In Search of the Perfect Patchwork Bedspread

A bit of flash fiction, 269 words, free written in a writing group.  I can’t remember what the prompt was but I don’t think I stuck to it very well.  I’m very good at not sticking to prompts well in that writing group.  A few weeks ago we had a workshop about corridors and tunnels.  The piece I wrote, or began, didn’t mention either.  In my defence, it did include some doors.

Patchwork

Benedict put down his needle, satisfied with the stitching. Three more perfect lines. One more square in place, this one the richest, smoothest brown. Across the square, Benedict had carefully sewn the words, “You were the hardest, brightest satisfaction.”

He sighed contentedly. It had been a long, often frightening challenge. It wasn’t over yet. But nearly. Sixty-seven squares. Just five to go until his twelve by six bedspread could at last adorn his bed, until he could sleep under something unique, full of life and lives.

Benedict stood up, lifted the patchwork and hung it from hooks dug into the walls of his small lounge. He stood back and eyed the material in wonder, reached forward to brush his hand against the surface, a shiver of pleasure tingling through his spine.

The patchwork was everything. He didn’t notice the piles of coke cans littering the room’s corners, the unwashed plates and clothes, the smell of cat litter unchanged in the days. Sixty-seven. The design was perfect. Benedict knew what colours he needed for ideal completion. And he already had his eyes on where he could get material for three of the remaining squares.

That light patch in the middle should be filled next. Remove the hole. Sixty-eight was important. He’d have to get on with it soon. Tomorrow maybe. Or the next day.

Benedict laughed. Meeting Lucy in the cafe had been a gift. Her skin was perfect. Fair, smooth, free of the stains of make up. Perfect.

Her back would be square sixty-eight.

Soon. Very soon. He laughed at the way the universe worked. It truly loved him.

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