Porcelain Doll Quotes

My eyes widen at the sight of her. This is the girl Boss Man is after? She looks like a porcelain doll…beat three times with an ugly stick.

I am a kaleidoscope of hope and dreams and wonder in the shape of a girl. I am not a porcelain doll. I am not empty. I am worthy. I am enough.

Where was that fragile, golden-fair Dresden doll I used to be? Gone. Gone like porcelain turned into steel-made into someone who would always get what she wanted, no matter who or what stood in her way.

{Calpurnia)"My mother…she’s desperate for a daughter she can dress like a porcelain doll. Sadly, I shall never be such a child. How I long for my sister to come out and distract the countess from my person." He joined her on the bench, asking, "How old is your sister?" "Eight," she said, mournfully. "Ah. Not ideal." "An understatement." She looked up at the star-filled sky. "No, I shall be long on the shelf by the time she makes her debut." "What makes you so certain you’re shelf-bound?" She cast him a sidelong glance. "While I appreciate your chivalry, my lord, your feigned ignorance insults us both." When he failed to reply, she stared down at her hands, and replied, "My choices are rather limited." "How so?" "I seem able to have my pick of the impoverished, the aged, and the deadly dull.

The Ripe Fig Now that You live here in my chest, anywhere we sit is a mountaintop. And those other images, which have enchanted people like porcelain dolls from China, which have made men and women weep for centuries, even those have changed now. What used to be pain is a lovely bench where we can rest under the roses. A left hand has become a right. A dark wall, a window. A cushion in a shoe heel, the leader of the community! Now silence. What we say is poison to some and nourishing to others. What we say is a ripe fig, but not every bird that flies eats figs.

Did you know that bone china had real bones in it?” Poppy said, tapping a porcelain cheek. “Her clay was made from human bones. Little-girl bones. That hair threaded through the scalp is the little girl’s hair. And the body of the doll is filled with her leftover ashes.

The porcelain doll residing in her white-pillared dollhouse was a mirage.

An endless array of teddy bears and stuffed animals, plastic clowns and porcelain dolls, hang on the branches from webby rope. In the human realm, we call them love-worn and threadbare--playthings that were hugged and kissed by a child until the stuffing fell out or the button eyes popped off. Toys that were loved to death.

The sight of Moiraine always made her smile. Cetalia had been wrong in one particular. She was not a pretty little porcelain doll; she was a beautiful little porcelain doll. On the outside, anyway. Inside, where it counted, was another matter. The first time Siuan saw her, she had been sure the Cairhienin girl would crack like a spindle-shell in a matter of days. But Moiraine had turned out to be as tough as she herself if not tougher. No matter how often she was knocked down, she climbed back to her feet straightaway. Moiraine did not know the meaning of 'give up.

The only thing that was likely to cause her distress, thought Sophie in annoyance, was people's constant attempts to keep her wrapped up in cotton wool, as if she was not a real girl at all, but a fragile porcelain doll that could be shattered at any moment.

His first thought – what felt like his first thought ever, it formed so slowly in his brain – was that she looked like a doll. Just like a doll. Her eyes were large and bright and feline; her hair was chestnut, brushed to a hardwood shine, parted sharply and flowing to her thighs; her lips were cupid’s-bow-cute; her head was tilted to one side on a long, long neck. She had skin that had never seen sunlight, and wore no expression at all. He noticed her. And she noticed, and kept on noticing, him. Stanley looked down for a third and longer time. It wasn’t polite to stare. Not at girls. Or anyone. But especially not girls. Not even girls who looked like perfect porcelain dolls.

With plump little cheeks and blond ringlets, she looked like a porcelain doll. A very pissed off and evil porcelain doll.

hair and a pale complexion that would make a vampire jealous. He kind of looked like a porcelain doll. “Has anyone tried to be his friend?” “Actually,

All of the monsters in my head were created by people who thought they could make me a porcelain doll marionette of their own design.

Her mascara ran in streaks down her face lipstick smeared across her alabaster cheeks like a porcelain doll that had been flung around before the paint had dried. ... barely blinking eyes like content little suns poking through dark mascara clouds she is broken yet whole at the same time and she belongs to him (excerpt from "Content" in Make Me Take It From You by HL37)

I run to the water's edge and the cold ocean licks my toes. Without touching my face I can feel that it's wet with fog and tears and sweat. I stand there, on the cusp of the ocean and listen to its loud inhale. And then it recedes and takes everything from my childhood with it the porcelain dolls, the tap-dancing shoes, the concert ticket stubs, the tiny trophies, and the long, long swing.

And yet as pristine as she appeared, her demeanor was not delicate. She was no porcelain doll. She was a distant glacier. Remote, quiet, and yet possessed of great and unknowable activity beneath the surface.

Rourk didn’t even know her name, but he knew he’d never seen anyone so magnificent in his life. Her wavy hair glistened in the sunlight. She had a delicate, round face with large, blue-green eyes and full lips. With her cheeks flushed from the cold fall air, she reminded him of a porcelain doll. He knew that her looks deceived; her bold, daring eyes gave her away. She constantly observed her surroundings. Rourk smiled to himself; soon they would be together.

Moja dziewczynko z porcelany, kiedyś to mi się stłukła? Te białe ptaki to są słowa, którymi czas o okno stuka. Na żółtych kartkach ręce drżą, wzbiera zmarłymi słowikami, gdy w wielkiej lirze huczy bąk jak w wieczór-w śmierć zaplątany

She will never make a good submissive. She's too dainty, and fucking easily bruised. Don't you think I've considered it? She's a trophy wife. I keep her like I would a bloody porcelain doll. Pretty to look at, and great for the portfolio that's all she will ever be good for.

