The thick and coarse upholstery fabric fibres wrap up bits and and pieces of throwaways. Tangled fibres matted conceals the path he took to get here.

Empire building is not not easy, not easy at all to trample upon souls. Considers the blood that stained him, Lord Tangleton wears the veneer of innocence damn well.

One eye on darkness, one eye on light, the pendulum of his bushy tail guides Erwin to balance.

A ball of old clothes, shredded, gathered, a fluff ball, stitched, loved, a companion

Clouds parted, moon shines, Silvia listens.

The tiny scrap of pink doesn’t stretch.

No matter how much I stuffed him, Rupert did not grow.

I gave him big round eyes, with which he stares down his opponents.

He never picks on someone his size, only someone bigger.

This is his way of stretching himself.

The fine cream cotton stretches with no limits, displaying everything I filled her with.

Everyone seems to know what’s going on inside her head before she does.

She picked up a tan remnant, wore it across his eyes.

Finally Jondi ’s free to fear climate change and wonder what’s for dinner.

The peach fabric she’s made is so elastic, there is no end to what it can contain.

Her head keeps expanding, skin thins, revealing all the rubbish inside.

Her black pattern reminds her of dark clouds in the sky, they come and go.

Whenever she worries about worrying too much or too little, she rolls her eyes and reminds herself, I’m not my thoughts, I’m Alicia.

He was big softy to begin with.

He changed by the slightest touch, so I folded the excess fabric over itself and stitched him in.

The structure did not make him stiff or defensive.

If you pressed on him, a mark remains for a while until he’s had quiet time to recover.

Allson is tender through and through.

The trim positioned on his head, stiff and rigid, keeps his head collected, unlike the unrestrained body that keeps growing sideways.

I say to him, a walk could be nice, or catch some mice?

He says, I’m perfect for a tangelo.

My bad, Tangelo.

Frightened often, Patrick hardly had time to recover.

He could have, but decided against, constructing a wall to his heart, which keeps out the things that scare him but also that which delights.

He realises the bad the good and the shocking are all his imagination and the definition of being alive.

First there was an irregular orange scarp I scrunched and stitched into the shape of a head.

Months later, for reasons I can’t remember there was a spare blob.

The head and the body are mismatched, the orange head is stiff and flat, the black body round and bouncy.

They wouldn’t stay together until l forced them with a thick stitch spanning nose to torso.

Chester doesn’t care if you judged him for the centipede-scar on his chest, exposed stitched on his head, or flakey mismatched orange patches, he knows being alive is a gift, a gift to the world.