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.
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…
The fog-laden evening chilled him to the bone as he stood beneath the street lamp. “I am getting too old for this,” he mutters. The juxtaposing hard-soft glow of the lamps created an eerie duality of light on the street. The longshadows dancing in the wind-blown lamplight. The headlights shine on him briefly as the…
The plateau, a mesa of warmth and woven shadow, beckoned to the benefactor and watcher alike, promising sights heretofore unseen in a mystical dance never beheld before, and in dreams never to be viewed again. Forgoing the temptation, the benefactor sat briefly on the edge of the plateau, legs dangling, then slid over and slowly…
Last night, I could hear them fighting again. Why she lets him control her like that, I will never understand. I push lightly at the door, just to check. It is locked again. Poor girl. She never leaves except when she takes her car for groceries. I had burst in once, but I was no…
The sounds have clicks and ticks and various inflections that I just cannot recreate. Ever since I arrived, the natives… let’s call them benefactors… have been incessantly hovering, though, odd enough, their attention is erratic. My food, normally provided regularly, is sometimes forgotten. This means I have to sidle up to the bars of my…
The canvas set.Every stroke vivid.Every line drawn, nuanced.Painting with deep, resonant colors.The tones shift, the lighting rewrought.Building in layers upon layers, each subject meticulously captured.Standing back, we look again before changing direction.Every subtlety intentional.The canvas complete, the critics arise. In painted prose—a novel.
