#polyester border

[indiansareedesigns07]

Discover the Rich Cultural Heritage of Madurai's Handloom

Introduction

Madurai, a city in the western corner of Tamil Nadu, is not only famous for its rich cultural heritage but also for its fine cotton sarees and handloom weaving industry. The city has been producing some of the finest cotton sarees in India for centuries, and its thread is used for making not only cotton sarees but also other varieties of sarees.

Madurai Cotton: The Finest Thread in India

Madurai cotton is renowned for its fine quality and softness. The city and its vicinity produce some of the finest cotton sarees in India, and the thread produced here is used by tailors and other people for day-to-day stitching of clothes. In the olden days, mercerized cotton sarees were made with a silk border, but today the border is made of polyester or shining cotton. The body of the saree remains the same, made of the same material as before. The cloth is of very light weight and is ideal for summer wear.

Madurai Cotton vs. Bengal Cotton

Madurai cotton is slightly thicker than Bengal cotton but much more superior to Bengal cotton. The border and pallav make it ideal for summer wear, and in cities like Madras, Bombay, and Calcutta, it is wearable round the year since winter does not set in these places. The sarees generally have a contrast border and a pallav with the same work as in the border. Madurai cotton is highly affordable and is used for evening or day wear or for visiting anyone or attending a light evening tea or coffee party in the forenoon.

Madurai: A Hub for Designer Sarees

Madurai is famous for its fine cotton thread produced here used for making cotton sarees and also producing other varieties of sarees. It produces some very beautiful designer sarees of fine glazed cotton with zari border. The city is home to some very big saree shops selling many varieties of sarees, some of which are not available in Delhi and Bombay shops and not even in Tamil Nadu.

Madurai Handloom Industry: A Cultural Heritage

The handloom industry in Madurai is quite old, and the shops are by themselves quite old. Madurai also produces block printed sarees on fine cotton cloth known as Sungudi, though they might not be as famous as the block prints of Rajasthan and Gujarat yet they are very wearable in summer season. They are usually printed on fine cotton cloth and have small motifs on the body of the saree with single or double colour.

Conclusion

Madurai's handloom industry has inherited a rich cultural heritage from the city, which is 3000 years old. The city is home to some of the finest cotton sarees in India, and its thread is used for making not only cotton sarees but also other varieties of sarees. The industry is a testament to the city's rich cultural heritage and its commitment to preserving traditional crafts and techniques.

[scaly-freaks]

inmate 13453

okay don't get excited, i just felt like writing a bit of a drabble to feel out the atmosphere of a potential start to this au (clicking the tag will give up the other stuff i've posted for it btw)

btw check out the playlist and the pinterest board made by @theageofsilver and @allicentsallure bc they're fab

cw: kidnapping

Soft seventeen.

Bambi eyes, bambi legs.

There’s a certain edge to the way people describe the age she’s at. Not quite eighteen, not quite legal, tangible as cherry juice on greedy fingers. She isn’t sixteen, sweet and tender. It’s a soft first step into adulthood, skirting the border, the in between, the unknowable horrors that lie ahead.

She fucking hates being seventeen.

It’s a shit number first of all. Odd numbers make her want to spew. They feel like nails on a chalkboard, polyester static on leg hair. She can’t even dance, so whatever ABBA are singing about doesn’t apply.

Amara sticks out her tongue and tastes the air as the breeze blows west. She swears she can get a sense of the world when she does.

Her stepfather mocks her for it. That blue-eyed, blonde maniac with the ugly Buick Electra he treats like a brand-name Italian from the southern coasts of Europe. He used to treat her mother the same. Until he began to tell Amara you look just like her when she was young. He leaves his porn tabs open on his computer, as if he wants her to know. ‘Teen’, ‘Latina’, ‘Stepfather’, ‘Rough’, ‘Face-fucking’, ‘Breeding.’

She doesn’t have a drop of Hispanic blood in her.

She really wants to tell her mother, but there is a chance her mother will look right through her instead. She’s been doing that a lot more nowadays. They can’t afford her meds anymore. She just sits on the porch and watches and waits. For what, is anyone's guess.

