The SeamstressI woke to the sound of a softly feminine melody. It floated in the hallway as I felt my way in darkness to the source of the voice-a girl, backlit by the fluorescent blue flickers of the dens' television. The volume was on mute, bu ticker tape and war photographs gave away the identity of a local news station.More Like This
A chill ran down my spine as the girl's haunted whisper of a wordless song accompanied a plastic, beaming anchorwoman reporting another tragedy from foreign soil. I looked back at the owner of the disturbingly beautiful voice, which was simply humming the tune without any regard for me.
I noticed what I could about her. Pale hair like the soft, thin whisps found in ears of fresh corn waved to her chest, hiding her face from view. The short-sleeved dress she wore was light blue in color. It hung loose on her frail frame and stopped at her knees. The hem was torn beynd repair, much like the plain white shirt that she held in her hands. After a moment, I realized that the shirt belo