She’s delicate and fragile, like a doll that you’d think would be easy to break. But underneath that porcelain exterior, there’s something more like iron at her core. There’s a hell of a lot more to her than meets the eye, that’s for sure. And even though it’s probably a bad idea, I want to know every fucking thing about her.

Imagine that you are a pair of white gloves, Mama would say, pulling one of her gloves between her hands, too far apart. Any stain that falls on you becomes part of the fabric. No matter how much you wash, you will never be pure white again. And if the stain seems to fade on its own, it’s because it’s sunk into the thread; because it’s gone even deeper.

Louise reminds him of those porcelain dolls he’s seen sitting on shelves in the apartments of old ladies where he has gone to do a favor or do some work. Like those dolls, Louise’s features are almost motionless; sometimes her frozen expression is absolutely beautiful. She has a way of staring into space that makes Hervé want to remind her of his existence.

When I'd first stepped foot into this kitchen five years prior, the entire brigade made fun of my whiter-than-white complexion and teased me, saying they'd expected me to break like a porcelain doll. But I proved to them that I was far from fragile- conquering late nights and early mornings, not to mention all the burns, cuts, and bruises. It wasn't long before they dubbed me Scary Spice, the guys having learned never to drop their pants in front of a woman wielding an oyster knife.

All they could do was flutter their fans and bat their eyes. The matchmaker Mother hired bragged that they were perfect porcelain dolls. What she didn't say was they had no minds of their own." Shang grimaced at the memory without looking at her. "They'd say anything to make me like them." How familiar that sounds. Mulan put her hands on her hips. "Not all girls are like that. You have to look at it from their perspective, too. Girls are raised to be pretty and graceful, and quiet." She made a face. "They aren't allowed to speak their minds, and they don't have a choice in who they marry. My parents were lucky that they fell in love, but their marriage was arranged, too. And my mother, she doesn't even belong to her family anymore after they got married. It wasn't my mother's decision, but her family's. They told her that a woman's only role in life is to bear sons." Shang leaned forward. "You sound quite passionate about this." His closeness made Mulan hunch back. Remembering who she was pretending to be, she felt her cheeks burn. "I just... I mean, I bet there are some girls who'd make better soldiers than boys. If they were given the chance." "A female soldier? That's the craziest thing I've heard." "Girls can be strong, too." "Not like us, Ping." Mulan hid a smile. "You'd be surprised.

The first time I met Dr. Tuttle, she wore a foam neck brace because of a “taxi accident” and was holding an obese tabby, whom she introduced as “my eldest.” She pointed out the tiny yellow envelopes in the waiting room. “When you come in, write your name on an envelope and fold your check inside. Payments go in here,” she said, knocking on the wooden box on the desk in her office. It was the kind of box they have in churches for accepting donations for candles. The fainting couch in her office was covered in cat fur and piled on one end with little antique dolls with chipped porcelain faces. On her desk were half-eaten granola bars and stacked Tupperware containers of grapes and cut-up melon, a mammoth old computer, more National Geographic magazines.

The room was two-tiered, its marble balconies filled with rams and water nymphs in fancy dress; a kaleidoscope of colours swayed in time to the beat of hypnotic music. A concerto of absent musicians, it played only in her mind. The numerous chandeliers with sculptured metal frames hung down from chains, with endless fireflies attached. At the far end stretched a grand staircase, dressed with a plush velvet carpet in deep cerise, and ceiling paintings edged with gold embossed dado rails clung to the walls. Then Eve honed in on herself and saw that she wore a crushed white taffeta A-line gown that fit her trim figure like a glove. Her butterfly mask with floral patterns embroidered in red and gold silk sat against her pale skin, her reflection like that of a porcelain doll. A matching shawl rested softly on her shoulders. Everything was so beautiful that she almost totally lost herself in the mirror’s reflection." (little snippet from our book)

Matthews quietly stood by the closed door, watching the patient. Her dramatic eyes darted back and forth as they stared through nothingness, lost in thought. His gaze shifted to her blazing locks, which elegantly fell upon her bare shoulders. Her skin was a pure porcelain that reminded him of his mother’s doll collection. Bridget’s petite frame and angelic complexion were stunning, and in another world, Matthews would have allowed himself to fall for her at first sight. He imagined seeing her in a bookstore with a specialty coffee in one hand and Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil in another. She would push her frames up her nose with her index finger before flipping the page and sipping her latte. Matthews, free of his work uniform, would sit in a chair across from her with his copy of The Metamorphosis. The young man would steal glances at her from behind his novel as he worked up the courage to speak to her. She would smile coyly when she caught him peeking, and when they finally made eye contact, he would strike up a conversation. Then he would take her to dinner, and everything else would fall into place.