>> can you pick me up?

>> its dark

>> pls

>> sorry ik its inconvienant

'Step-Daddy' always replies quickly when it’s her. He has a heart next to her name on his phone. She never agreed to that.

>> it’s spelled inconvenient

“Suck my dick,” Amara tells the screen and switches her phone off before he can message again.

She can walk.

The route back runs dangerously close to the edge of the forest. All kinds rot away in there, but she doesn’t like to think of them by name. They’ll become real if she does. She wishes her mother had found a man who lived in the wetlands, and not here at the cursed border between life and the realm beyond. Marshes are easier to understand. Forests are cursed.

Still, life is horribly simple here. Her high school is placid and filled with the dull-eyed children of dull-eyed adults. The gas station where she works didn’t bother to interview her. She walked in and the guy behind the counter stared at her breasts until he remembered she had a face. Her breasts aced the interview for her.

Can I work here? Just until I graduate.

Sure, grab a nametag.

Four months later, and she doesn’t mind it anymore. Her brain shuts off. Her customers are a ragtag mixture of suspicious, ferret-eyed locals and the occasionally buoyant hiker from out of state. If she doesn’t look like she belongs, she’s pretty, and that usually gives people like her a pass. At least until the sleazy comments become ethnically charged. But even then, Amara has a way of making her eyes go ‘dopey’ and just smiling like she’s too slow to understand. Displaying discomfort is what eggs them on (kind of a nasty realisation she opened her eyes to one day).

An engine growls some way down the road.

Old Chevy pickup, faded gold.

She recognises it from the parking lot at the station near the end of her shift.

A guy stepped out, young, early twenties, with a shock of hair that looked white until she realised it was just really, really blonde. She remembers thinking it was odd. The range of blondes in town runs from deep and dirty to the artificial bleach rattled out of holographic boxes of dye. No one has hair like his. She’d have noticed.

His eyebrows were a little darker, and his lashes were darker still. He had a funny way of walking, and he looked at her like she had the head of a fish and the body of a human being. Amara did her best dopey eyes. She asked him if he’d had a good day, pointed out the offers they had on pork rinds. He didn’t say a word. His skin had smears of black grease, glistening with sweat and bronzed by the sun.

Deep blue eyes.

Horribly deep.

Not the kind you’d want to swim in. She likes a softer blue, blue like chlorine, reminiscent of the safety of swimming pools. His were anything but.

She picks up her speed, and for some reason, puts her phone to her ear as if mid-conversation. Nothing about him said he was dangerous at the time. At least not from the way he’d barely said a word or looked down at her body. He was just there, and then he was gone.

And now here he is again.

The Chevy hits the horn. He is creeping closer. Amara turns and waves at him to go on. She doesn’t want a ride. Why isn’t he rolling down the window to offer one though?

It slows to a crawl. Her throat closes up. She has a feeling speeding up will give him what he wants. He’s obviously trying to be a prick. But if she goes back to talk to him, that would be exponentially worse. She switches her phone back on and sees her stepfather’s message telling her to get back home herself after she didn’t reply to tell him her location.

She quickly shoots him a message, and prays he’ll respond.

He doesn’t.

Fuck it.

She walks faster. The Chevy matches the increase. Sweat blooms on the back of her neck.

Every woman has that oh fuck moment. That I’m going to be on the evening news moment. The please god if he catches me let him kill me before he gets to raping me moment.

None of that goes through her head. She keeps thinking of her mother’s cooking. Her mother hasn’t cooked in a year and a half, not since her mind began to slip. But Amara can taste the spices on her tongue, the way the rice was perfectly simmered, the cinnamon in the back of her throat, the smell that clung to the walls, the heat of it.

I wanna come home, Momma.

Her mother’s face gathers into shape in her head, built with sand particles and saltwater. When the Chevy roars, she starts running. Her mother vanishes.

The lights of the truck blink across the tarmac. It’s a signal. But it isn’t for her.

She looks over her shoulder, and she can’t see him.

Run me over. Leave me like carrion on the road. Let the maggots eat me. Don’t cut me up first.

