A line of fabric indicating the lines of the map were quilted together. Twisting and flailing in the wind, the patterns showed the way to a small nook in the hills. A lonely knoll.
Shaela
My grandmother used to sew in the dark nights of the war. She would sit on the same couch in the same spot and sew with the needle that was far too large to be necessary. Quilting was her habit. I still have the blanket that she was quilting for me, the one she was quilting when she died on that couch. It seems a bit morbid I suppose, but it was what I did for her. The only thing I had from her left.
I always wondered how a quilt was made. It seemed easy enough, but then again that is a lot of stitching to do especially since I don’t own a sewing machine. I mean all of those random patches, it must be really difficult like imagine pioneer life man it’d suck. Glad I live in the time I do :)
The blanket was designed to tell a story as you followed the threaded edges with your finger, corner to corner. Some of the patterns were still there–a corn field in raised green stitches like check marks, a river that felt like nothing at all, strawberries–but the story had long since been lost under years of hands and fingers and feeling.
The universe had quilted our destinies together, webbing our misfortune and love into single strand made impossible to differentiate between pain and pleasure, between friend and foe.
His comforter was quilted, which struck Jack as odd. Oliver had such a hard outer persona. He was this rock and roll God with a drug problem and legions of people screaming at his feet. And yet at home he’d crawl underneath a comforter that looked like a family heirloom, patterned with ducks and chickens.
This is the second time I have gotten this word. Quilted. I’m not sure where to go with this word. I haven’t quilted anything thing in my life. And it’s not something I am likely to try. I have no problem with sewing. I just don’t think I have the patience for quilting. Maybe one day if I needed to fill my time up with doing something, like knitting or cross-stitch. Retirement sends shivers down my spine.
The soft down blanket felt amazing against his skin. So warm and delicate against his cold frame. It wasn’t easy living all the way down here, being passed by so many people with so many better things to do, but at the end of the day at least he was a little protected from the chilled winds. He traced his fingers along the stitches and smiled to himself.
Becca
Star patches lingered over the darkened sky as she breathed deeply, hoping to catch a ray of light or a mind-warping mystery inside her lungs.
Quilted. What, like a bed? Or toilet paper? Or a bed made of toilet paper! You would not be able to get a dog if you got that, it would be a mess. Plus, imagine if you had an en-suite toilet and ran out of toilet paper. That would be a dilemma.
Balo West
The quilt itself was not anything particularly eye-catching. It was the quilter. Watching her craft the thing with so much care, as if it were a child. The woman’s eyes were dark, her countanance shaded. I loved nothing more on saturday evenings than to watch the old dying woman pour her soul into a peice of lifless fabric. It’s not that I’m in love with death, but the way she weaves her soul into it, that is what I am in love with.
Quilted – an odd word. It reminds me of thick doonas and warm blankets, yet at the same time makes me think of sad, wilted plants and loneliness. The juxtaposition of the two results in an interesting concept – to be quilted.
the quilted clouds floating around the plane
determine the fate of people on the passenger train
decide the destiny of souls on the sea lane
this is a part of life called refrain
She always told us that when she finally popped off, she could only rest peacefully if she’d been buried with a large collection of her handmade quilted rugs.
A line of fabric indicating the lines of the map were quilted together. Twisting and flailing in the wind, the patterns showed the way to a small nook in the hills. A lonely knoll.
My grandmother used to sew in the dark nights of the war. She would sit on the same couch in the same spot and sew with the needle that was far too large to be necessary. Quilting was her habit. I still have the blanket that she was quilting for me, the one she was quilting when she died on that couch. It seems a bit morbid I suppose, but it was what I did for her. The only thing I had from her left.
I always wondered how a quilt was made. It seemed easy enough, but then again that is a lot of stitching to do especially since I don’t own a sewing machine. I mean all of those random patches, it must be really difficult like imagine pioneer life man it’d suck. Glad I live in the time I do :)
not this word again
can i have a different word please
that would be nice.
The blanket was designed to tell a story as you followed the threaded edges with your finger, corner to corner. Some of the patterns were still there–a corn field in raised green stitches like check marks, a river that felt like nothing at all, strawberries–but the story had long since been lost under years of hands and fingers and feeling.
The universe had quilted our destinies together, webbing our misfortune and love into single strand made impossible to differentiate between pain and pleasure, between friend and foe.
His comforter was quilted, which struck Jack as odd. Oliver had such a hard outer persona. He was this rock and roll God with a drug problem and legions of people screaming at his feet. And yet at home he’d crawl underneath a comforter that looked like a family heirloom, patterned with ducks and chickens.
She quilted the blankeet and hung it on the wall. It told the story of her familys history.
This is the second time I have gotten this word. Quilted. I’m not sure where to go with this word. I haven’t quilted anything thing in my life. And it’s not something I am likely to try. I have no problem with sewing. I just don’t think I have the patience for quilting. Maybe one day if I needed to fill my time up with doing something, like knitting or cross-stitch. Retirement sends shivers down my spine.
The soft down blanket felt amazing against his skin. So warm and delicate against his cold frame. It wasn’t easy living all the way down here, being passed by so many people with so many better things to do, but at the end of the day at least he was a little protected from the chilled winds. He traced his fingers along the stitches and smiled to himself.
Star patches lingered over the darkened sky as she breathed deeply, hoping to catch a ray of light or a mind-warping mystery inside her lungs.
Quilted. What, like a bed? Or toilet paper? Or a bed made of toilet paper! You would not be able to get a dog if you got that, it would be a mess. Plus, imagine if you had an en-suite toilet and ran out of toilet paper. That would be a dilemma.
The quilt itself was not anything particularly eye-catching. It was the quilter. Watching her craft the thing with so much care, as if it were a child. The woman’s eyes were dark, her countanance shaded. I loved nothing more on saturday evenings than to watch the old dying woman pour her soul into a peice of lifless fabric. It’s not that I’m in love with death, but the way she weaves her soul into it, that is what I am in love with.
Quilted – an odd word. It reminds me of thick doonas and warm blankets, yet at the same time makes me think of sad, wilted plants and loneliness. The juxtaposition of the two results in an interesting concept – to be quilted.
the quilted clouds floating around the plane
determine the fate of people on the passenger train
decide the destiny of souls on the sea lane
this is a part of life called refrain
She always told us that when she finally popped off, she could only rest peacefully if she’d been buried with a large collection of her handmade quilted rugs.