I've lived thousands of lives.
Not literally, of course, but fabric has a way of whispering sweet stories to me. The experiences, sensations, time, emotion — it all has a way of getting tangled in the fabric so that when it finds its way to me, I may as well have been there.
I've seen the great Weeping Mountain Range, with its fluffy outcroppings of snow and graceful elven folk who enrobe themselves in cinnamon dust for luck; felt the soft down of a phoenix and the warmth of its fire; experienced true love expressed through stolen kisses, glasses of wine, and pen-drawn hearts. I know them all as if they were my own memories, all from the comfort of my small establishment in the heart of Providence.
My shop is rich in detail, if humble to the unobservant eye. It lies just off the beaten main road, tucked next to a garden brimming with roses and a studio specializing in portraits; an odd but merry trio we make to be sure. While my neighbors tend to bud after bud, and preserve the past, I clean and sew garments. Expecting something more? I'd encourage you to look next door; the gardener has an easier time evolving, the artisan with framing the current situation.
Clothes find their way to me, I wipe the slate clean, and send them back to their owners for another foray. To some it may seem repetitive, as if I'm my own personal Sisyphus, but they couldn't be more wrong. I am the witness of the present leaving its mark on history through pen smears, knife slits, ale stains, and pixie dust. With my soap and water, I wash the sins and triumphs of the past away to allow for new beginnings. My thread and needle allow me to mend rifts and to embellish the plain. Through it all though, the story of each of my patrons is sung to me by sequinned sirens and beaded song-birds.
Don't believe me? Take Ruffina for example. Three items she left in my care, a quilt stained and tattered with age, a torn pair of leather gloves, and a blouse in need of a wash.
The blouse is an easy place to start, as I did that Saturday all those weeks ago. Upon my inspection I noticed the ash dusted around the cuffs, the slight yellowing under the arms, and wrinkles down the front and back alike. As clouds of steam warmed my studio, clouds of tobacco filled my mind's eye alongside a baking sun…
A young tiefling merely in her sixties, Ruffina found herself sweating so much you'd think she had drunk the ocean.
"Oi! Hurry it up, lass. Don't got all day t'be dawdling," the first mate yelled out to her from the other side of the deck.
Cursing and stubbing out her rolled up cigarette with the toe of her boot, the young cook hurried back down the steep steps to the underbelly of the ship to the dwindling supply of dried meats and potatoes that were meant to feed a crew of twenty. The heat was merciless in the galley, and she had only wanted a brief reprieve, but outlaws tended to be a hungry bunch not known for their patience. Her apron cinched her middle, pleating her already ruined shirt in its haste to be tied.
"Peace is all I asked for…" she grumbled to no one in particular as she started chopping up the roots for the stew.
It was with the last bubbles of lather that the daydream started to fade.
Reaching for the gloves, I started quickly to my task. With my twist point needle in hand, I set to pushing the thread through the hide, one stitch at a time. The soft scratching gave way to the steady thunk of a knife…
"What can we help with?" Tiwyn asked, scratching a small star into the knuckle of Ruffina's glove as the tiefling cut up the potatoes.
"Mmm, maybe salt the boiling water? And bring me back one hundred gold drachma?" the cook chuckled, shooing the small pixie from her hand.
"Testy," Tiwyn jokingly muttered, flitting over to the container of salt and narrowly avoiding Ruffina's half-hearted backhand. "Just because the first mate is hovering doesn't mean you need to get your knickers in a twist."
"The heart wants what it wants, Wynnie," she responded. "And this heart wants a three minute smoke break." A small slip of focus, that's all it took. The knife gaining a trajectory of its own kissed the back of the leather glove, shearing off a small portion of the pointer and middle knuckle and cutting Tiwyn's star in half.
It wasn't till' I was halfway through washing the quilt that I realized I could see the rest of the Ruffina's week play out in my mind. The trials and tribulations of a tiefling pirate and aspiring cook who made friends with pixies in her kitchen. No image conjured or cast, but only inferred through the scratches, tears, and stains that Ruffina trusted me to mend.
I've often been asked why I don't go out and find pirate ships of my own to sail upon. Or to learn to cast spells of great power and influence. I would argue that I do all of that and more, with my washbasin at my feet and my thread in my fingers. I am born by the imperfection, die through the mending, and rise to live again — and so the cycle is blessed to repeat.
