11-01-2025, 03:50 AM
The carpet is made of green vines and Persian silk, soft as a baby's cheek, a butterfly's whisper, the touch of a feather that sends ripples along a puddle, on and on until it makes the paper boat rock violently back and forth, makes the paper bleed grey and crumple slowly, slowly inwards with the help of an invisible giant's fist until it is nothing more than a floating body, a sodden island for ants and minnows.
The carpet store smells of musk, perfume and dust, a moth flutters its damp wings along the dim walls of the basement, a few weak lights casting long dark shadows along the walls, flipping both hands on top of each other, it's easy to project a a turtle on the wall, or a wolf, or a butterfly, as bartering floats by, the words dressed in euphemisms, our carpets are the best in the world, and suddenly you can picture Aladdin himself riding on the deep blue rugs, his handsome knees leaving half moon crescents embedded in the pattern of the fabric, but Jasmine doesn't appear because the store keeper is yelling to get down from the stack of carpets, not to touch them with dirty shoes, his nose wrinkled at her black runners with pink bottoms and velcro straps, and she shrinks into the walls smelling of petrichor, watches her parents examine the carpets as a third person narrator.
Her mind won't be quiet, exotic birds freeze mid chirp with their beaks agape and she traces their wings with her fingers, leaving deep grooves that she know will make the store keeper angry, but maybe if she traces hard enough, the birds will break free and fly like paper angels falling through their cookie cutter cuts. She hides behind a mountain of circular carpets, spots the dead carcass of a spider hanging from its web in the corner, she crouches by it and blows gently, then runs away when its hollow body shudders ominously on the web, but does not move. A baby wails from its stroller and she peeks behind the carpets, pulls her tongue out and make faces, and the baby stops crying abruptly, watching her with serene, reproachful eyes.
But alas they settle for the itchy green carpet with coarse hair and her mother will spend several hours a week washing it and vacuuming it, but the fabric will still pinch and poke like hideous little thorns when they all sit down with their linen pyjamas, and the buttery flowers, although stiff, feel nice against her finger, as she digs her index in the centre until her mother snaps at her to stop. The carpet has a life of its own, and the leaves seem to grow a few inches everyday, although nobody believes her, but there will come a day when the paper boat sets sail once again and the fabric will lose its edge and become dulled once more, soft and docile as hay.
The carpet store smells of musk, perfume and dust, a moth flutters its damp wings along the dim walls of the basement, a few weak lights casting long dark shadows along the walls, flipping both hands on top of each other, it's easy to project a a turtle on the wall, or a wolf, or a butterfly, as bartering floats by, the words dressed in euphemisms, our carpets are the best in the world, and suddenly you can picture Aladdin himself riding on the deep blue rugs, his handsome knees leaving half moon crescents embedded in the pattern of the fabric, but Jasmine doesn't appear because the store keeper is yelling to get down from the stack of carpets, not to touch them with dirty shoes, his nose wrinkled at her black runners with pink bottoms and velcro straps, and she shrinks into the walls smelling of petrichor, watches her parents examine the carpets as a third person narrator.
Her mind won't be quiet, exotic birds freeze mid chirp with their beaks agape and she traces their wings with her fingers, leaving deep grooves that she know will make the store keeper angry, but maybe if she traces hard enough, the birds will break free and fly like paper angels falling through their cookie cutter cuts. She hides behind a mountain of circular carpets, spots the dead carcass of a spider hanging from its web in the corner, she crouches by it and blows gently, then runs away when its hollow body shudders ominously on the web, but does not move. A baby wails from its stroller and she peeks behind the carpets, pulls her tongue out and make faces, and the baby stops crying abruptly, watching her with serene, reproachful eyes.
But alas they settle for the itchy green carpet with coarse hair and her mother will spend several hours a week washing it and vacuuming it, but the fabric will still pinch and poke like hideous little thorns when they all sit down with their linen pyjamas, and the buttery flowers, although stiff, feel nice against her finger, as she digs her index in the centre until her mother snaps at her to stop. The carpet has a life of its own, and the leaves seem to grow a few inches everyday, although nobody believes her, but there will come a day when the paper boat sets sail once again and the fabric will lose its edge and become dulled once more, soft and docile as hay.