300 Days of Writing
Day 6: Furniture
She had inherited the Singer. At first, she didn’t want the old broad that was noisy when she worked, humming and thrumming, and if the girl didn’t move in time with the Singer, the work would stall, or worse the material would be eaten up in uneven lines the girl had to undo by hand.
The Singer could easily be disguised, her black body and heavy wheel could be tucked into the hole in the tabletop, a piece of ornately painted wood would slide over it. Her guests never knew she had a sewing machine, but rather, a small and inconvenient coffee table tucked in the corner of her bedroom.
Her friends left, littering the room with empty wine bottles scattered across the dirty rug, and she heard the machine start to hum. A gentle little tune that grew louder, more demanding with each day it went unused. When the noise became unbearable, she unearthed the bulk of the machine. The yellow and pink flowers painted across her black body fluttered as if they grew roots and bloomed in spring.
The girl began to sew. Her feet moved the treadle in a steady rhythm. She threaded the needle and fed the machine with pastel cottons that smelled of mothballs, no more than practice material.
As she sewed, her feet quickened, soon she couldn’t keep up, like she was sprinting through the layers of stitches without knowing what she was crafting.
The material guided her, prompted her, while the Singer sang songs of creation. The grey, green, and black cottons formed wings. Sand-colored cloth formed a thick torso, with a mess of thread strategically placed to concoct fuzzy legs.
The insect grew larger, and she couldn’t stop sewing, until at last, the creature batted heavy wings, taking flight. The Singer crashed through her glass window, trailing behind the fabric moth by a string of thread.