It curled, as if someone had turned a poodle into a ball of thread, dyed it variegated blues, greens, and whites, and then unwound it, slowly, slowly, slowly, fixing it into a skein to be sold at a superstore for some granny to turn into a hideous sweater for a grandchild. Soon enough it would be a simple scarf, a novice’s attempt at knitting, stark against the cheery magenta of a knitting loom. It would curl along the edges, knitted in all the wrong places, but it would be soft and warm, and maybe it would fend off the chill of a cold winter’s night.
(105 words)
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