We turned off the path then, following a line of red, cup-shaped wildflowers that I had not seen before. And then abruptly, we came to a door-- an actual door, because the Folk are maddeningly inconsistent, even when it comes to their inconsistencies--- tucked into a little hollow. It was only about two feet tall and painted to look like the mountainside, a scene of grey-brown scree with a few splashes of green, so realistic that it was like a reflection on still water. The only thing that gave it away was the doorknob, which looked like nothing that I can put into human terms; the best I can do is compare it to a billow of fog trapped in a shard of ice. "It has the look of a brownie house," Wendell said. "But perhaps I should make sure." He shoved the door open and vanished into the shadows within--- I cannot relate how he accomplished this; it seemed for a moment as if the door grew to fit him, but I was unable to get a handle on the mechanics as not one second later he was racing out again and the door had shrunk to its old proportions. Several porcelain cups and saucers followed in his wake, about the right size for a doll, and one made contact, smashing against his shoulder. Behind the hail of pottery came a little faerie who barely came up to my knee, wrapped so tightly in what looked like a bathrobe made of snow that I could see only its enormous black eyes. Upon its head it wore a white sleeping cap. It was brandishing a frying pan and shouting something--- I think--- but its voice was so small that I could only pick out the odd word. It was some dialect of Faie that I could not understand, but as the largest difference between High Faie and the faerie dialects lies in the profanities, the sentiment was clear. "Good Lord!" Rose said, leaping out of range of the onslaught. "I don't--- what on--- would you stop?" Wendell cried, shielding himself with his arm. "Yes, all right, I should have knocked, but is this really necessary?" The faerie kept on shrieking, and then it launched the frying pan at Wendell's head--- he ducked--- and slammed its door. Rose and I stared at each other. Ariadne looked blankly from Wendell to the door, clutching her scarf with both hands. "Bloody Winter Folk," Wendell said, brushing ceramic shards from his cloak. "Winter Folk?" I repeated. "Guardians of the seasons--- or anyway, that is how they see themselves," he said sourly. "Really I think they just want a romantic excuse to go about blasting people with frost and zephyrs and such. It seems I woke him earlier than he desired." I had never heard of such a categorization, but as I was somewhat numb with surprise, I filed the information away rather than questioning him further. I fear that working with one of the Folk is slowly turning my mind into an attic of half-forgotten scholarly treasures.

Father will bury us with both hands. He boasts of me to his so-called friends, telling them I’m the next queen of this kingdom. I don’t think he’s ever paid so much attention to me before, and even now, it is minuscule, not for my own benefit. He pretends to love me now because of another, because of Tibe. Only when someone else sees worth in me does he condescend to do the same. Because of her father, she dreamed of a Queenstrial she did not win, of being cast aside and returned to the old estate. Once there, she was made to sleep in the family tomb, beside the still, bare body of her uncle. When the corpse twitched, hands reaching for her throat, she would wake, drenched in sweat, unable to sleep for the rest of the night. Julian and Sara think me weak, fragile, a porcelain doll who will shatter if touched, she wrote. Worst of all, I’m beginning to believe them. Am I really so frail? So useless? Surely I can be of some help somehow, if Julian would only ask? Are Jessamine’s lessons the best I can do? What am I becoming in this place? I doubt I even remember how to replace a lightbulb. I am not someone I recognize. Is this what growing up means? Because of Julian, she dreamed of being in a beautiful room. But every door was locked, every window shut, with nothing and no one to keep her company. Not even books. Nothing to upset her. And always, the room would become a birdcage with gilded bars. It would shrink and shrink until it cut her skin, waking her up. I am not the monster the gossips think me to be. I’ve done nothing, manipulated no one. I haven’t even attempted to use my ability in months, since Julian has no more time to teach me. But they don’t believe that. I see how they look at me, even the whispers of House Merandus. Even Elara. I have not heard her in my head since the banquet, when her sneers drove me to Tibe. Perhaps that taught her better than to meddle. Or maybe she is afraid of looking into my eyes and hearing my voice, as if I’m some kind of match for her razored whispers. I am not, of course. I am hopelessly undefended against people like her. Perhaps I should thank whoever started the rumor. It keeps predators like her from making me prey. Because of Elara, she dreamed of ice-blue eyes following her every move, watching as she donned a crown. People bowed under her gaze and sneered when she turned away, plotting against their newly made queen. They feared her and hated her in equal measure, each one a wolf waiting for her to be revealed as a lamb. She sang in the dream, a wordless song that did nothing but double their bloodlust. Sometimes they killed her, sometimes they ignored her, sometimes they put her in a cell. All three wrenched her from sleep. Today Tibe said he loves me, that he wants to marry me. I do not believe him. Why would he want such a thing? I am no one of consequence. No great beauty or intellect, no strength or power to aid his reign. I bring nothing to him but worry and weight. He needs someone strong at his side, a person who laughs at the gossips and overcomes her own doubts. Tibe is as weak as I am, a lonely boy without a path of his own. I will only make things worse. I will only bring him pain. How can I do that? Because of Tibe, she dreamed of leaving court for good. Like Julian wanted to do, to keep Sara from staying behind. The locations varied with the changing nights. She ran to Delphie or Harbor Bay or Piedmont or even the Lakelands, each one painted in shades of black and gray. Shadow cities to swallow her up and hide her from the prince and the crown he offered. But they frightened her too. And they were always empty, even of ghosts. In these dreams, she ended up alone. From these dreams, she woke quietly, in the morning, with dried tears and an aching heart.

I once worked in a doll factory. First they make the soft cloth body and then they sew in the delicate porcelain feet and hands. The hair goes on after the faces have been painted and attached. Afterwards they clothe it, and it is ready. If you think about it, we’re the same. Step by step we are being refined. All of us are at different stages of perfection. Are you better than your friend because she has not yet her hair and you do? Don’t ever despise or judge anyone. The condition of being human is hard, but here’s the really nice bit – no one ever falls by the wayside. All will make it to perfection. God doesn’t love me any better than he does you or her. We are all his children.

And then I spy something new in her. A loneliness. It makes her look so fragile, like a porcelain doll dangling over a marble floor. She’s always been dangling there too, terrified that one day she’ll fall and shatter.

