Draft...

            “God damn it,” I mumbled softly under my breath as a tiny orb of scarlet grew from the tip of my left index finger for what felt like the thousandth time, placing the needle and thread on the table. It’s been years since I last sewed, and it showed. Sucking the tip of my finger to stop the flow of blood, I flipped the two crudely stitched pieces of anti-pill fleece inside-out with my right hand and flopped the abstract figure down onto the table next to the needle and thread. The stitches tacking together the edges of the ivory fleece are jagged and sloppy, but the shape resting on the rough wooden surface is unmistakable. A faceless and legless and spineless little man lay amid a mess that will soon define him, and, oh! what a beautiful mess it is.

White styrofoam balls roll by black feather boas. Yellow hunks of foam rubber hide beneath sheets of red and black felt. Brown squares of cardboard hold orange pom-poms. Purple markers cross paths with dull gold wire clothes-hangers. A blue hot glue gun sits faintly smoking beside a spool of white thread.