It's time for novel snippets.
Dec. 19th, 2011 02:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shamanicshayminRaggedy Ann had been in the library for hours. She wanted to ask Medlock about her heart, but the door to his lab was shut as tight as a birdcage. She contemplated entering the East Wing; after all, it was like the good doctor told her about it simply so she could break a rule. Do as you like, Raggedy Ann. You WILL disobey me. Keep banging against the walls but there is nothing that can get you out of here.
You’re wrong, Dr. Medlock, she would tell him. It’d break his own heart, perhaps, but there was a truth that can’t be denied; Raggedy Ann was here against her will. She thought of the voice she heard at the library. Were there others like her? Were there toys that Medlock brought to the lab before she came along? Did they live here with Medlock and were forced to keep quiet?
Last night, there was no trace of anyone here. But she heard the scuffle, she knew she wasn’t as alone as she thought. Something moving in the walls, like mice nibbling at the maze. There was someone else in this labyrinth aside from the Minotaur, a prisoner like herself, and together they could draw the strings of their own fate.
She called out—who’s there?—and the rustle leaped and vanished. Then the ragdoll had an idea. She gathered scraps of paper from the floor, tearing off pieces and twisting them into wrinkled cones. Using twine she found at an old breadbox, she tied the paper cones together, attaching them to a set of old ceramic beads she discovered in a shelf. Broken crayons were littered in another; she used them to color the paper for variety. In short time, Raggedy Ann found herself sitting on the floor, her rag hands messy with raspberry reds and midnight blues, goldenrod yellows and mountain purple majesties. Her garden of Eden bloomed around her, but she didn’t plant her orchard to stay. Scooping the paper flowers in her arms—roses, daisies, marigolds—Raggedy Ann carried them in her apron and rushed to the door, scattering petals behind her. She went to the spot where she first heard the noise, at a dark space between the wall and a collapsed copy of Guinness World Records of 1958. Setting down her flowers, she handpicked a white iris and carefully fit a scrolled message inside its golden crown.
Hello! My name is Raggedy Ann. I hope we get to be friends. If you get this message and you would like us to meet, please reply on the back of this paper. Even a “Yes!” or “OK!” will bring me great joy. If you need to find me, leave this flower inside the red pocketbook beside the bedside lamp at the library. Don’t worry about smushing it! It’s what they’re made for. I hope we get to see each other soon. 
It had been a long time since she used cursive. Either way, her signature was loopy and bold, much like her yarn-hair. Poor Andy, she thought. He always had trouble signing his name. His cursive resembled an awkwardly knotted fringe. “A nightmare Christmas sweater!” as an ornament angel visiting them at Mary’s once commented on her little brother’s writing. He resorted to manuscript to cover his embarrassment, and it suited them just fine. When Ann got back to her workspace, she took an unused scrap of paper and signed his name:
This doesn’t look right, she thought. He doesn’t refer to himself as “Raggedy.” Not unless we’re introduced together or if it’s something formal. He never uses his name before mine. We’re always Raggedy Ann & Andy.
She wrote her name again. Then she forged her brother’s signature the best that she could, down to the quick strokes.
She looked at the paper and smiled. She didn’t need her candy heart to feel a glow inside.
You’re wrong, Dr. Medlock, she would tell him. It’d break his own heart, perhaps, but there was a truth that can’t be denied; Raggedy Ann was here against her will. She thought of the voice she heard at the library. Were there others like her? Were there toys that Medlock brought to the lab before she came along? Did they live here with Medlock and were forced to keep quiet?
Last night, there was no trace of anyone here. But she heard the scuffle, she knew she wasn’t as alone as she thought. Something moving in the walls, like mice nibbling at the maze. There was someone else in this labyrinth aside from the Minotaur, a prisoner like herself, and together they could draw the strings of their own fate.
She called out—who’s there?—and the rustle leaped and vanished. Then the ragdoll had an idea. She gathered scraps of paper from the floor, tearing off pieces and twisting them into wrinkled cones. Using twine she found at an old breadbox, she tied the paper cones together, attaching them to a set of old ceramic beads she discovered in a shelf. Broken crayons were littered in another; she used them to color the paper for variety. In short time, Raggedy Ann found herself sitting on the floor, her rag hands messy with raspberry reds and midnight blues, goldenrod yellows and mountain purple majesties. Her garden of Eden bloomed around her, but she didn’t plant her orchard to stay. Scooping the paper flowers in her arms—roses, daisies, marigolds—Raggedy Ann carried them in her apron and rushed to the door, scattering petals behind her. She went to the spot where she first heard the noise, at a dark space between the wall and a collapsed copy of Guinness World Records of 1958. Setting down her flowers, she handpicked a white iris and carefully fit a scrolled message inside its golden crown.
It had been a long time since she used cursive. Either way, her signature was loopy and bold, much like her yarn-hair. Poor Andy, she thought. He always had trouble signing his name. His cursive resembled an awkwardly knotted fringe. “A nightmare Christmas sweater!” as an ornament angel visiting them at Mary’s once commented on her little brother’s writing. He resorted to manuscript to cover his embarrassment, and it suited them just fine. When Ann got back to her workspace, she took an unused scrap of paper and signed his name:
This doesn’t look right, she thought. He doesn’t refer to himself as “Raggedy.” Not unless we’re introduced together or if it’s something formal. He never uses his name before mine. We’re always Raggedy Ann & Andy.
She wrote her name again. Then she forged her brother’s signature the best that she could, down to the quick strokes.
She looked at the paper and smiled. She didn’t need her candy heart to feel a glow inside.
