Crochetwork by Martha J Allard

Adelia remembers her youth through a kaleidoscope of silk and lace. She sees only snatches of the strong girl she was, all dark hair and wild laugh. Now frailty envelopes Adelia in its arctic, needle-like embrace.

She tends the hearth; she clears away cobwebs. In the evening she sits and yearns toward the warmth of the fire. Echoes of music, that laughter, flail in the air, like sand on wind. Adelia ignores the sting. She has nothing left for the girl she had been. And it’s exhausting to hold a grudge against time and isolation.

Every night, a slim silver hook waits in her lap. The reflection of flames dance along the shaft, turn the hook to a tiny piece of moon light. A single sliver of magic left to her.

At last she picks it up and it warms to her grasp. Adelia’s other hand rises to her sunken chest. Between the pearl buttons of her dress, between her breasts, she plucks up a thread. Unspools it behind her sternum as she tugs.

She hooks stitch by stitch the translucent fiber. Each stitch she pulls from herself is a dream captured. This one for the man she couldn’t rid herself of. This one for the woman she never kissed. This one…This one… They interlock. Next upon last, next upon last.

She works. For days. A week. Then, who knows how long? The fabric shimmers, the hook flashes. She reads the fragments of memory now. Comforting or sad, she finds them equally beautiful. She no longer bothers with the fire in the hearth. The work in her hands is light enough now. Sun fade from the window, winter swaddling daylight into a thick grey blanket over the world outside. Cold seeps through the walls, cracks her fingers, and she bleeds, making faint pink stains on the diaphanous strand, blood mingling itself on the fabric as she shapes it with her hook. More of her in the work. Her skin thins, eyes weaken. The hollow in her chest widens. Her hands ache. The work is almost human in shape.

Thread made of Adelia’s skin and bones and blood, builds it, infuses it with stolen warmth. It wakes from its dream of making. As it throws off the shroud of stillness all it feels is bitter disappointment and moments wasted. It knows it’s been made of a cast-off life. It writhes as Adelia works now, a limb flails to catch a bloody finger, pull it to its mouth. Hungry. It bites right through her skin. Adelia is not frightened. The work is beautiful.

Martha J Allard is the author of ‘Black Light, a novel about love, sacrifice and rock and roll in the 1980’s.’ The prequel, ‘Your Cruel Fingers Will Close My Eyes’, is out now and features a psychic vampire in love with the Loch Ness monster. Their novella, ‘Speak My Name’, is also out now as well as their collection of short stories, ‘Psychic Surgery’. They write about demons and angels and people that live in shadow. They dabble in steam punk, silver punk, space opera and crochet. Find Martha at @allard_martha and www.marthajallard.com.

Photo by Karina L on Unsplash.