A Revival

When I opened my second shop, La Pomme Stories, last July, I was overwhelmed by the response I got from buyers and blog owners. People seemed to really like my handmade books! It felt great. Unfortunately, the more pressing demands of life got in the way, and just two months after I had opened shop, La Pomme Stories was a neglected corner of cyberspace.

Then these past weeks two friends, on two different occasions, got in touch asking if I could write stories for people close to them. Doing these projects (which aren't yet finished, but I swear they're near completion, Erna and Ianne!) made me realize that I miss doing my books and collages.

So La Pomme Stories is alive again. I'm committing to a new story every week, which I'll be listing on Tuesdays. Artworks and greeting cards based on the new story may also be listed, depending on how much free time I have.

This week I started off with the story of "An Old Pair of Scissors," inspired by a rusty old pair I found in a 90-year-old woman's sewing box that she had passed on to me. I'd love to know what you think of the story, and of the book and the embroidered drawings I made from it.

An Old Pair of Scissors

Today I shared my meager lunch with a man dressed in rags, very thin and very pale,
whom I found sitting beside a dirt road as I was on my long way home from my travels.
In exchange for a fistful of bread and some cheese, he offered me a story:

“I used to be a rich man, one of the most successful hommes d’affaires of the city of Sebu.
In my principal mansion I had a grand room built and filled with a hundred golden beds.
My greatest pleasure was to choose my cradle for the night, lie down in a cloud
plump with the soft hairs of fallen sky cats, and dream dreams fit for kings.

“I dreamt of defeating the Alhambran army with my sword and only a handful of warriors,
of crossing the tempestuous waters of the Azamuth in a canoe of my own design,
of being the Chosen One to finally tame the last surviving Sarimanok.
And then in the morning I would wake up and conquer my own world.

“One evening, after hearing a knock on the door, I found on my threshold an old woman
with a basket filled with needles, different-colored thread, and a rusty pair of scissors.
‘I am but a poor old seamstress,’ she said, ‘I have strayed too far from my quartier and am very tired.
Can the kind sir offer me shelter for the night?’ I had no intention of letting anyone else
climb into my beds, and had her chased away by dogs.

“That night, I dreamt I was flying Mo-tse’s eagle kite, my hands manipulating the silver thread
that connected me to the device with the dexterity of a master. Then, in the abruptness of dreams,
there appeared on my right the old seamstress. With a brief but efficient snip of her scissors,
she cut my silver thread, and I watched Mo-tse’s kite disappear into the sky.

“In the months immediately following, the imagination and the boldness that
have always been my constant companions dissipated; I lost all I had.
And I never dreamed again.”