Eight

Closer to a patchwork quilt than charmeuse silk, my stitchwork will hold for a time, but not forever. The fabric of reality is as delicate as it is strong, so its bonds must reflect that. These worlds will never be fully restored, the stains of fate impossible to clear, but familiarity will act as the scaffolding before the mortar sets.

With a final flourish, the paint over the crack, this world will survive long enough for me to stabilise the rest. I squeeze back into the between via a fissure already created so as to leave the healthy layers undisturbed. This one I’ll leave ajar, for later use.

A pinching at the edges of awareness, a change in the vacuum. The edge upon which the tunnel sits has widened a touch, less precarious but still wavering, like a div...

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