She looks like a demented porcelain doll, one that will slit your throat and microwave your puppy when your back is turned. The truth of her is even worse.

She needed to be strong. No she needed to be cold, like an unfeeling doll. Porcelain limbs couldn't tremble, and a heart made of plastic couldn't ache this terribly. It couldn't break. It couldn't bleed.

With her honey hair and perfect posture, she had that porcelain-doll fragility that most men wanted...as if she might shatter if someone so much as touched her. In his youth, he'd been certain he wanted that sort of woman: the kind he could protect, the kind that made him feel like a man. But years on the battlefield had taught him to appreciate a woman who could stand at his side and hold her own with enemy, who has some flesh on her bones and some fire in her eyes.

She came over and tried to comfort him. However, he lost the reason in the moment of rage and completely lost control of himself. He just flung up his sleeve and threw the child out like a doll; by the time his mind realized what he has done and tried to rush and protect her, it was too late. He watched helplessly as she bumped into the stone wall like a broken porcelain doll. How did this happen?! At that moment, the teenager who had been sitting for many days, finally jumped up in surprise, ran to her and picked her up, then rushed out of the cave with the dying child in his arms; jumped onto the divine bird, and flew desperately to Menghua Peak in the northwest, completely forgetting the anger and hatred that engulfed his heart a moment ago.

If Kilgore really got to know him, he’d see Ambrose for his true self: a heartless porcelain doll, beautiful on the outside, but hollow within, splintered with well-hidden cracks.

Dark hair, porcelain skin. The Devil’s Doll. They never declared that’s what they thought of me, but their eyes of subtle disapproval screamed the unintended label.

I would remember her hair first: frozen solid and dark red with blood, matted with twigs and dirt. A bloody gash split her head, and yet her expression was calm and serene, as if she were asleep, her pale skin glittering unnaturally as sunlight reflected off the tiny flakes of ice, like a shattered porcelain doll.

I needed to see how quickly life went out. One moment everything, the next nothing. And there was nothing, afterwards. But I knew that already. I'd look at the porcelain dolls and the glass swans on the mantlepiece that Mam left behind and wait for them to tell me something. But they never did. Not even if I held them in my hand and closed my eyes. The dead were dead. That was why, the Devil said, I shouldn't waste the time I had while I was alive.

was short. He had wavy black hair and a pale complexion that would make a vampire jealous. He kind of looked like a porcelain doll. “Has anyone tried to be his friend?” “Actually, yes. I tried talking to him last year, but he wouldn’t hear any of it,” she sighed.

Queen Sesri could not have been older than thirteen, at most. Her round cheeks were completely still, enormous eyes unblinking, giving her the appearance of a porcelain doll. Her dress overwhelmed her tiny frame, swaddling her in layers upon layers of chiffon and gossamer. Beside her stood a Valtain man dressed in a fine but simple white suit. He stopped just behind her, flicking a plait of neat silver hair over his shoulder and regarding the crowd with flat stoicism.

If there is a God, they spent centuries crafting creatures until they carved perfection with her. Gold eyes that drag me to hell, and a delicate face like a porcelain doll. The way I want to smear my cum all over it to mess her up almost had me dragging her back into my apartment this morning.

Gone the glitter and glamour; gone the pompous wealth beside naked starvation; gone the strange excitement of a polyglot and many-sided city; gone the island of Western civilization flourishing in the vast slum that was Shanghai. Good-by to all that: the well-dressed Chinese in their chauffeured cars behind bullet-proof glass; the gangsters, the shakedowns, the kid­napers; the exclusive foreign clubs, the men in white dinner jackets, their women beautifully gowned; the white-coated Chinese “boys” ob­sequiously waiting to be tipped; Jimmy’s Kitchen with its good Amer­ican coffee, hamburgers, chili and sirloin steaks. Good-by to all the night life: the gilded singing girl in her enameled hair-do, her stage make-up, her tight-fitting gown with its slit skirt breaking at the silk­ clad hip, and her polished ebony and silver-trimmed rickshaw with its crown of lights; the hundred dance halls and the thousands of taxi dolls; the opium dens and gambling halls; the flashing lights of the great restaurants, the clatter of mah-jongg pieces, the yells of Chinese feasting and playing the finger game for bottoms-up drinking; the sailors in their smelly bars and friendly brothels on Szechuan Road; the myriad short-time whores and pimps busily darting in and out of the alleyways; the display signs of foreign business, the innumerable shops spilling with silks, jades, embroideries, porcelains and all the wares of the East; the generations of foreign families who called Shanghai home and lived quiet conservative lives in their tiny vacuum untouched by China; the beggars on every downtown block and the scabby infants urinating or defecating on the curb while mendicant mothers absently scratched for lice; the “honey carts” hauling the night soil through the streets; the blocks-long funerals, the white-clad professional mourners weeping false tears, the tiers of paper palaces and paper money burned on the rich man’s tomb; the jungle free-for- all struggle for gold or survival and the day’s toll of unwanted infants and suicides floating in the canals; the knotted rickshaws with their owners fighting each other for customers and arguing fares; the peddlers and their plaintive cries; the armored white ships on the Whangpoo, “protecting foreign lives and property”; the Japanese conquerors and their American and Kuomintang successors; gone the wickedest and most colorful city of the old Orient: good-by to all that.

You are sculpting yourself. Of course it's painful. Carving every detail you want in your life into the tender fabrics of your own existence. Your body, your mind, your business, your home. Is it not beautiful? How there are those of us that are willing to bear insufferable pain, all to achieve their highest form. And then there's the rest of the world, fragile creatures, porcelain dolls, the unscuplted masses. All too scared to bear the burden. Pain is the seed of power. If you can not tolerate it, you should not compete with those who will.

she looked like a porcelain doll. A very pissed off and evil porcelain doll.