Not literally, of course, but fabric has a way of whispering sweet stories to me. The experiences, sensations, time, emotion — it all has a way of getting tangled in the fabric so that when it finds its way to me, I may as well have been there.
I've seen the great Weeping Mountain Range, with its fluffy outcroppings of snow and graceful elven folk who enrobe themselves in cinnamon dust for luck; felt the soft down of a phoenix and the warmth of its fire; experienced true love expressed through stolen kisses, glasses of wine, and pen-drawn hearts. I know them all as if they were my own memories, all from the comfort of my small establishment in the heart of Providence.
My shop is rich in detail, if humble to the unobservant eye. It lies just off the beaten main road, tucked next to a garden brimming with roses and a studio specializing in portraits; an odd but merry trio we make to be sure. While my neighbors tend to bud after bud, and preserve the past, I clean and sew garments. Expecting something more? I'd encourage you to look next door; the gardener has an easier time evolving, the artisan with framing the current situation.
Clothes find their way to me, I wipe the slate clean, and send them back to their owners for another foray. To some it may seem repetitive, as if I'm my own personal Sisyphus, but they couldn't be more wrong. I am the witness of the present leaving its mark on history through pen smears, knife slits, ale stains, and pixie dust. With my soap and water, I wash the sins and triumphs of the past away to allow for new beginnings. My thread and needle allow me to mend rifts and to embellish the plain. Through it all though, the story of each of my patrons is sung to me by sequinned sirens and beaded song-birds.
Don't believe me? Take Ruffina for example. Three items she left in my care, a quilt stained and tattered with age, a torn pair of leather gloves, and a blouse in need of a wash.
The blouse is an easy place to start, as I did that Saturday all those weeks ago. Upon my inspection I noticed the ash dusted around the cuffs, the slight yellowing under the arms, and wrinkles down the front and back alike. As clouds of steam warmed my studio, clouds of tobacco filled my mind's eye alongside a baking sun…
A young tiefling merely in her sixties, Ruffina found herself sweating so much you'd think she had drunk the ocean.
"Oi! Hurry it up, lass. Don't got all day t'be dawdling," the first mate yelled out to her from the other side of the deck.
Cursing and stubbing out her rolled up cigarette with the toe of her boot, the young cook hurried back down the steep steps to the underbelly of the ship to the dwindling supply of dried meats and potatoes that were meant to feed a crew of twenty. The heat was merciless in the galley, and she had only wanted a brief reprieve, but outlaws tended to be a hungry bunch not known for their patience. Her apron cinched her middle, pleating her already ruined shirt in its haste to be tied.
"Peace is all I asked for…" she grumbled to no one in particular as she started chopping up the roots for the stew.
It was with the last bubbles of lather that the daydream started to fade.
Reaching for the gloves, I started quickly to my task. With my twist point needle in hand, I set to pushing the thread through the hide, one stitch at a time. The soft scratching gave way to the steady thunk of a knife…
"What can we help with?" Tiwyn asked, scratching a small star into the knuckle of Ruffina's glove as the tiefling cut up the potatoes.
"Mmm, maybe salt the boiling water? And bring me back one hundred gold drachma?" the cook chuckled, shooing the small pixie from her hand.
"Testy," Tiwyn jokingly muttered, flitting over to the container of salt and narrowly avoiding Ruffina's half-hearted backhand. "Just because the first mate is hovering doesn't mean you need to get your knickers in a twist."
"The heart wants what it wants, Wynnie," she responded. "And this heart wants a three minute smoke break." A small slip of focus, that's all it took. The knife gaining a trajectory of its own kissed the back of the leather glove, shearing off a small portion of the pointer and middle knuckle and cutting Tiwyn's star in half.
It wasn't till' I was halfway through washing the quilt that I realized I could see the rest of the Ruffina's week play out in my mind. The trials and tribulations of a tiefling pirate and aspiring cook who made friends with pixies in her kitchen. No image conjured or cast, but only inferred through the scratches, tears, and stains that Ruffina trusted me to mend.
I've often been asked why I don't go out and find pirate ships of my own to sail upon. Or to learn to cast spells of great power and influence. I would argue that I do all of that and more, with my washbasin at my feet and my thread in my fingers. I am born by the imperfection, die through the mending, and rise to live again — and so the cycle is blessed to repeat.