Miss Helena March: A doll story

Once there was a girl with hair the colour of sunsets and eyes that told stories if only you knew how to read them. Her name changes with the days and the months of the year. When last I knew her she went by the name of Miss Helena March. True names have power, but a nameless girl can call herself anything she likes. Names are turned as easily as coats, a twist of the tongue, a string of meaningless syllables. A stretch of letters scrawled in a hotel ledger.

She is a liar, a story teller, a traveller of the roads between time and reality. Her key opens doors to the past and to the almost was, and nearly is. Worlds in worlds.Earth but not our Earth.  Doors and keys and twisting realities.

 Her smile is sweet but wickedness and sorrow linger in her eyes. Her fingers twitch and she is ready to open another door. She is here one minute and gone on an adventure the next.

She collects clocks, and keys and funny little objects that each reality has discarded. Junk or trash, antiques or vintage. She travels the past and only she knows the things she will treasure most. She meets people and smiles that sweet sorrowful smile. She pours another cup of tea, lights another candle and plans another adventure, dreams of opening another door and sidestepping the world that is for one that isn't quite the same. Worlds within worlds and she has the key to slip between them all.

She is a girl with a key to worlds beyond our own. A little rusty key found in a puddle reflecting a perfect twinned sun sky that never was on this Earth. She takes the name of towns and cities, days and months, places she has been and we will never go. Where monsters roam, and magic lives and things aren't quite the way they are here. Today she is Miss Helena March. Yesterday she called herself Alene. She works in coffee shops, in diners, and in book shops. Small places. Unnoticed. A collection of name tags with the names of places she has been. Cities and towns. Universes and realities.
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Miss Helena March was made for my very good friend Jaci. I finished the doll while we were away in the states. I could never quite pin down a name for Helena but I knew it had to be a city name and I was very nearly Roanoke or Alexandria, it could quite possibly be, the doll wouldn't tell me for certain, nor would she share her key with me. I left the doll unstained or grunged up and told Jaci she was free to stain her with coffee or tea if she wished a more aged look. I dare not make a mess of my parents kitchen like I do mine when I stain dolls at home.

 I have a few more dolls that I have been woefully neglectful in finding stories for but hopefully I shall attempt to fix that in the next few weeks. Like that poor steampunk Red Riding Hood that only has half a story written (the rest is in notes honest). If I can get the stories written I can list the dolls in my little etsy shop. Red really wants a new home to explore and she is pestering me to finish her tale and get her listed. Who am I to argue with dolls? Don't answer that!

Scarlett Hart aka Rowan Redd

Once upon a time there was a girl in a blue dress that went on an adventure down a rabbit hole. The girl in the blue dress slayed a dragon, killed a Queen, and nearly destroyed a kingdom. This is not her story, but it is the story of a princess who became a girl lost in Wonderland. The girl did not have a name though she sometimes called herself Rowan and sometimes Scarlett. Some say she is a blue blood but she will tell you that her blood is red the same as any. She is said to be the bastard daughter of the Queen of Hearts and an unknown lover of questionable mentality. Upon her birth she was placed in the Wonderland Asylum for Lunatics and the Criminally Insane, some say that madness burns behind her mismatched eyes worse than the blood rage that burned within the Queen herself.

The Princess Scarlett Hart was put away and forgotten by Wonderland, but she did not forget. She is beautiful, serene, a genius, a thief, a sociopath and quite utterly mad. A brilliantly broken and addled porcelain doll. Though no more mad then anyone left living in a broken Wonderland. She is obsessed with locks, and keys, and bright shiny blades. No locks can keep her out or in. She wanders the halls of the Asylum and the City humming, and singing slightly off key in a voice sweet as cyanide laced tarty tarts.

She laughed at the Queen of Heart’s fate and cried for the dragon as she bathed in the pool of tears. She wanders the forest in the day and sometimes takes tea with Hatter muttering about skinning white rabbits to make coats. A mad grin of too sharp teeth flickers across her tear streaked face while playing with her shining knives. On odd days she tells only lies, on even days she tells the truth. In Wonderland all the days are odd.

In your tour of Wonderland you may visit the Wonderland Asylum for Lunatics and the Criminally Insane for a very modest fee. You may even bribe a guard with a nice tarty tart to walk within the garden there. Whatever you do promise me you will be careful to never take tea with a flame haired fury with mismatched eyes, and bleeding hearts upon her gown. The forgotten princess of Hearts may tell you truths or sweeten your tea with honey and gentle lies or serve you sweet cakes laced with laudanum and spite. Or she may follow you home with her shiny blades as she serenades you with sugary sweet songs.

Better pictures soon but the light had already gone when I finished making Scarlett so I wrote down the Wonderland-ish story that was swirling about my head. This is the first doll I have made of the new year and the first doll I have made in two months, I think I may have found a little piece of my crafting mojo. *crosses fingers* I have more writing to do but hopefully I can start on another doll or craft project in the morning while the Boy does whatever he likes, mainly ignoring me until he wants feeding or I want to bribe him to escape the house for a few hours.

