Young Writers Society

Henry was a tiny doll, porcelain cracked on the left side of his head. His right foot crumbled at Bess’s touch, and she braced herself for blood, for shrieks loud enough to wake Mother from her shameful grave. Disturbed by the silence and the dryness of her brother’s skin, she wiped away his shattered foot, and leaned down to examine his ankle. Hollow.

She rushed to her scrap basket and pricked herself on a needle she had neglected to put away but felt no pain. She rummaged through her fabrics, through remnants of past dresses and her mother’s old clothes. Blood seeped through a rag as she held it between thumb and forefinger; she grabbed the cloth it and stuffed it up Henry’s leg.

Bess scooped Henry up with Francis and tucked each everlasting brother into a crib they couldn’t outgrow, where they would dream dreams, Bess was sure, of the heirs they could never become. Perpetually pursed lips met the lip of a glass bottle, and milk dribbled down their ancient baby chins. Bess kissed each brother on each check and set off for tea.


Richard, Bess’s half-brother, two years her junior, was already seated at the grand marble table, devouring a pastry with his chubby fingers.

“How was your day so far?” Bess began.

“It was fine, I suppose. I played about in the courtyard. And you?”

“I knitted a pair of pajamas for Francis.”

“Why? I couldn’t think of a more boring chore.”

“Francis lacked something to sleep in.”

“Bess, it’s a doll. It can’t sleep! You are ten years old–too old to play with dolls.”

“You should look to yourself before you reprimand me. At eight, you still play with hobby horses. At least my dolls have full bodies; you play with a horse head on a stick!”

“You are ridiculous. I will be king soon, and then I will outlaw dolls!”

“No, Henry will be king, and when he dies, Francis, and when Francis dies, I shall rule as queen!” exclaimed an irritated Bess.

“Henry and Francis–rubbish! They are dolls; they are not real! And you—you are but a girl.”

And the weight of these five words struck Bess. Knowing King wanted an heir of the correct gender, knowing Mother’s uterus wouldn’t comply, aware of the dismal truth of the situation, of her mother’s execution, she fled the dining room, sobbing. King grinned at the head of the table.

Bess retreated to her chamber, pacing, pacing. “Maybe Richard is right,” she thought. “Maybe I’m too old for dolls. Maybe they mean nothing; they can’t feel anything; they’re not my brothers.” And she caressed both dolls in her arms, clutching them close to her tiny breasts. “If I am going to be queen,” she said aloud, “I will have to forget fantasy.” And with much remorse, she thrust the dolls upon the floor, watched them shatter, swept up their remains, disposed of their broken pieces, and returned the cloth to her scrap basket.

Hi Abigail_W.!


I liked this story a lot. You kept it short and sweet and didn't drag it out.
I liked the first sentence but I think you should consider changing the order of the words a little. What you had was:

Henry was a tiny doll, porcelain cracked on the left side of his head.

Maybe try something like:
"Henry was a tiny porcelain doll, cracked on the side of his head."

Make sure the first sentence really 'pops', so that the reader with be intrigued.

The ending was great. Very strong.

Keep up the good work!

She rushed to her scrap basket and pricked herself on a needle she had neglected to put away, but felt no pain.

Blood seeped through a rag as she held it between her thumb and forefinger;

Bess retreated to her chamber, pacing, pacing.

Alright. I liked this, it was well-written and insightful. You got the theme across well with the limited word count.
One thing I want to point out before I go - when she pricked herself on the needle, I hardly think it would cause blood to seep through a rag. She may have a couple drops of blood, but it wouldn't be too bad.
Anyways, I hope this helped, nice work. ( :

Overall I enjoyed this story. It didn't drag on forever, but it wasn't so short you wondered where it went.

I did, however, wonder who Richard was, as Henry VIII only had three surviving legitimate children (Mary, Elizabeth and Edward), and the only illegitimate child that he recognised as his own was Henry FitzRoy, so the idea of a brother two years her junior confused me. Who was he?

Another anachronism was that of Elizabeth dining with her father, or even living in the same house as him, as after Anne was executed she seldom saw him. His children were sent to live in their own houses in the countryside, usually.

I did like the childish idea of the young Lady Elizabeth believing that these dolls were her brothers, it gave it a nice feel. Also, the ending was good. Shirking her childish thoughts and becoming more like the woman that became Queen, responsible and practical.