Doll Parts

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Authors note:

A friend linked me to this site proceeding telling her that I was having doubts about my skills in writing. I don't claim to be a beautiful writer, but enjoy it. I'd just like a little feedback on some of my work. This won't be my first and last entry I assure you.

This is the opening of a story that I began years back and have just began re-writing.

It's a Frankenstein meets Amelie type story, and i'm writing it for pleasure.

Doll Parts:


The second time I awoke, in my entire life, I was walking.

I wasn't quite sure why or how, or even where I was headed, only that I was walking and that walking was all that mattered. I inhaled a few breaths and breathed heat out of my lungs, only to consume more fire. The floor beneath me felt like a pool of needles and glass and burning ashes, not the cool grass that would've soothed any others feet, after trailing for several hours under the scorching sun. It was summer. I remembered that. The berrys dangling off of the green giants surrounding me and whistling birds informed of that fact. I wasn't sure what the gigantic blue thing hanging above my head was though. My brain scrambled franatically for the word beginning with 'S' that sat inches from my grasp.

The first time I woke up there was only fire and nothing else.

My blood pumped acid through my veins that threatened to wear them away and flow into my body, scald my organs and melt me. My flesh was filled with frost and my bones were scorching metal pipes that I tried to move, only to feel as if they were snapping one by one. I screamed. As it ripped itself from my chest, something dragged its claws the length of my throat and lungs. It wrang in my ears like a siren or a banshee. My hands flew to my head and tried to squeeze the pain out of my ears. If you placed your fingers gently on both sides of your face and dug your nails untill they broke the skin and pierced the supple flesh beneath; Then proceeded to tear muscle and tendon from bone, letting the blood fill your fingers with its delicate trickle, I assure it would've been a welcome relief from the white hot pain my that head felt upon touching it.

I led there for several minutes, feeling some kind of agony that I never thought a creature could feel, writhing and screaming until it lessened enough for me to stop gritting my teeth. I opened my eyes and they filled with boiling tears that clouded my dry pupils, blurring everything in my vision. It was another few minutes and a vast amount of heavy, aching blinks until they cleared. The ceiling was white. I remember that. The reason I remember was because other than pain, I remember thinking that it wasn't a proper white. It was awful dirty. Somebody should really clean it.

The second time I woke, I had my second rational thought. What was I wearing, if anything at all? I looked down, and saw my bare feet moving underneath me, but jeaned legs were pumping themselves forward just above them. My chest and arms were sheathed in a soft tree green sweater that hung off my right shoulder, where gentle dark waves bobbed silently and occasionally moved in the breeze. The pretty nails, embedded in my long milky fingers, were painted red. The glamourous kind of red you see in old fifties movies. After that, rational thought was lost again for several hours of walking, until at last another popped into my head and I stopped dead.

Who the fuck am I?
Posted in Stories
by GenKy


First of all, welcome to the sight wifey :) I'm glad you decided to join and post! Second of wow. You are in fact a beautiful writer. That really griped me. It's the only way I can think to describe it. I can't wait to read more. Fantastic. Truly.

TabulaRasa - 2009-04-23

A warm welcome, and high praise for such a a cool entry. Took my imagination from berrys dangling........ to flesh and tendon. Fuckin' cool. I look forward to more.

brokenreality - 2009-04-23

Thanks baby, (TR, down the bottom there). You're quite the writer yourself. And cheers very much BR. I'm glad you found it cool and I appreciate the praise. I like to think a piece of work reflects its writer. *grin*

GenKy - 2009-04-24

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