He slows when she starts to tire out. Picks up when she tries again. No other car has graced this road since she first turned onto it. A sign points her to the right, ushering her deeper into the backwoods. The town is to the left.

He figures out where she’s going when she suddenly makes a dash for the bend in the road.

There’s no time to dodge the pickup when it goes for her this time. The wheels skid as he yanks it at an angle and blocks her way. The door flies open and misses her by an inch. His arm grabs for her. She dodges, animal fear and rust on her tongue. He still doesn’t say a word.

A heavy fist connects with the small of her back and she drops like a stone.

The pain is electric. Air turns her lungs into taut balloons, but she can’t make a sound. She twists around and the bruise forming over her spine grates. Adrenaline quickly numbs it as she lashes out with her arms and legs. Kicking, punching, scratching, biting. Her teeth hit home. A mouthful of tattooed flesh, car oil and sweat. Still no sound from him.

She never sees the fist coming, just like last time.

A blow to the head and lights out, nancy.

[mayakern]

Hi, I was wondering, what's the difference between the old style of bee midi skirt verses the current one? Is it just the thickness of the black border at the bottom, or is there also a color difference/something else?

old style = from our old manufacturer, which means the fabric is entirely different

the old fabric is still polyester, but it’s closer to a cotton jersey in texture and weave than the new fabric. it’s also got a significantly lower thread count.

[breserker]

i really do think about how my dad says that they never celebrated dia de muertos in mexico and that it was never a big deal, and if he's being actually sincere or just locally sincere. like i'm sure he's telling the truth, but i also think about how my buelito had a whole other family before the one that became mine, that my buelita was 19 years younger than him, and while i dont' know the details i can imagine the scandal, and imagine the family he left behind that is technically, at least in part, my family, and i wonder if that had any bearing on dia de muertos and whether or not it was ever a big deal to remember the fact that buelito left a whole family behind.

i think about how there are so many people that even if i know their names i don't know anything about them, and some of that is my fault and so much of that is just that i was raised with a barrier--willfully raised monolingually for no good goddamn reason other than "it was too hard :(" for two bilingual parents to juggle that. that i know it wasn't an issue of protection because later on in life my parents would just dismiss that anything racist ever happened to me or our family, and even if it did why ever pay it any mind? don't worry about the classroom of 8th graders jeering at you in front a teacher that was too shellshocked to do anything that you jumped the border, we have the papers to prove otherwise so don't mind it.

i think about how i'm wearing a baja hoodie today that smells of nothing and scratches like plastic, because when i asked my parents to find the one they got for me in mexico that smells of natural hemp and cotton and is warm and breathable and cooling at the same time, they shrugged their shoulders and got me a dirt shit one off of amazon instead because they refuse to see the sentimental value at best, the desperate grasping at straws for a culture i feel constantly denied at worst. how a sarape i bought with my best friend in mexico is somehow missing now, so they also replaced that with a shit plastic polyester bullshit one in much the same way, and there was never a time i wrapped myself in it before it became my designated car blanket cover that i didn't feel like bursting into tears. how my roommate at the very least understood this enough that i do have a sarape that smells of cotton and is both warm and breathable and cool now because at least he cared enough to try and facilitate something my own flesh and blood carelessly continues to deny

hell is freezing over, by the way, and for the first time since i've ever known the man my father is reading a fictional book for his entertainment, and it's mine. having already suffered my mother Refusing to engage with any of the racial tensions the book specifically about racial tensions provides, i have no idea what's going to happen. all i know is that i feel like an impostor and i have no history to proclaim that i'm anything otherwise

[wordsandmorewords]

Two-Footed Scarecrows

Swearing to myself, at myself, for there were no birds on my walk. Cussing, with my teeth gnashing on the polyester collar of a coil-knit sweater that I've grabbed to above my chin with my teeth. A full two miles. Not even a pathetic, lonesome song through the branches of bare, deciduous trees. No cowboy lament. No broken-hearted diva. Not a goddamned song. I listened with intent. No birds. Plenty of two-footed scarecrows, plenty of flat-faced curs; all howling our hollows raspy no matter the volume.

