The book lay open on the desk, the cigarette in the ashtray still trailing smoke.

The soft murmur of the television barely covered the incessant ticking that filled the room with audible angst.

The darkened room filled with a flickering puddle of light from the movie being played.

The oasis of light from the desk lamp was the only anchor in the dry darkness that enveloped the room.

A musty aroma of age and stale cigarettes permeated the darkness with an oppressive blanket of forgotten lives.

The sudden scratching on the door coincided with a soft echoing groan. The window behind the television rattled moments after the lightning filled the room with light, briefly revealing a bookcase thick with dust.

Unnoticed, the little square phone vibrated, rattling its little tune in an urgent request for attention.

The map of the United States filled the wall above the desk and like most, Hawaii and Alaska are included in the corner to complete the image.

At the bottom of the map are scrawled the words, “No real destination.”

Sprawled out on the couch, a heavyset old main snores lightly. Occasionally his snoring stops along with any sound of breathing, only to be punctuated as the air is raked back into his lungs in a staccato hacking cough.

The man turns over and faces the couch back and fluffs the pillow his head rests upon before he settles back in, quietly breathing.

Never did we expect such power.

We stood awaiting orders that never came.

Night after night, day after day, our numbers grew.

We were unaware of the ultimate goals, but our count increased as efforts to grow our numbers through seeds planted subtly and the fluttering immersion that flowed nightly through the city.

We were regularly fed, and water was the only drink allowed.

Many days passed, and we stood staunch through rain and shine.

One day, we could feel the ground itself shudder long before the faint rumble of motorized destruction came to us.

We kept the friendships on the surface, as we knew the death toll would hit harder if we knew each other personally. I was paired… or at least next to Shamrock. I’m not sure if he’s Irish or not, but he was capped with a four-leafed clover insignia, so for lack of a better name, we took to calling him Shamrock.

We trembled, but knew we must stand strong. Though we would be cut down in staggering numbers, we could only hope for the best.

It finally arrived, and as expected, staccato sounds of my comrades as they fell—some fell fully, as if drawn and quartered—each fall sending shivers through me. The debris and shrapnel filled the air.

I was one of the lucky ones—thrice passed over.
After the second pass, I huddled together with Shamrock.
After the third pass, I looked over—and Shamrock had been sheared at the neck just below his cap.

The final pass came, as I knew it would… the death machine humming straight toward me.
But it stopped short.
The engine cut. It stood mere breaths away.
I waited.

“Mom, can I get some lemonade?” the young man hollered at the house.

Rhythmic and regular, the click and swish continue incessantly.
Each thread woven in sequence, layering side by side.
Slowly the colors emerge, interwoven amidst the threads designed to strengthen.
The cut of the fabric is shaped and molded.
Every stitch, meticulous; every fold, crucial.

The narrative robed in cloth.