The Bisque Doll_The Looked Window_Part One: The girl_Red Tea Dream
Catalog Guide:
The Bisque Doll
The polished glass fogged as Rudy peered into the window, his thin boots soaking through from the snow. Her eyes were lilac, periwinkle, plum, lavender, or mulberry? Closer to violet. The shopkeeper gently placed the porcelain faced doll into the small, wooden rocking chair. Beautiful blonde curls cascaded from her head. And her eyes were the most brilliant shade of… violet. After he made sure the doll was tucked in safe, he raised his eyebrows at the spry boy who was leaving murky fingerprints on his clean glass. Rudy sprang backwards when he realized his carelessness. His mother would have ...
The Looked Window
It was night, and Dave Winston was in his bedroom, an opulent room inspired by the French Baroque. The large and luxurious four-poster bed was red with gold curtains and there were a comfortable padded couch in the same style, with red upholstered and the wood lined by gold, that stayed in front of the fireplace. Dave was there too, in front of the fireplace, however not on the couch, but in a wheelchair. He left and rode until the window, a vertical and white glass window, long, large and nearby the ground enough to a person pass through it and get outside (or inside), with white and translu...
Part One: The girl
SORSHA I’ll fix this. The words are fixated in the very middle of the paper. The rest is blank. White nothingness. I’ll fix this. My fingers trace the soft curves of the f’s and the gentle swishes of the l’s. I see the rings around the words, some smearing the ink. Dried tears. But they aren’t mine. I’m too numb to cry now. I flip the note over, hoping to find some kind of instructions. Where to go.What to do. Anything. Instead I find two words. Love, Dad“That’s all?” I mumble, crumpling it into a ball and throwing it to the ground. My hands lay in my lap, limp, like a ...
Red Tea Dream
Trigger warning: Drug use, gun violence, metaphorical reference to loss of a baby. Your fingers brush on my clean skin, dirtying it like dust on a canvas. The blood is so starkly red; I will believe it if you tell me it’s not blood at all, rather your red lip rouge. The one you carry on you in that little gold tin. You apply it to your lips with your pointer finger and that hand mirror a man dressed in black had given you on your first night at the Red Lotus. The man told you that he liked your phoenix eyes and thought the silver mirror matched the stitching on your qipao.The men always flocke...