That doll.

    Once when I was a little girl, I was walking downtown with my father, when I found a doll on the side of the road. I couldn't just leave a perfectly good doll lying on the street, so I picked it up. When my father noticed, he told me to put the filthy thing in the trash. This was a horrific idea to me! Why would you throw out a perfectly good doll?! I didn't understand why it was on the ground in the first place. 


   "Where's the doll's mommy?" I asked my father, eyes wide with curiosity. 
   "I have no idea, Koryanne. Just throw it out; it's no good anymore." My father replied sternly. 
   "But what happened to the mommy? A little girl would never put a perfectly good doll on the street."


   Eventually, I gave up. I can't quite recall the exact dialogue, but somehow that doll ended up in the trash bin, where it belonged. But I never forgot that doll. For weeks my mind would wander to the blonde ringlets, the painted lashes, and the serene looking face of that doll. I couldn't help but wonder what that doll's story was. What was her name? What lead to her being abandoned on the street? Why wasn't I allowed to adopt her?


   Years later, still, nothing irks me more than abandoned toys left on streets. Especially lonely, desolate streets. It's the type of thing that sends shivers down my spine, and provokes mental images of children crying in dimly lit rooms. And still, after all these years, I have the childish habit of analyzing the abandoned toys. Wondering who the child that it belonged to is, and why they would have left their toy on the road.

*Note*
There is no moral to this story. I just wanted to write about it.

Solemnly yours,
Kori. x

POST SCRIP TIEM; I'm done my NaNoWriMo novel! I survived, guys! Be surprised and happy for me!