She ran her hands over the quilt, feeling the small valleys and stiching with her palms. Hours. Days, really. Think about the days, weeks that went in to making this quilt. She sighed, closing her eyes, wanting desperately to just sleep.
We called for five volunteers and many stood, raising their hands. There were loud sighs as each selection was made and many others realised they had lost and were to be left behind. Slowly arms were lowered, the women who would stay sat down and covered themselves with their quilted blankets so that when the last was called, only the selected five remained standing.
She ran her tongue over the jagged fissure of scar tissue on the inside of her cheek. She plucked the tip of her tongue between her teeth and bit down.
The diamond pattern continued down the fence, given the false illusion of safety. That illusion has ruined many lives, leading people to believe they were in no danger, surrounded by the fence that reminded each of being wrapped in a warm, protective blanket. But the fence wasn’t like that. The fence knew all. The fence destroyed all.
I have always wanted a quilted bedspread. I hope that I am now going to get one from my daughter who is learning the art. I would like it to be in autumn colours
It was quilted, green and shiny and made of satin. She touches it with her perfectly manicured hands and thought, “how I wish I could take this home with me… it would go great with my new bed”.
quilted, sewn in, blankets. In > in . secure? no to safe Its not that deep. layered though, It’s quilted , it’s got stuff, content, but it’s still digestible. Kind of everyday digestible. There’s lots in the mundane, we dont document it all, but if we did, we’d see that the mundane is quilted. Padded, got threads keeping it together.
their fingers are knitted together with the yarn of one thousand stories. warm hearts collide as their hands draw one another closer and the light exchanged between their eyes makes them, as a whole, as loving and warm as the sun’s full intensity. their love embarrass one another and they cannot be separated, no matter how sharp the pain.
their hearts were sewn together. It was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. They did not mean to become so connected. It simply happened and they could do nothing about it except let the heat from their bound hearts warm each other.
Outside the circle of conversation where we warmed ourselves around the fire, she laid swaddled in fabric, cozy and warm. No one, but me, was thinking about her exclusion; she was always in her own world. I want to know the person underneath the quilt.
The patches were patterns of yellow and pink. Tiny ducks and llamas and otters, handstitched into the fabric. I ran my fingers over the stitches, the places where blue met pink and felt a deep ache in my chest. Memories pulled themselves out like old thread.
The sense of morning as the sun shines makes me wonder for time is too much, but the quilted watch is ready for sleeping it off and trying not to worry too much.
Quilted Northern was the first thought to spring to my mind, and I wondered what that said about me. I thought vaguely that Quilted Northern had been a toilet paper company and probably still was, with commercials on back in the day. I hadn’t seen one of those in a while and I realized as I wrote about this, that I wasn’t a very good writer. Then again who could write about a possibly failed toilet paper company for this long? Probably anyone. Hmm.
the unfortunate day of upturned corners
cold and wet
unforgiving
like coal in christmas stockings
the quilted layers of pain and distress were decorated
The quilted atmosphere was far removed from grandma. Cold and unforgiving, it layered and stitched the pain and distress of world after world padded with
When the winter snows started falling again, my sister and I would travel out to the hills to collect the last remaining iris that did their best to grow before being blanketed by frost and ice. I would wear our mother’s gloves, and my sister would wear our father’s red quilted jacket, the collar turned up so that it covered her quivering chin and lips. Still, you could see how flushed her cheeks got in the chill, as he pulled up each fragile flower and placed it gently into a shared wicker basket.
She ran her hands over the quilt, feeling the small valleys and stiching with her palms. Hours. Days, really. Think about the days, weeks that went in to making this quilt. She sighed, closing her eyes, wanting desperately to just sleep.
We called for five volunteers and many stood, raising their hands. There were loud sighs as each selection was made and many others realised they had lost and were to be left behind. Slowly arms were lowered, the women who would stay sat down and covered themselves with their quilted blankets so that when the last was called, only the selected five remained standing.
I think to create a new look for my armchairs so I decided to quilt them.
She ran her tongue over the jagged fissure of scar tissue on the inside of her cheek. She plucked the tip of her tongue between her teeth and bit down.
I quilted him a nice scarf, which he wanted from the day we met.
The diamond pattern continued down the fence, given the false illusion of safety. That illusion has ruined many lives, leading people to believe they were in no danger, surrounded by the fence that reminded each of being wrapped in a warm, protective blanket. But the fence wasn’t like that. The fence knew all. The fence destroyed all.
I have always wanted a quilted bedspread. I hope that I am now going to get one from my daughter who is learning the art. I would like it to be in autumn colours
It was quilted, green and shiny and made of satin. She touches it with her perfectly manicured hands and thought, “how I wish I could take this home with me… it would go great with my new bed”.
quilted, sewn in, blankets. In > in . secure? no to safe Its not that deep. layered though, It’s quilted , it’s got stuff, content, but it’s still digestible. Kind of everyday digestible. There’s lots in the mundane, we dont document it all, but if we did, we’d see that the mundane is quilted. Padded, got threads keeping it together.
their fingers are knitted together with the yarn of one thousand stories. warm hearts collide as their hands draw one another closer and the light exchanged between their eyes makes them, as a whole, as loving and warm as the sun’s full intensity. their love embarrass one another and they cannot be separated, no matter how sharp the pain.
their hearts were sewn together. It was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. They did not mean to become so connected. It simply happened and they could do nothing about it except let the heat from their bound hearts warm each other.
Outside the circle of conversation where we warmed ourselves around the fire, she laid swaddled in fabric, cozy and warm. No one, but me, was thinking about her exclusion; she was always in her own world. I want to know the person underneath the quilt.
the folds in his thoughts
they never ceased
raised upon, raised upon
creasing towards her
such lovely quilting
befitting her
The patches were patterns of yellow and pink. Tiny ducks and llamas and otters, handstitched into the fabric. I ran my fingers over the stitches, the places where blue met pink and felt a deep ache in my chest. Memories pulled themselves out like old thread.
The sense of morning as the sun shines makes me wonder for time is too much, but the quilted watch is ready for sleeping it off and trying not to worry too much.
Quilted Northern was the first thought to spring to my mind, and I wondered what that said about me. I thought vaguely that Quilted Northern had been a toilet paper company and probably still was, with commercials on back in the day. I hadn’t seen one of those in a while and I realized as I wrote about this, that I wasn’t a very good writer. Then again who could write about a possibly failed toilet paper company for this long? Probably anyone. Hmm.
the unfortunate day of upturned corners
cold and wet
unforgiving
like coal in christmas stockings
the quilted layers of pain and distress were decorated
The quilted atmosphere was far removed from grandma. Cold and unforgiving, it layered and stitched the pain and distress of world after world padded with
When the winter snows started falling again, my sister and I would travel out to the hills to collect the last remaining iris that did their best to grow before being blanketed by frost and ice. I would wear our mother’s gloves, and my sister would wear our father’s red quilted jacket, the collar turned up so that it covered her quivering chin and lips. Still, you could see how flushed her cheeks got in the chill, as he pulled up each fragile flower and placed it gently into a shared wicker basket.