The cloth was durable and of cotton. The strands were beautifully embracing each other like lovers afraid to part ways. At the ends, some had come a bit loose while some threads had been simply wanked off the cloth leaving only a slight impression of their presence that had been. The colour was a deep purple but it was not the same shade throughout. It coloured each strand with different hues as if creating an individual of each of them, like a trail left by experiences.
The cloth went into invisibility once the next truck began unloading. Gradually, the last of the sunlight hitting its open threads was replaced by the trash collected that day.
YOU ARE READING
A Game of Chess
Short StoryA collection of short stories A jumble of words, stories to tell Chronicles of thoughts, beyond they extend Square by square, enduring a strife A prayer on the lips, disbelief in eyes A smattering of dreams through the trailing letters Believe what...
