Emperor Norton Doll の小説・ストーリー

he groans. Maybe his son was hungry again. He carried his boy to the kitchen to make up a bottle. He turned on the lights. His little dog, Norton woke up. Norton was a little Jack Russell. A smart little breed. Norton too was getting used to this change of settings in their life style. Norton's little white and speckled ears perk up when he hears the baby's cry echo in the home. Donovan rummages in his home to find baby bottles. He finds them. His large fingers grasp at the tiny little bottles. Knocking over the rest to the floor making Norton jump back with surprise.

It's six o'clock in the afternoon after Lucien reading the documents at his hand. Opening the drawer, there is a diamond cartoon character doll in the drawer, with straight black hair, small white face, small sharp chin, and two large black crystal eyes shining with dazzling light. This is a cartoon doll that Lucien specially custom made for Nina in Swarovski. The doll stands on the table playfully, which is very different from the cold atmosphere of the president's office. It is very eye-catching. The first time he saw a similar cartoon figure in the show window in Chicago, he thought of Nina. Girls like this kind of shiny thing, and Nina will certainly like it too.

Without turning around, Dante caught it. ✘ ✘ ✘ The toy store in central Greenwich had gotten stuck in another era. Wooden shelves. Nostalgia in the air. Model airplanes rotating slowly from the ceiling like the store had simply refused to admit time had moved on. Dante stood in front of the robotics display, studying an orange robot with the same intensity he applied to intelligence briefings. “This one.” He pointed. “Six functions, no practical purpose, sufficiently intimidating.” “A six-year-old doesn’t need intimidation,” Elena said, moving toward the doll aisle. “He needs something that fits in his hands.”

Not hers. My hands started shaking. 'Are they selling off coma patients' bodies?' All those stories from school came flooding back. My skin crawled. I fought the nausea and fear, forced myself to finish cleaning her up. I was about to leave when I saw it—the music box on her nightstand. Ms. Deinert had told me not to mess with it. But my hand moved anyway. I popped it open. No music. Just velvet at the bottom. Then I saw it—tiny crumbs near the edge. Crackers, maybe?