Border walls built of yellow paint threaded down a black asphalt needle eye; checkpoints red-yellow-green. Fractured angles of light reflecting from windows acting as suppressive fire. Army tanks rolling at the speed of F-16s. If they'd known an isolated forest, this was a cursed bombardment; and if not, just another Wednesday hidden with the high-school-sweetheart husband drunk off his ass and left holding broken-bottle shards, cardinal blood seeping from his palms, smudges of bright red staining down the legs of his jeans.

The elder owls were surely looking down, incomprehensible disdain, furrowed brows cemented in place; evolutionary traits. Frustratedly patient, waiting for curfew to take effect and for us to return to our boxy wooden nests. "Hallelujah," they would echo. "Hallelooooojah." But all through the day, the sparrows were quiet. The hawks did not cry. For once, the jays withheld their complaints. What to make of the quiet from those whose homes we've invaded, drowned out by arrogant, ignorant, oblivious noise?

[cassieuncaged]

Grave Bound Redux: Book 1 - Chapter 1

Elias Grodin x Maggie Wilson (my OC)

Summary: A young, pacifist man chooses to serve in the Vietnam war instead of going to prison on drug charges.

TW: war, blood, death, brutality, language, etc.

WC: 1.7K

A/N: The first chapter is finally here, with the next three chapters slated.

Taglist: @roofgeese, @poisonedtruth, @confidentandgood, @emotionalcadaver, @chadillacboseman@enightshade89, @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky, @illiana-mystery, @unpetitoiseau, @spacestephh

Book 1: The Folly of War

Ooh, a storm is threatening my very life today.

If I don’t get some shelter, I’m gonna fade away.

Gimme Shelter – The Rolling Stones

Chapter 1

July 1965

A large hand assessed the crew cut, fingers running across buzzed stubble. His hair hadn’t been that short since high school, something his strict father had insisted upon. Elias never thought he’d be sheared again. Then again, he didn’t think he’d be shipped to Fort Campbell after basic either.

It had been the cherry on the shit sundae after being served his divorce papers from Jeannie a day before. His wife’s penchant for psychedelics and coke was what got him into this mess to begin with. Then the generals saw ‘potential’ in him. Enough to send him to Kentucky to train with 101st Airborne Division.

Reconnaissance in the demilitarized zone.

That seemed a sure way to be sent home in a pine box faster than the rest of the unlucky bastards. Suddenly seven years in the clink seemed like a better choice. The general barked at the young men hunched over the bleachers, preparing them for their brutal orders. The worries of modern life would soon melt away as they fumbled through Laotian jungles to reclaim the DMZ. He’d have no time to dwell on his divorce or drug charges. Not if he wanted to stay alive.

Dog tags jangled in unison when the men were dismissed to their barracks before training began. Most of the young soldiers fell into step while Elias refused; his gait was one of the last things he had that was his. Stripped down to the very bone of his being, he couldn’t just let military craft him into a killing machine. He was so much more. They all were. Even the kids that were ready to tote their M16’s and gun down the enemy.

Training in Kentucky didn’t last long until they were sent out on a chinook to the base outside of Củ Chi. Where Elias had expected to see lush greenery was nothing but scorched earth, dust swirling around his boots as the cherries all bandied from the chopper.

The few battalions that were sent to base camp were to ship out with their team leaders in the morning, being dropped on the Cambodian border of the demilitarized zone in an attempt to scout and pick off anyone that got in their way.

Sporting a fresh uniform, Elias had attempted to rebel the best he could. In small, rational doses. The cheap polyester button up beneath his fatigues were unbuttoned and exposing half of a lean chest. Dog tags were tangled around a wooden crucifix and a beaded necklace Jeannie had gifted him in high school.

An Airborne headband was wrapped tightly around his skull, declaring he was different than the majority of the men there. Hell, he was already the assistant team leader of his unit, despite being only a private. But he proved himself to be a fast learner, a man that would surely rise up the ranks quickly.