I think you mean she terrifies you,” I corrected. “She’s a little old lady,” Brian scoffed. “She’s harmless.” I arched a challenging eyebrow. “This town is rich on rumors,” I supplied. “One woman – the one who owns that porcelain unicorn store – told me that Tillie Winchester sacrifices goats and can read minds. “One of those freaky red-haired twins – the ones who look like real-life Chucky dolls – told me that Aunt Tillie told him she would curse his tongue to fall out if he ever called her a witch again,” I continued. “And that woman who sells caramel apples at the fairs? Yeah, she told me that all the Winchesters dance naked under every full moon and cast spells to make sure the town stays prosperous.

Pediophobia, as this fear is scientifically named, can range from modern Barbie and Bratz dolls all the way to porcelain and antique dolls. Some only have a fear of one kind of doll, others

I am walking home from school slowly, playing a game in which it's forbidden to step on the cracks between the slabstone squares of the pavement. The sun is playing its game of lines and shadows. Nothing happens. There is nothing but this moment, in which I am walking toward home, walking in time. But suddenly, time pierces me with its sadness. This moment will not last. With every step I take, a sliver of time vanishes. Soon, I'll be home, and then this, this nowness will be the past, I think, and time seems to escape behind me, like an invisible current being sucked into an invisible vortex. How can this be, that this fullness, this me on the street, this moment which is perfectly abundant, will be gone? It's like that time I broke a large porcelain doll and no matter how much I wished it back to wholeness, it lay there on the floor in pieces. I can't do anything about this backward tug either. How many moments do I have in life? I hear my own breathing: with every breath, I am closer to death. I slow down my steps: I'm not home yet, but soon I will be, now I am much closer, but not yet… not yet… not yet… Remember this, I command myself, as if that way I could make some of it stay. When you're grown up, you'll remember this. And you'll remember how you told yourself to remember.

Blood from bone, skin from earth it walks, feet to stone.   Darkness brutal, darkness fair it waits, eyes to soul.   Words intoned, fire in hand it drinks, marrow from bone.   At its feet, I lay sprawled crooked, broken doll it licks, I stare. Red teeth-marks, pattern porcelain skin laid bare.   Darkness brutal, darkness fair at last payment for my sin.   ~ scrawled on a napkin stuffed into Mom’s grimoire ~

Dad said I had no respect for money and that if I didn't learn when I was little when was I going to learn? Kids who get Bart Simpson dolls at the drop of a hat turn into punks who steal from convenience stores, ‘cos they wind up thinking they can have whatever they want, just like that. So instead of a Bart doll he bought me an ugly porcelain pig with a slot in its back, and now I'll grow up to be okay, now I won't turn into a punk.

In another dark corner, they found an ancient looking porcelain doll, its face cracked and chipped, the many petticoats of its dress grey and tattered, like cobwebs. “Well,” Henry observed lightly, after they had all stared at if for a while. “That’s not the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen, honest.” “Could be creepier,” Robin reasoned. “Could be a clown doll.” They

stand there, on the cusp of the ocean and listen to its loud inhale. And then it recedes and takes everything from my childhood with it—the porcelain dolls, the tap-dancing shoes, the concert ticket stubs, the tiny trophies, and the long, long swing.

In my dreams I hear their voices, those young boys who were already cruel when they chased me through the schoolyard yelling, Chink, Chink, Chinabug. It's no wonder that so many of them have grown up to be the kind of men they are. Their voices may have deepened, their hair thinned or turned gray, their bellies softened and grown larger, but their hearts and minds remain as hard as stone, impenetrable. They are still those small-minded boys who tormented me. To them, I'll always be foreign--a porcelain China doll, or a fire-breathing dragon lady, neither of which belongs in their world. I had such high hopes for them. I thought they might know better as grown-ups and realize that there are more ways than one to view the world.

She’s doll-like with those porcelain features. Bait to the little devil that lies within me.

He snorts. “You look like a creepy porcelain doll, and you act like an eighty-year-old with hemorrhoids.

Take classes, become a potter, or a gardener, or a blacksmith. Fill the shelves up with pictures, or books, or those creepy porcelain dolls. Try a thousand things and hate them all until you love something. And then tell me about it.

Photosynthesis by Skylar Stone Backroads Are never paved by a girl like me Can’t be seen No emerald But the leaving I’ve seen Still lies right before me I’m a spoonful of polish Just blind trust turned faithless But my world doesn’t matter here And my porcelain life is behind me I found peace in these clashin’ chairs Never knew such a small life could free me In the pines, by the water In the arms of another Little hands with big hearts find me And I find peace My life Is tailored to fit just so Never chosen Then you came Set fire to the lies I honed Now I’m hoping The future is perfect, Strip me down to human But my world doesn’t matter here And my porcelain life is behind me I found peace in the calmer air In the simplicity of a new dream In the pines, by the water In the arms of a lover Little hands with big hearts find me And I find peace Breathing in until my lungs cry It’s like I’m forced here, trapped in two lives Oh, the peace I’ve found Or my old doll house Breathing out the love you’ve shown me Got a bird’s eye view of healing Found in innocence Photosynthesis ‘Cause my world doesn’t matter here I left that version of me in the city I found home in a broken glass I found home in the words that he gave me In the pines, by the water In the arms of a lover Little hands with big hearts find me And I find peace

I lean my head back against the couch, imagining that porcelain skin, those red, trembling lips, the natural curves of her supple breasts. I pretend the woman touching me is the innocent beauty about to fall to her desires. A groan leaves my lips as I envision the dark-haired doll I’ve become obsessed with twisting her soft hands around my hardening cock.

