Doll!Russia x Reader
"An old doll contains memories, and these memories will remain."
She had been warned, many times, to stay away from the attic. Her brothers had told her that nothing was there, that it was dangerous to step around, that there were whispers to drive her insane. In the beginning, she had chosen to believe them, not wanting to be cursed by whispers or killed from falling wood.
Being scared of the attic, however, did not cause her to stop thinking about it. Often, she would lay in bed, staring up at the roof above her, wondering what laid between the drywall and the attic. ___ dreamed of mystical things up there, toys her brothers abandoned, books on old fairy tales, treasured reminders of the old family, before she had been adopted.
Every so often, ___ would catch two of her brother's conversing about the attic,
Anybody Can Write a Novel 2.0
Chapter 7 “Revision” – Section 7 “Editing”
“Words are the coins making up the currency of sentences, and there are always too many small coins.” -Jules Renard
Once you finish with the drafting phase of writing your novel (the process of perfecting the plot elements and making the text mostly perfect through the process of many rewrites), you will reach the editing stage. Editing is the point in the novel-writing process where we begin to fix all of the technical errors and try to make each word, sentence, and paragraph perfect for publication. Ideally, all of the devices in the story (such as plot, characters, progression, etc...) are perfect by this point, and no longer need
spit 'em out or sell 'em as cinema or cemeterial.
i've got these dirty fingernails hooked like cat claws
into my prey-heart through pericardium; i wanna trade
in this light head(ache) to admire snapping bones
or splitting skulls 'cause i can't keep the talk cheap
or the drum-beat outta (always best inside) my mind.
my spine has never meant prowess; i've always been your
favorite migraine, baby: all potential & no promise.
grip napalm nations & i am
parasympathetic. i speak
in cigarettes, more stippled
spinal cord than american
romanticist. sanguinary, pocked,
my pleural cavities leak
prozac pills & -
oh, this body has never
belonged to me.
'til i got sick of talking it out
(then i spat it up & swallowed it instead);
couldn't keep my splitting spine straight,
but i lacked the nerve for stuffing towels
in doorways. oh, my body was empty
vessels - i clawed tissue from
tissue, riven viscera revealed
my leaden bones to haunt this
head(case). i severed my tongue,
amassed my mania
to wake in six
by two or
poets plagued to plucking at their
vulture-veins & (de)compositions.
nobody cares for hell-bound boys
until they pick apart their
bones or brains or
jut them out like funeral pyres.
i'm splitting vessel from vessel,
taxidermists - my head is
rotting to a holy land.