Keeping blue eyes glued to the ground, the jeers of men boarding the chinook were ignored as they jested and joked with one another.

“You heading back to New Jersey?” one man asked. The other snorted happily as their voices slowly faded.

“Hell, yeah. Gonna be knee deep in some pussy.” A raucous bout of laughter rang out as a few more men bellowed in agreement. Elias snuffled at the foreign smell of napalm mingled with rotting flesh.

A cart of bodies was pushed by, the pile covered by a singular tarp. His gut churned at the thought of being there himself, expiring in this hell. Knitting his brows in an attempt to steel himself, Elias followed the rest of the fresh meat as they meandered towards their own premature deaths.

“You alright, Elias?” Doyle, another mousy private, asked nervously. The kid was no older than nineteen but showed a lot of promise during training in Kentucky. “Kinda quiet.”

“Just a quiet kind of guy, private.” He grinned crookedly before slipping a pack of reds from his pocket. “You smoke?”

“Guess I do now.” Doyle pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Shakily accepting a cigarette, he struggled to look as leisurely as the older man. Instead, the filtered tip awkwardly jutted from his lips as dusty boots fell into step. “You excited about going out into the bush?”

“Excited isn’t the word I would use.” He grunted, rucksack digging into his shoulder as Doyle nearly tripped over his own feet.

“What word would you use?” the kid wiped sweat off his brow, squinting at the man as they held up the rear of the new recruits.

Unsure. Uneasy. Scared.

The words came to mind in a barrage. Ones he was sure would frighten the kid if he were honest. Instead, he only shrugged before trudging forward.

They’d been out in the bush for three days, trying to manage the terrain in a torrential downpour. Humping several miles on foot, rain continued to slide down bare arms. Bringing up the rear, a sharp branch snagged Elias’ poncho as he kept an eye on the underlings. In spite of being a PFC, the sergeant leading their team had a lot of faith in the man.

It was his third mission on recon and their hike through the jungle had been quiet. Other than Doyle practically falling from a bluff when rappelling downwards, none of them had been badly injured.

Wiping rainwater from his brow, he attempted to ignore how the mud attempted to swallow his boots whole. Sergeant Mackenzie stopped their squad suddenly, sending the small man reeling into Doyle’s rucksack. The sarge turned around, pushing a finger up to his lips before nodding towards two dark shadows practically obscured by the downpour.

Bullets cut through sheets of rain, practically invisible as they downed the sergeant in a fell swoop. Two soldiers were sprayed in blood as they were quick to take cover in the thick jungle foliage. Doyle bit back a whimper, clutching his bloody arm. Elias pushed him into the brush, before covering the man with his own body. The RTO was quick to radio for back-up as the others wielded their M16’s, attempting to keep the cheap weapons from jamming.

“Keep Doyle quiet,” Elias barked at the two men, eliciting looks of confusion as he slid the hood of his poncho down. Forest green, the perfect shade for camouflage. “I’m gonna get rid of these guys.”

“Are you insane?” one of the soldiers shouted, voice practically obscured by the rain and gunfire. “There could be loads of them up there.”

“Maybe a ways up the trail.” He reasoned, ducking behind a tree before reloading his weapon, “But we’ve only got two right here. Just keep firing.”

Pushing himself halfway up, Elias crouched as he treaded swiftly into a thicket of teakwood trees. Bullets rattled more clearly the closer he got to the two stragglers. The thicket of trees formed a canopy, filtering the intense rain and giving the men an advantage.

The rest of his team wouldn’t last if the NVA soldiers got any closer. Those AK’s would destroy them. Back pushed against the thick trunk of a tree, one boot brought pressure down on a branch. Snapping it in half loudly got the men’s attention.

One urged the other to investigate while the leader continued to gain on the Americans. The private relied on his ears, attempting to hear the thud of rubber soles against the bed of leaves and twigs. Shaking fingers unsheathed a bowie knife, as the man grew closer.

He wouldn’t leave this mortal coil without a fight.

Snaking slowly around the circumference of the trunk, Elias could peripherally see the man come closer. All he had to do was wait until his location was nearly revealed and then attack. He and the soldier were practically shoulder to shoulder as he swallowed down a shaky breath.