She’s wearing that goddamn crucifix again. How badly I want to rip that from her delicate little neck, cutting into her flesh in the process, just to see the bright red blood leak from her perfect porcelain skin. My beautiful little doll.

A small girl steps into the street as I approach a cluster battered tents. She clutches a black porcelain doll to her chest, its painted face and silk dress the only mark of the girls heritage.

New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day are usually huge celebrations in Bulgaria. People traditionally dine out at fine restaurants, where they are entertained by popular artists or host parties at their homes. Gabby decided to invite her friends to the restaurant where she was working that night. That way, they could add a modern spin to old traditions. This was one of the downfalls of being a hospitality worker—working during holidays. After Gabby’s shift ended, long after midnight, all three of them roamed the festive streets of New York. The crisp air was filled with music and good cheer. People were dancing in the streets; the three amigos joined them, dancing, laughing, and having a great time. " The Porcelain Doll, Part IV, Chapter 4 Holidays

You're very lucky Clara", they said. I didn't feel lucky. When I was little, luck was finding something you thought was lost for good, or winning a porcelain doll at the county fair, or getting a new hat, or having every dance filled on your dance card. Good luck made you feel kissed by heaven and smiled upon by the fates. Good luck made you feel giddy and invincible. Good luck didn't leave you desperately needing a place that was forever in-between yesterday and tomorrow.

I don’t look like a porcelain doll, but I was never convinced that was a hugely desirable look anyway, and apparently neither is the rest of the world.

They won’t treat you like an abandoned porcelain doll; they won’t tape up your imperfections and repaint over your scars.

Amelia was a porcelain doll inside a suit of armor. As indestructible as she appeared, she was designed to shatter.

Only Lord Inari can tell us apart unless we deliberately intend people to know. How do you know I'm Enzo, not Ezra?” “Uh, I dunno. You were introduced as Enzo, and I remembered.” She was always going to mentally call them the porcelain dolls because of that enviable skin she noticed the first time they met. “Our own mother mixes us up!” He hissed coldly. Harper straightened her shoulders. The need to snap back threw her manners to the wind. “Oi, no need to get pissy with me, mate. All I did was get your name right!

Your value increases and decreases depending on the location, as well as the supply and demand levels of the geographic market. We may feel like hot property in a place like the Netherlands given the rule of scarcity, while it's a lot harder to navigate the Asian market whose demand is skewed toward petite dolls with porcelain skin.

The bed was king-sized, with a thick mattress and a blood-red canopy that matched both the duvet covering the bed and the curtains covering the window. When Frederick laid me down on the mattress, as carefully as he might handle a porcelain doll, I realized the red duvet cover was made of velvet. This part is a bit cliché, I thought, running my fingers over the impossibly soft material. Right from Interview with the Vampire. But my body was alight with anticipation and nerves, and the tender, heated way he was looking at me as he stood at the foot of the bed made it almost impossible to think clearly. Constructive feedback on his bedroom stylings could wait.

Vague smiles painted on their faces like the hardened gaze of porcelain dolls.

the next seconds swelled, slowed, filled with a tension that pressed through me. And then, in that close stillness, the creature awoke. The eyes fluttered open and for ten seconds, perhaps twenty, I watched as the doll twitched to life. But just as the force swelled, it overwhelmed the creature. I began to move about in a most terrifying manner, its eyes shifting around the room in a crazed fashion. The rabbi put a hand over the doll's face, spoke the words again, and life left the doll....I stared at all of this, astonished, too terrified to speak and yet too fascinated to run. "We can make the golem live," Jakob said. "But we need a strong shell. a better shell. One made of porcelain." The rabbi met my eye, and I understood at last what they wanted of me..

