More writing.

[ennia]

In an effort to be productive of a kind and work hard at things, I'm starting to write again. And um... this is tonight's offering.

The needle slides into the fabric, the threads catching on the minute rough patches on the shaft. The stitches are like individual breaths, in and out, slowly creating a pattern that makes sense. The lines on the fabric stretch to the needle, as the moon moves slowly over the beach that the porch overlooks. The stitcher watches this and continues their unending threading of the needle and the neat and practiced stitches seem to force the moonlight up to the stairs of the porch, but no further. It sits there, waiting for her to finish her pattern.

A change in color and the needle begins to move more quickly now, putting the last touches on the shapes, bringing the moon closer and brighter on the sand, making the sky practically burn with a cold fire. The woman’s gnarled hands work deftly to pull the fabric from it’s circle, flattens it perfunctorily and stands, leans over the edge, and flings the small gift out to the moon. And then it goes dark.

And that would be it.