixation.” Chris adds with a wink to me. I see Oliver tense next to me and I place my hand on his shoulder and shoot a glare to Chris for trying to rile him up. Oliver's body relaxes under my touch and I look at him in the eyes.

There was no broken window, no damaged lock, and nothing looked disturbed except for the baby’s cribs… and something else. Under one of the cribs was a rag doll. It was small, maybe around the size of my hand. The cloth was worn and the stitches were uneven. The fabric was faded, and stained in some places, and its button eyes looked too big for its face. It had a crooked mouth that had been sewn with red thread, like a kid’s art project gone wrong. I picked it up. It was heavier than I expected. It felt like there was something shifting inside so I turned it over. Then I saw the note.

A porcelain doll that could break if the wind blows too hard. Ciro leans down. The contrast is visceral. The scarred, lethal giant and the pristine child. He picks up her backpack. It is pink. It is covered in sequins that catch the sun like diamonds. It has a fluffy unicorn keychain dangling from the zipper. Ciro’s hand—a hand that I have seen break a man’s neck, a hand that bears the white, jagged lines of a dozen knife fights—engulfs the handle. The pink straps look absurd against his skin.

He either didn’t need his glasses or needed a fresh pair because Jody watched him squint at a brochure on the local doll hospital. When Eric realized he had Jody’s attention, he commented to her, “Really, a hospital for dolls? Why not buy a new doll?” He chuckled at the concept of a shop that fixed old toys. It seemed a waste of time. “The wrong type of doll, actually. Hailey is an artist with making antique porcelain dolls look new. She works with antique dolls. You know, the creepy porcelain ones from the Victorian Era? She stitches, hides cracks, repaints and re-stuffs them. She even makes new clothing too. It all depends on what that specific doll needs. I believe she even works with ted

He stood, bowed deeply, and tiptoed out of the basement like someone fleeing a slumbering beast. The basement door closed softly behind him, emitting a long, creaking groan before falling silent. The flame slowly steadied, bathing the doll in a warm amber glow. The doll remained still at the center of the altar. Its crimson robe shimmered with an unnatural gleam in the dimness, and the curve of its smile seemed to stretch wider. The macarons on the altar had somehow dried and blackened, as if all their moisture had been drained away. A black fuzz floated atop the cup of water, identical to the tiny hair that dangled from the doll's hairpin.

"A set of tiny, hand-painted porcelain dolls. Imagine, Denera, your little one playing with these, creating stories and adventures." I glanced at Rockan again, who was now watching the scene unfold with a hint of amusement in his eyes. He seemed to be enjoying Granny Yeneva's boundless enthusiasm, even if he wasn't actively participating. "They are beautiful, Granny," I said, picking up one of the dolls. It was a tiny, delicate figure, dressed in a flowing gown of blue and silver. "Yes, they are," Granny Yeneva agreed, her voice softening. "And just think, Denera, if you were to have a little girl, she could play with these dolls, just like you did when you were a child."

So much more important than thread and stuffing and glass eyes, wrapped in a half-torn dress. I still feel bad about that doll. The one I saved from a hooker name. A doll I carried around with me for years, and now remember only in flashes. Bare, bright impressions, like seeing something through burned retinas. Seared over everything in a glowing silhouette. The same as Loki. I barely met Loki, but when I remember him it’s with a sick stirring so deep and violent it’s like there’s a clawed hand rammed down my throat. Churning my guts around. Turning my insides into so much fine flesh confetti.

"Yeah, but it's dead weight, you'll see. Plus, Claire is only five foot. You're a little taller." "Well, they definitely put a substantial amount of that weight into her boobs. Jeez, Claire! No need for a bra, huh Ms. Perky?" Darren did not answer, which gave me the feeling I'd crossed some kind of line. I decided not to joke with Claire anymore and just help the poor guy fix his sex doll. He lifted her under the shoulders while I took her ankles, and together we lifted her out of the bag and onto the table. I was impressed with the feel of her. I hadn't expected her skin to be so soft. On a real person's ankles, you'd feel different amounts of give for skin and for tendons and muscle or fat

She has to buy more than one doll for Rosie as she was known for spoiling her dolls quicker than expected. Once she lost interest in the doll, she would tear its parts to check what was contained in it and what exactly was the thing singing. Once she satisfies her curiosity by tearing the doll apart, then it’s finished. She would simply throw the poor shattered doll aside and pick a new one. Funny right?

“Oh, Mr. Luciano doesn’t want to let loose for our doll. He bids thirty million dollars. Does anyone want to get higher than thirty?” I now had a hard time following the dialogues, and the numbers kept on getting higher and higher, and it’s making me dizzy. “Counting once…” “… going twice…” “…thri– Oh, we have a new bidder for this doll. Mr. Bronislav bids Fifty Million Dollars.” “Wow, just wow.” I felt like I wasn’t a human. I felt like a piece of trash that had been found in the dumpster, which they cleaned and put in a box where stupid people collected them.