Fiction: Tapestries

The knife laid there on the cutting board.  What a compelling blade: dull sheen, not sharpened for months, left out to dry on a dirty board.  Clearly, what the blade needed was a human touch.  A touch was finally supplied at 2 PM by the portly, resident Mr. Chopin of 293 St. Levres Ave.  Mr. Andre Chopin led a solitary life living in his solitary abode just off the intersection of La Rue de Cheveux and St Levres, but today he received a small package inked carefully in red:

To: Dearest Monsieur Andre Chopin,
Please use knife to open.  Do not open by any other means.

Monsieur Chopin glanced at his kitchen knife and back at the small brown parcel, increasingly mystified by the parcel.  He rubbed his hands together slowly and stretched his stiff, rarely used, stubby ligaments.  He reached for the knife.

The parcel could not have been from Mr. Chopin’s relatives.  Family life or keeping in touch with distant relatives never appealed to Mr. Chopin, because he lived the life of the enlightened, and he would often write about this in his private diary.  He wrote often in clear, concise terms documenting his punctuality and the meticulousness with which he ensured his punctuality. 


Standing still, feet glued to the ceiling.  What a wondrous feeling it was to be still and not moving like the rest of the swarm.  Batting my wings, slowly at first, then in a steady rhythm, the air flow forced me adrift. 


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