by Hadassah Shiradski
![](https://static.wixstatic.com/media/b55ef6_db6c747e7cf34823ae9cb3a02f7d57e7~mv2.jpg/v1/fill/w_147,h_221,al_c,q_80,usm_0.66_1.00_0.01,blur_2,enc_auto/b55ef6_db6c747e7cf34823ae9cb3a02f7d57e7~mv2.jpg)
The Toymaker sat in his workshop, gloved hands folded in his lap. His apron was heavy; the iron thimbles on his slack fingers scraping faintly against his lead lap. His once-focused eyes dulled as his arms jerked up, as if to grasp and pull at the whims of a puppeteer, but that incremental, insufficient movement stilled and stopped, slumping back down before he reached his goal.
The porcelain hands cradled a shuddering, stuttering lump of flesh and blood, the Toymaker’s ribs laid open in a picnic spread of bone and tendon and sinew. The doll raised the pulsating thing up and took a long-awaited bite. And smiled through the viscera.
Hadassah Shiradski (she/her) is a horror writer from Hertfordshire, UK, who recently graduated with a BA (Hons) in Creative Writing and Philosophy. She has a love of gothic fantasy, quiet horror and folklore. Her ramblings can be found on her twitter, @DassaWrites.