Kneeling down next to an article of clothing, Kevin looked up to see Christine a few feet away, gathering up one of her extravagant lolita dresses. Looking at her like this, the girl really did look cute, like a fragile porcelain doll. As he continued to watch her, his eyes landed on the black choker around her neck. “Isn’t that the choker that I bought you for your birthday a while back?” Kevin asked. Christine paused in her work. Her hand went to her choker. “A-ah, um, yes, it is. I… well, this is my… my favorite choker, so I like to wear it a lot…” Christine’s cheeks flushed once more, but she at least didn’t seem to be blowing her top. “After you, Iris, and Lilian left, I was really lonely. I hadn’t realized how important all of you were to me until you were gone. Ever since that day, ever since you three went off to Greece, I’ve taken to wearing this, because it reminded me of all the good times we’ve shared together.” That was probably the most honest thing he’d ever heard Christine say since she’d confessed her feelings for him. He’d noticed it before, but Christine really was a tsundere. She rarely ever told anyone what she was really thinking, and she covered up her embarrassment with bluster and violence. Moments like this were rare for her. He could count the number of times where she’d been honest with her feelings on one hand and still have fingers left over. “I’m sorry we left you like that,” Kevin apologized. Christine shook her head. “You don’t need to apologize. I know that you didn’t have much of a choice. Had you not left, then…” Then he, Lilian, and Iris would have put everyone in danger. Back then, Lilian had been targeted by the Shénshèng Clan. One of its members, a three-tailed kitsune named Fan had attacked them during Lindsay’s soccer game. Iris had nearly been killed and Kevin had destroyed an entire school building just to defeat Fan. Christine had been there when it happened, so she understood why they had to leave. “Thank you for being so understanding,” he said. Christine quickly turned her back to him. “T-there’s no need to thank me. We’re friends. I-I was only doing what any good friend would do.” Tsundere until the end, Kevin thought with an amused chuckle. “Then, Christine, I’m very glad that you’re my friend.” Christine squeaked. As she sputtered incoherently, Kevin finally grabbed the article that he’d been kneeling over. Blinking when he realized that it felt different than everything else that he’d picked up thus far, he held the article up to study it. “What is this…?” He trailed off. The object in his hands… was Christine’s panties. “Uh…” Kevin could hear his brain sizzling. “W-what are you doing, idiot!? Don’t stare at those!” Christine leapt at him, and Kevin, too shocked by the object in his hands to do anything, let her tackle him to the ground. The panties were thrown from his hands as his back slammed into the floor. Spots appeared in his vision, but they were soon replaced by Christine’s face, which hovered not two inches from his own. Their noses were almost touching. “C-Christine?” He felt his eyes widen as Christine’s face inched a little closer to his. This was bad. This was a very bad situation. Christine was straddling him, and he could feel her thighs touching him, and her body was pressed against him, and… and… Oh, no… Perhaps it was the result of him still being horny because Christine had interrupted him and Lilian while they were having sex, but Kevin felt his arousal skyrocket. Christine felt it, too, because her eyes went even wider and she looked down. He also looked down. Then he looked back up. Their eyes met. Christine’s face was the brightest blue that he’d ever seen. “I can explain this,” Kevin said calmly. “KYA!” The sound of Christine’s scream was followed by a loud slap.

During our own requisite holidays at the great house, we spent hours chasing Dev through rooms big as skating rinks packed with costly breakables, which we weren’t allowed to move out of kid reach. A sofa lined with antique dolls stared at Dev with insouciant porcelain faces he squirmed in my arms to get at. Once, from exhausted spite, I let him smash one. As for Mr. Whitbread, he seemed to eye Dev’s festive ramblings as he might have a cockroach’s. He once made the boy cry by calling him—beyond my earshot, of course—an ignorant little crud. Dev’s teary response, which Warren reported—You’re a big fat man with a red nose—proved Dev had enough Texan in him to take the patriarch in a verbal tussle.

If only the three of you could see yourselves. It’s very sweet of you to treat me like I’m a fragile porcelain doll, especially when I feel a bit like one, but Mikhail is in me, as I am in him. I feel what he feels and know his thoughts, although he tries to keep them from me.” She leaned over to kiss his blue-shadowed jaw. “I love you for trying to protect me, but I’m not weak. I simply have to come to terms with the human bonds my mind puts on me. None of you can do it for me. I have to do it myself.

Much of what I had was handed down to me from others. The fact that I was now the oldest child, since my sister had died, put me first in line for toys. Not that the toys and clothing I acquired were necessarily new, nor were they gender specific, but they were newer when I got them, than later, when they were passed farther down the line. It didn’t matter that my sister was a girl…. A coat was a coat, except for how it was buttoned. Looking at old photographs, I sometimes find it impossible to tell if I am looking at my sister or me. It’s only when I see my nautical blue coat, with miniature petty officer chevrons on it that I’m certain that I’m looking at myself. As a baby, I wore her gowns and sleepwear, and this continued until they were worn out, or I outgrew them. Of course I inherited most of her toys, including a plunger type metal top and her beautiful, porcelain dolls. I don’t believe that these dolls were ever for play. They were beautiful enough to have been collectors’ items, but in my hands, they were doomed.

I am not a porcelain doll. I am not empty. I am worthy. I am enough.

You know, I’m not a porcelain doll. I won’t break because I see something I shouldn’t. I’ve chased serial killers before.” She smiled at him, her eyes sad. He shackled her wrist in an unbreakable grip. “And it almost destroyed you. Not this time.” Her lashes swept down, hiding her expression. “That’s not your decision.” If others persuaded him to use his talents to chase the insane, evil killers in the world, she would not leave him alone. How could she? “You are not nearly as afraid of me as you should be,” he growled. She flashed him another smile, tugging at her wrist to remind him to release her. “I think you know what’s between us would be worth nothing if you forced me to do your will in everything.

Mikhail felt at a loss. He could not fail her again, yet the work they needed to do was imperative. His plan had been to keep Raven somewhere safe in a deep sleep. He would have forced her to accept his blood without her knowledge. “Perhaps a walk would help,” Jacques suggested. He stepped back in an effort to induce her to stand. Raven’s gaze clung to Mikhail’s for a long, slow moment. Her smile was genuine this time, reaching her eyes and lighting them for the first time. “If only the three of you could see yourselves. It’s very sweet of you to treat me like I’m a fragile porcelain doll, especially when I feel a bit like one, but Mikhail is in me, as I am in him. I feel what he feels and know his thoughts, although he tries to keep them from me.

If only the three of you could see yourselves. It’s very sweet of you to treat me like I’m a fragile porcelain doll, especially when I feel a bit like one, but Mikhail is in me, as I am in him. I feel what he feels and know his thoughts, although he tries to keep them from me.” She leaned over to kiss his blue-shadowed jaw. “I love you for trying to protect me, but I’m not weak. I simply have to come to terms with the human bonds my mind puts on me. None of you can do it for me. I have to do it myself.” Gregori’s slashing gaze fastened on Mikhail’s face. Her state of mind is extremely fragile, old friend. She is trying to assimilate everything that has happened and make sense of it, but it has all happened too fast. The continuation of our species could very much lie with her. Mikhail nodded slightly indicating his awareness of the situation. You cannot allow her to suffer this way. Free will is important to her, Gregori. I will not take that from her unless there is no other way.

