Hello, Readers' Fam! Welcome back to The Universe of My Secrets. If you are following me on social media, then you would be aware of my New Project. If not then you know, now. Connect with me on social media for further updates. All are linked at right sidebar and at footer.
Now, you will be reading the last sneak peek of this New Story. You can consider it to be a prequel or as I mentioned a sneak peek. I'll be uploading it in chunks so you won't require much time to read.
Please read all previous Sneak Peeks before reading this!
DISCLAIMER
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Beyond the Silken Veil
LAST SNEAK PEEK
The couturier takes out a rosewood colored, cotton thread reel from one of the containers and a big-eyed embroidery needle from the other one. She takes out bobbin from its case and winds the thread around, circles a few times and places the reel into spool pin. She slides the bobbin down through its hole into the needle and it dangles as she presses it against the machine pulley. Clanking noise pulsates across space as she depresses the treadle with her feet while holding the needle against the shiny metal of balance wheel. The moon shines down on the wall across the window, where hangs the painting of an Oxbow. She gazes at the wall when she fits the bobbin to its place under the machine bed. Grasping the thread between her thumb and the index finger, she elegantly takes it from one hole to another then half-wraps around tension assembly and then positions it onto thread take-up lever and finally inserts it into needle eye, which takes her barely a few seconds. She fumbles for once or twice while gathering pieces of clothes strewn across the large machine bed. After retrieving two satin rosewood robes, she puts them under the presser foot and drops the presser bar. Once again, clanking and thumping sound resonates and the sound continues until the sewn clothe completely trails out of the foot. She cuts the strands with shear and clutches the robe, taking yokes in her hands. She raises her hands in the air, relishing the beauty of her do-it-yourself prom dress. She rises to her feet and turns off the lamp as she walks past it. After a while, the lamp resurrects from death and it feels a little cozy as all the casements are shut closed. The silhouette comes into light, delighted. Wearing a wide valorous smile with the matching rosewood gown. Her thick black eyebrows are perfectly arched with a brow pencil and her eyelashes are curled and long. Adam’s apple is sorely visible at the front of her neck. Her thin and long lips are colored the same as her dress with lip gloss. She tries to walk the imaginary ramp animatedly but as the romantic melody begins to thrive somewhere near the room, she starts moving in all directions, dancing. She switches to free-spins and goes round and round endlessly on her toes. She only stops when she feels exhausted and flops into the chair, also music eventually stops. She completely forgets her moments of despair from just a few hours ago and turns crimson. She hesitates a bit before opening the windows and stands still at the window for a while like a mannequin, absorbing the fresh air. The crescent is fading away as the dawn is nearing. She strolls toward the door to find her heels uninjured and immediately slides her feet into it. She starts walking as if rehearsing for her ramp walk at some luxury-brand fashion week. She’s graceful and flawless at her imaginary ramp. A sudden crack booms in the room. One of those thin and long stilettos broke. She collapses to the floor, headlong. Screaming. So does her black haired wig. Screaming. Saving the eternal beauty of itself on the couturier’s head. Footsteps are approaching, getting louder as the sun rises. The couturier is out of senses, but manages to sit up. Now, that brightness is enhanced, the tiny bits of facial hair are easily noticeable. The dress is badly crumpled and looks very messy as the couturier, right now. Couturier gets up to change into the clothes lying beside. The door opens with the voice asking what happened to couturier, but both figures halt by the doorway the moment they see the couturier. One of them is the pianist. Tears streak down the couturier’s cheeks, but stands firmly without twitching eyes any further and looks straight into the man’s eyes.
“Father!”
“You are not my son anymore!”
The pianist leaves without a word and the father shuts behind the door on the way back. Never to open it again.
***
Let me know in comments, what you think about this. You can Direct Message me on my Instagram @binge_bawse_
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Winged Sisters by Dhiraj Sindhi
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