Miss Elmira Ravenhurst

Miss Elmira Ravenhurst was a school teacher in the small town of Doornail in the foot hills of the Serra Nevada Mountains in California. Fourteen years since the discovery of gold, and five years since a steamer ship docked in San Francisco carrying a cargo of death and the end of the world. The ship carried a plague of the living dead. Grey fleshed corpses that should have been buried six feet under, their flesh rotten off the bone as they infested San Francisco feeding off living flesh. Now the country was at war with a plague of un-dead zombies in the west as war raged between North and South.

Elmira had dreams that were broken when her fiancée was eaten by a pack of zombies on a supply run to Sacramento. The children solemnly listen to lectures with wide eyes as she walks back and forth the heavy ring of keys at her side jingle with every step. A bell rings in the distance and Miss Ravenhurst, mouth set in a grim line, uses the keys to open a small door in the tidy little school house. The door opens on a tiny room with a hatch leading to an escape tunnel underneath the town. Elmira ushers the children through, dabbing at tear stained faces as the children march down the tunnels to safety.

Elmira locks the hatch as the last child disappears down into the escape tunnel. The iron key gripped tightly in her hand as she scans the walls of the room. Guns, ammunition, wickedly sharp blades and machines of copper, brass and glass fill the walls. Miss Elmira Ravenhurst smiles grimly as she reaches out for her favourite guns. Miss Elmira Ravenhurst, spinster, teacher, and ruthless zombie hunter stepped out from the school house raised her rifle and aimed as the first zombie shambled along the dirt road.

Dear little Miss Elmira Ravenhurst is listed in my etsy shop.

Caleb the Imp

Caleb the imp is small and lonely little creature, prone to mischief, bouts of melancholia, lover of fairy tales and converse shoes. He is a tiny bit huffy and stubborn, but you didn’t hear that from me. He is wicked, and sweet, a charmer and a procrastinator. He has a way of generating messes that make you forget about the job you were meant to be doing. Caleb love listening to fantasy stories of broken knights, hysterical dragons and forgotten magical realms, and watching epic fantasy movies and shows like Game of Thrones, Conan, Camelot, Legend of the Seeker and Labyrinth to name but a few. Did I mention he loves shoes? Because he really loves converse shoes, he won’t go to a home without any chucks in the house, and may drive his owner to buy more and more shoes. He says the shoes are his pets and his friends.

You must be careful if you own Caleb for you might come to harm tripping on carefully arranged piles of converse. He mostly means well, honest, but Caleb is an imp and that means trouble no matter how many shoes you own.

Caleb and my favourite chucks

Caleb was made from a Converse One Star button down shirt, vintage buttons, vintage doily, and toy filler.Caleb was stained with a mixture of coffee, vanilla and cinnamon. He is meant to be a decoration and not to be roughly played with my small children, due to his button eyes. Caleb the imp is a one of a kind creation, and I hope that you love him as much as I loved making him. I mean just look at that face, how could you not love him?

Caleb is listed in my etsy shop.

A Clockwork tale of Red Riding Hood (Part the first)

I know I'm a little bit behind on blogging (read as 'hugely immensely behind on blogging, writing and crafting') but I'm working on it...honestly.... I offer you the beginning of the fairy tale I am writing for the Red Riding Hood doll I finished making the other day with the addition of a few well placed cogs I managed to dig up in a antiques shop Wirksworth. I'm hoping that if I share the first few paragraphs of the story it will encourage me to finish writing Red's fairy tale and list the doll and figure out how I will print out her story in zine form. So here goes...

A Clockwork Tale of Red Riding Hood (Part the First)

by Apryl Lowe

My name is Rowan but most people call me Red. I live in a village in the heart of the forest. There is no silence here, the forest is filled with clanking and ticking of steam driven machinery cutting down trees. Vibrations shake the earth beneath my feet as the miners drill deeper and deeper under the ground, searching out new veins of precious metal. The sound of metal against metal fills the air near the blacksmith’s forge, ribbons of black smoke curl as they rise from the rooftops.

Today is my eighteenth birthday. Mother says I shall leave now to visit Grandmother in the Cottage. Mother has been up all night sewing me a hooded cloak, the colour of ripe red berries, the colour of my left eye. The one the villagers say is cursed and evil. Mother says it’s nonsense, that it means I will always see the truth of things. I have always been the finder of things, keys, coins, cogs and jewellery. Mother says I could find a diamond in a snow storm or weed out all the lies the peddlers spout and find the truth hidden in pretty words.

Today I leave the forest forever. I leave Mother, our small house and head to the city like my father did before I was born. I have been chosen to go to Grandmother as Father was before me, as so many were. Mother refuses to talk about it, she will only say that those chosen go to serve Grandmother in the Cottage and never return. She fears the truth I will see no matter how honeyed the lies she might speak.

Mother refused to walk with me to the platform. I stand with three other villagers, two girls and a boy, each of us carrying a basket filled with gifts for Grandmother, shiny copper and brass springs and cogs with decorative scrollwork, some with tiny chips of precious gems, and golden threads. I grip my cloak tightly around me the basket heavy over my arms. Leaning against my boots is a worn leather satchel, filled with what few belongings I own. The train whistles before pulling to a stop at the platform, plums of steam bubble around the black engine as the breaks sigh.

