Something Is Here

“Wake up, doll. Something is coming.”

Her words echo in the doll’s mind as she wakes, just as they have for years—ever since the doll’s new mistress ate her old one and dragged her back into its lair.

Such a small memory to be burned so deeply, but she’s thankful for it.

Today she wakes as she always does, words echoing in her mind and the monster’s looming vastness crouched on spindly legs above her stony bed. A drop of venom sizzles on her skin, another hole burned through her ruined dress.

Chalk

(This story is also featured in my collection Joyous/Decay   )

The doll shivers in your arms, trembling like a candleflame in the wind, like you used to shake and shudder when you knew you had sinned, when you could feel rejection’s creeping despair just around the corner.

Her big button eyes stare up at you, pleading, blue thread fraying from the knotted mass at the center of those dark disks; her mouth moves in soundless whispers, the same words over and over again–

The Nature of a Monster is to Hunt

Hero pinned to the floor, glaring up at the beast who’s finally gotten the better of him. Trying not to notice the thin lines of blood welling out of where its claws grip his neck, trying not to think about how easily it could end all his struggles—

(if he thinks those thoughts his luck will break, or so he’s always been told. there are so many things he doesn’t think about.)

Two Dolls in an Alley, Doing Crimes

The two of them are hanging out in an alley amidst tangled vines and crumbling walls and ancient trash almost become soil; the tiny doll leaning against a shotgun twice her size, soaking up the heat that always seems to radiate from its long and unadorned barrel, and the full-sized doll clutching its all-too-ornamental knife in hands that might almost seem human if not for their porcelain perfection, if not for those brilliant fingernails being so obviously painted just beneath the surface.

Just a drop, just a taste …

“Please, mistress,” she begs in a tiny trembling voice entirely unlike her usual confidence, “please give me a taste, a drop! I’m so hungry …”

She’s so cute kneeling: perfectly still save for her pleading eyes and panting mouth, her fangs sliding in and out. Vampires get so cute and needy when they’re not able to feed, and you’ve trained her so very well—she’d stay like this for weeks if you demanded it of her, and the frenzy at the end would be more than worth it …

Like Spilt Tea

(This story is also featured in my collection Joyous/Decay   . It is a sequel to Chalk   , and might make a bit more sense if you’ve read that.)

The teacup trembles for a moment as it tips, your hand shaking beneath the intensity of her gaze, the milky liquid inside pausing at the rim—and then it starts to pour, it spills, a cascade of still-warm tea racing down to stain her patched fabric skin.

“It is not death,” she says.

The crack in her chest gets larger every day, skin peeling back like mud drying beneath the hot summer sun; she’s splintering, breaking, the damage opening up parts of her you never knew she had—

She doesn’t like when you look inside, when you dangle a webcam down through her cracks, but you can’t help it. Her body is like a cathedral, a sacred grove, a many-chambered fantasy full of strange creatures and beautiful ornaments—