APH: Rag Doll: Part 2Felicia groans and balances the box on her hip. Her old attic already smelled old and stuffy, and it reeked of mothballs. With a part-time job and two kids, cleaning the attic had been a chore that she had pushed away for years. She was still living in her homeland Italy, with her husband and children. She had shortened her name and kept her hair in a ponytail instead of two braids. She was unrecognizable from the girl she used to be.
She sets the box down and looks around, sizing up the situation. Wading through the enormous boxes, she can already feel the dust sticking to her blouse. Ugh. She was going to take a shower after this for sure. One of the boxes is marked ‘Feliciana’s’. Felicia rolls her eyes and lifts up the lid. Her heart nearly stops.
It’s a finely made rag doll, and it was worked very hard on. The blonde hair is made of yellow felt, with a crescent-shaped curl on the top. Blue button eyes seem to be blinking, and embroidered glasses are etched o
APH: Rag DollFeliciana smiles, her nimble fingers releasing the white ribbon on her birthday present. It was her seventh birthday, and she had received gifts from the entire family and group of friends. She was told to save the green, white, and red one for last, and she didn’t object. Silently, she was itching to know what was inside. The plastic white lid opens easily, and she unwraps the tissue paper, her fingers detecting something soft inside. When the tissue paper is all unwrapped, a little rag doll smiles up at her.
It’s a finely made rag doll, and it was worked very hard on. The blonde hair is made of yellow felt, with a crescent-shaped curl on the top. Blue button eyes seem to be blinking, and embroidered glasses are etched on the doll’s face. The smile is made of yarn, with tiny, red stitches curved in a bright, energetic smile. The felt clothing is very simple- just a brown jacket with a shirt and pants. However, the smile and bright blue eyes are enough for Feliciana t
APH: Hurricane SandyAlfred stares at the crumpled remains of his home. It was torn to shreds, and bits of wood stuck up from bits and pieces. The scene didn’t look…right. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t his country. He looks out towards New York City, where the buildings are covered in thick gray mist. This…wasn’t happening…he sinks down to his knees, buried in the thick, churning blanket of mud. He can already feel the warm water collecting in his eyes, and the drop of water slides down his cheek. With another. And another.
His tears fall, and the rain pounds against his shoulders. Alfred is vulnerable. He knows he’s not a hero. Not if he didn’t save those lives. Not if he had to stare at the remains of this disaster that plagued his country…that plagued him. It wasn’t worth it. The rain drops feel like acid on his skin…his tears feel even worse. Tears. Heroes don’t cry. Heroes buck up and save the world…heroes&