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.

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.

the Ghost Boy

Merle the Ghost Boy

The ghost boy lives in a boarded up shop at the end of a dark twisting ally. Behind a rusty chain, a lock with no key and a door that might once have been green but now is black with age. The shop is filled with books, paper, ink, typewriters, wooden letterpress blocks and archaic machinery. He thinks his name might once have been Merle, or Mervin or maybe Fox. It’s been so long since anyone has ever asked.

The night is filled with the moans, shrieks, and groans of the printing press as the Ghost Boy plays with ink and letterpress blocks. He reads his books, prints stories and posters of fantastical imaginary things. He pins up posters on telephone poles and plasters them on walls. He makes up typography jokes that nobody ever hears. Nobody ever laughs but him.

He walks though the town when the lights are dim and laughs at signs in papyrus, comic sans and arial black. He painstakingly prints graffiti letter by letter onto white painted walls to share the beauty of typography and words. He painstakingly types letters and notes, and slips them into newspapers and books in the library and the bookshops in town. He waits and waits for the books to be opened and his secret notes to be found.

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the Ghost Boy was made with love using scraps of fabric, vintage thread and buttons, he is filled with toy filler. Merle comes with his very own story card. I have listed Merle on etsy, click here or click on the link on the sidebar.

The Owl Girl

*****SOLD*****

The Owl Girl

In day she hides behind the fragile mask of humanity, thick glasses perched on a small nose, dark hair in wild disarray. Eyes on the ground, a quick step and an arm full of books to keep others away.

When the moon rises round and fat, the night creatures sing and Athene sheds the pale mask of humanity and slips from her human skin. Shining feathers burst from pale flesh. She flies screeching into the night, free to hunt and wishing the dawn will never come.

The world turns and night spills across the sky, strings of glittering jewels, necklaces of suns and worlds scattered across unending black.

The sun crests the horizon, golden rays falling on golden eyes and black and white feathers. Athene fights again the change, the slip back into human form. Feathers fly on the wind as her wing shifts to a human arm, bones twisting, breaking.

Fat tears roll down feathery cheeks, but the pain is too much to fight for one small masked owl and she lets her night shape slip away. Bones and feathers and cries of pain and a small dark haired girl is all that remains.

She crawls to the hallow she hid her clothes, dressing quickly in the cool dawn light. Wiping tears from her cold cheeks she slips her glasses on.

Amarantha

Amarantha is on sale in my etsy shop

Amarantha is a tiny little library demon. Books unwanted and unloved have a way of finding themselves in her possession. Sad lonely little books thank have no library, no bedside cabinet, no shelf to call home. Books that weep their sorrows in tears of black ink.

Amarantha dresses in gowns of newspaper and lace, with shining buttons of onyx black and heart’s blood red. She drinks only their bitter ink tears and takes their sorrows away. Amarantha dreams only in black and white. Midnight black and lace white dreams and nightmares of words and stories and book upon book. Reading you will always find her reading and singing to her books.

She loves her books, her charges and hugs them and dusts them to keep them tidy and clean on the black painted shelves in her bespelled library. She will lend you her books, but the price is high, she will keep your soul on hold. And if you are cruel and steal her books and never bring them back, then all the shame on you my friend for you may find yourself a sorrowing book on a black painted shelf in the library of a tiny demoness.

She needs a home that loves books as much as she, and you may find that once she is there that you have books on your shelf that were never there before. And when you go out shopping books will hop in your cart, and you will never leave a bookshop without a sad little book or two. Flea markets, garage sales and boot sales will be the place where you cannot resist the call of the poor little books and their inky tears and cries. For once Amarantha the tiny demoness lives in your home you’re under her spell too.

Amarantha stands about 7 in tall. she is made from cotton, vintage buttons, vintage doily, and yarn. She was stained up with a mixture of coffee, vanilla and cinnamon. She is a primitive style doll and meant for grown up kids, as small children may work her buttons apart. Amarantha comes with pretty card with her story typed on it with a vintage typewriter. She will be wrapped in vintage dress pattern paper.

Thank you for having a look at Amarantha and reading her story. Please convo me with any questions you may have.

Luna the Changeling

Luna the Changeling

Luna is a little changeling faery child. Born beneath a faery mound of the Unseelie kingdom and swapped with a human child. She was unloved by her human mother who left her in the deep forest tied to an oak tree by the lace ribbon round her neck. Mother said stay so Luna did. She crawled beneath the gnarled arms of an oak tree and fell asleep under the moon. Tiny mice nibbled at the lace ribbon tied to the tree as she slept. When she awoke she was free of the binding and surrounded by a faery ring of crimson capped toadstools. Luna crept across the forest floor, drinking dewdrops from the flowers, nibbling on fresh shoots of bottle green grass.

She played with the forest children, tiny fox cubs, wolf pups, fawns, blackbirds and ravens. She spoke the language of the moths, and the language of the bees. The owls gifted her with mice (it would be terrible rude to refuse, owls are very proper you know), bats gave her fat bugs, the squirrels brought nuts, and little blackbirds collected sweet berries to eat. Even the spiders danced on their shining webs to make Luna smile.

Luna the Changeling loved the forest but she was sad, and everywhere she walked among the trees crystalline tears fell from her sad little face, and where each tear touched the earth a pale blue flower grew. Luna cried her sorrow, for despite the creatures of the forest she desperately wants a home. A home with someone to love her, to sing down the moon and carry stars in their pocket.

Tattered little changeling wandering the forest in a dirty dress, and faded lace ribbon tied round her neck singing in the language of the animals. Skipping stones through glassy puddles, dancing in the moonlight, collecting brightly coloured autumn leaves. She sometimes creeps into people’s homes sitting in their chairs pretending she might live there.

would you give Luna a home?

Luna the Changeling is a one of a kind work of art and love. She is a little primitive doll made with vintage buttons, vintage doilies, scraps of fabric, toy stuffing. She has been dyed/grungeified with a mixture of espresso coffee (I’m a coffee snob), vanilla and cinnamon, she smells like autumn days. She is a doll for grow- ups and big children. She is not meant to be played with my small children who might try to eat her button eyes.

Luna the Changeling is now listed on etsy