Love didn’t exist for girls like me. We were filthy and disgusting. We were broken and dysfunctional at best. But Royce kissed me like I was perfect. Like I was some dusty porcelain doll that just needed a little care to shine again.

Perhaps we shouldn’t see each other for a few days. I’ve never been so tired in my life.” She tried to give him a gracious way out. Raven looked down at her hands. She wanted to give herself an out, too. She had never felt so close to anyone, so comfortable, as if she had known him forever, yet was terrified that he would take her over. “And I don’t think your family was thrilled to see an American with you. We’re too…explosive together,” she finished ruefully. “Do not try to leave me, Raven.” The car drew up in front of the inn. “I hold what is mine, and make no mistake, you are mine.” It was both a warning and a plea. He had no time for soft words. He wanted to give pretty words to her--God knew she deserved them--but the others were waiting, and his responsibilities weighed heavily on him. She raised her hand to the line of his jaw, rubbing gently. “You’re so used to having your own way.” There was a smile in her voice. “I can go to sleep all by myself, Mikhail. I’ve been doing it for years.” “You need to sleep untroubled, undisturbed, deeply. What you saw tonight will haunt you if I do not help you.” His thumb stroked across her lower lip. “I could remove the memory if you wished.” Raven could see he wanted to do it, believed that it would be best for her. She could see it was difficult to ask her to make a decision. “No thank you, Mikhail,” she murmured demurely. “I think I’ll keep all my memories, good and bad.” She kissed his chin, slid across the seat to the door. “You know, I’m not a porcelain doll. I won’t break because I see something I shouldn’t. I’ve chased serial killers before.” She smiled at him, her eyes sad. He shackled her wrist in an unbreakable grip. “And it almost destroyed you. Not this time.” Her lashes swept down, hiding her expression. “That’s not your decision.” If others persuaded him to use his talents to chase the insane, evil killers in the world, she would not leave him alone. How could she? “You are not nearly as afraid of me as you should be,” he growled. She flashed him another smile, tugging at her wrist to remind him to release her. “I think you know what’s between us would be worth nothing if you forced me to do your will in everything.

You need to sleep untroubled, undisturbed, deeply. What you saw tonight will haunt you if I do not help you.” His thumb stroked across her lower lip. “I could remove the memory if you wished.” Raven could see he wanted to do it, believed that it would be best for her. She could see it was difficult to ask her to make a decision. “No thank you, Mikhail,” she murmured demurely. “I think I’ll keep all my memories, good and bad.” She kissed his chin, slid across the seat to the door. “You know, I’m not a porcelain doll. I won’t break because I see something I shouldn’t. I’ve chased serial killers before.” She smiled at him, her eyes sad. He shackled her wrist in an unbreakable grip. “And it almost destroyed you. Not this time.” Her lashes swept down, hiding her expression. “That’s not your decision.” If others persuaded him to use his talents to chase the insane, evil killers in the world, she would not leave him alone. How could she? “You are not nearly as afraid of me as you should be,” he growled.

A formless blob begins to morph and then evolves into a humanoid shape. A male body is revealed to her. A twenty-year-old man that looks a bit older than her, but no more than a few years at most. He has pale skin but a tan pigmentation to his dermal membrane, similarly to those who have descended from Hispanic or Spanish heritage. His eyes are heterochromatic, gleaming like gems in this uncanny realm. Identical to the eyes of her beloved cat: one shines with the radiance of a sapphire, while the other glows with a fiery dissimilarity, resembling a diametrical ruby. Somehow, though different in color, the blankness of his eyes are far from antithetical to the pair that were painted in the picture of her dream from days ago, that seemed to have come right out of a Dalí painting. Invoking the memory of the dead-eyed stare that continually to haunts her. He is very handsome with a large forehead, and slick ebony hair. His eyebrows are incredibly expressive, as if they were sketched on with a pencil. And he had a teardrop mole underneath his right eye. He had long eyelashes and a porcelain doll mouth. He is adorned in all white: a long-sleeved white sweater with white pants and a pair of white combat boots. Although he has manifested himself in such a beautiful form, Juniper doesn't feel any attraction towards him. When she blushes, it is only from humiliation. Their eyes are locked together in an encumbrance of space-time.

You haven’t shown me the whole house,” I say, watching the tension ease from Jack’s shoulders as my words settle in. “What if you have a collection of porcelain dolls? I hate those things.

Louise felt like they'd burrowed into an enormous mountain of dolls. Shelf after shelf of them, up the walls, reaching the ceiling, a wall of tiny bonnets and straw hats and puckered red lips and shiny porcelain faces and clown faces and baby-doll faces, all staring straight ahead with empty, glass eyes. They were lined up along the base of the wall. They were piled up in corners.... old country dolls with dried-apple faces, sock monkeys, one-eyed teddy bears, grimy old dolls and crisp new dolls and charred, burned, and scarred dolls... Barb tiptoed nimbly between everyone... I know what you're thinking, she said. I've got a storage unit where I keep the cursed ones. I'm not going to sleep in a house surrounded by cursed dolls. That's crazy!....

He always felt like he needed to protect me like I’m some fragile porcelain doll.

We treat the past as this precious porcelain doll, meant to be preserved, unblemished. Our view of the past isn’t designed to be a doll kept untouched on a shelf.