A man leaps out from the train a book and pen in his hands. Brass goggles obscure his eyes, he is smartly dressed in a navy uniform with highly polished scrollwork and gears decorating his chest. His left hand is mechanical, a clockwork construction of brass. I tilt my head to catch the faint sound of gears turning as the man examines the clockwork pendants each of us wear. The pendants are the sign of the chosen grandchildren. I am forbidden to tinker with mine though it lies warm against my skin and makes my teeth itch.

to be continued....

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Ok that's the first half, I have another paragraph written and extensive notes for the rest of the story I just need a harpy on my back to get me writing again.

literary crushes, procrastination and doll making

A few days ago while procrastinating on twitter and chatting with a few of my best geek friends I got the worm of an idea to make a doll inspired by Neil Gaiman himself. Mr. Gaiman is one of my favourite authors, he is cool, nerdy and all around fantastic. So with very little encouragement from the twitter peanut gallery I set to work sewing a new doll and ignoring the housework. But don't tell my husband that.

The dolls and monsters I make start life as scraps of fabric, lace and vintage buttons. I sit at my desk and play with ideas and fabrics until the pieces come together with the threads of small stories and fairy tales in my head. For me making the dolls and writing their little stories are one and the same, an outlet for my creative side. I make them for the love of craft and making things. This doll won't have a story because he is the doll of a wonderful storyteller and you should own his books already and if not then run out and buy one today.

Neil Gaiman the doll is made with scraps of cotton fabric, toy filler, and vintage buttons (green as that is the closest colour to hazel I had in my modest button stash. I did my research). I thin grunged up the doll with a mixture of coffee, tea, vanilla and cinnamon to at an aged look and a lovely smell.

Little Miss Melancholia

Melancholia is wistful and some might say wise. She is an expert on morose and obscure poets. She can often be found wandering aimlessly on cliff tops and moonlit moors. Rainclouds follow her every step. Every time she turns the radio on a song of hollow hearts, acoustic guitars and melancholy lyrics fills the room.

She tried to grow a garden once but only with weeping willow and love-lies-bleeding grew. The roses and forget-me-nots all withered and died. Poor little Melancholia never had any friends for long the all seemed to move away, or suddenly died in a quietly tragic way.

Miss Melancholia is made with cotton, vintage buttons, acrylic wool and scraps of fabric and vintage doilies upcycled into something new and magical. She was grunged up with a lovely smelling mixture of coffee, tea, vanilla and cinnamon. Melancholia will come with her own hand stained and typed story card for you to keep. She is an art doll and not meant for small children to play with due to small buttons. I have listed her in my little etsy shop.

Miss Gertrude on Indie Fixx

Miss Gertrude

My dolls.. or Miss Gertrude got a mention on Indie Fixx yesterday in a post about some fantastic plush makers in the UK. I am quite speechless to be included with some very talented crafters.

Please go have a look here

Miss Gertrude's story can be found here

I'm doodling honest....

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Miss Gertrude the Gatekeeper

Miss Gertrude the Gatekeeper

Miss Gertrude Grey is the Gatekeeper of Greymere Cemetery. Her father the venerable Professor Gideon Grey died leaving poor Gertrude with only the crumbling house filled with books and the skeleton key to the cemetery gates.

Each night she listens to the gears of her father’s collection of clocks waiting for them to toll the hours of the night. After midnight when the fog is thick in the empty streets she ventures out to the Greymere. She stalks the night voluminous skirts whispering against gravestones. From her pocket she withdraws a map of the cemetery each mausoleum and crypt carefully drawn. She follows a winding path, skirts brushing against headstones and crypts until she stood before the stature of a long forgotten lady.

Gertrude removed the skeleton key from around her neck and slipped the key into the intricately carved base of the stature. The key turned and Gertrude listened to gears grinding and turning before a small door slid back. She stepped through into the darkness and down a creaking spiralling stairs deep below the cemetery grounds. At the bottom of the stairs gas lamps flicker to life and Gertrude enters what was once her father’s laboratory. It is filled with rusting hulks of machinery, broken gears and levers, books, and dusty glass bottles filled with strange items and coloured liquids.

Everywhere are scattered notes and drawings in her father’s precise handwriting, piled high on the work bench, pinned up on the wall. Gertrude reaches out to brush her fingers against her father’s notes and the tools gathering dust upon his desk. A ghostly smile crosses her face as she picks up a small heart shaped machine from his desk turning it over and over in her hands looking at it through a golden filigree magnifying glass. She picks up a pair of delicate tweezers and sets to work adjusting the tiny cogs and springs within the apparatus.

Miss Gertrude locks the gates at night of ancient Greymere Cemetery, but when the hours dwindle she spends her nights in her father's secret lab building the machines he never finished and creating new clockwork curiosities.

Gertrude will be listed in my little etsy shop in a few moments.