Now was his last chance.

Then the soldier paused, giving Elias the opportunity to pounce. Gun hanging from his bicep, he swiftly slid around the trunk to behind the poor bastard. Before the man could react, he clamped a large hand across an open mouth. Screams were muffled by the storm as his other hand slid his knife against delicate skin, blood hotly spraying outwards.

That was his first victim, the same one he’d gently laid on the ground before prying the AK-47 free. The North Vietnamese army was better equipped than the American’s who were already at the disadvantage. They could use any help they could get. Then Elias was sprinting towards the other, smoothly shooting off a round from the AK before taking another weapon for his stash. Searching the man’s uniform found a few grenades that were eagerly taken.

Only then did he realize he was no longer innocent.

The tropical storm had begun to let up by the time they’d been toted back to base with their sergeant’s splattered body and an injured Doyle. A rubber tourniquet had been applied to the young man’s arm until he was being hauled off for surgery with the MASH unit. Hopefully it could be fixed onsite instead of sending out another soldier to the 95th Evacuation.

Soaked to his bones, Elias was treated like a hero by the rest of the division in spite of immersion foot. A few men clapped him on the shoulder, excitedly murmuring about the newly received weaponry. But all the man could think of was the way the NVA soldier limply collapsed in his arms, lifeless.

Because of him.

What was that man doing other than trying to evacuate a common enemy as much as the men that surrounded him. Trying to make it from one day to the next, defending his way of life the best he could. Elias felt his guts knot again, for what felt like the hundredth time. Nothing mattered now.

He was a killer. And that couldn’t be absolved.

[jaggededges123]

hello it's wednesday again and this is from one of the very first wips i started working on after reading gtn <3

Colum touched the silver knob of the door with hesitant fingers, but when it didn’t melt his skin on contact he twisted it and pulled the door open. He repeated his hesitant movements at the threshold, pressing the pads of his fingertips through and waiting for agony. When none struck him, he followed his necromancer again.

The entrance was dark, likely because it wasn’t meant to be in use at this hour. Colum could make out a rack of coats on one side—heavy duty, and pure white, in varying sizes from the smallest of children to a cavalier-sized adult. Hanging from them were wide, stiff hoods which jutted out from the rest of the fabric like a spoon. Colum had never seen one before in person, but he knew what they were. They were sun hoods.

Those who labored for their food on other parts of the Eighth House wore them with great regularity, due to the way their greenhouses magnified the distant light of Dominicus so severely. In the most abundant of settlements, where the ground had been fertilized to the point where vast swathes of land were cultivated instead of small pockets, the entire settlement had been fitted with the magnifying glass, and as a result everyone who left their dwellings during the day wore the sun-hooded coats as a matter of course. In the capital city, however, there was only this one building which required their use.

On the other side of the entrance, there were a set of trunks, the contents unknown. Silas had already gone through to the gardens, the only indication that he’d been there at all the soft shifting of the thick white polyester curtains separating the two areas.

Colum walked through without touching the sun-hooded robes. It was night, and Colum was darker than most of the Eighth House already due to his cavalier training regimen and a particularly ancient Eighth gene the geneticists had slipped into his DNA.

Stepping into the conservatory dazzled Colum, because his gaze was, naturally, elevated. The starlight which seemed so distant and almost cold outside, was amplified and brilliant, dozens of pinpricks of light per pane of rounded glass dancing and winking at him. Colum lowered his gaze only when it became painful, and even then he remained halfway in and halfway out of the greenhouse, with strips of curtain still lying thick on his broad shoulders.

When the spots of white faded to black and then melted away entirely, Colum could take in the rest of the garden. There was a simplicity that bordered artistry but didn’t quite cross into it, in the dark earth packed into marble planter boxes that rose a foot and plunged into the floor. The boxes were spaced into circular, concentric rows which maximized planting space, neat rows of real plant matter filling them. Colum couldn’t identify any of them—botany was well outside of the purview of an Eighth House cavalier. He had only seen one or two real plants before in his entire life, and even now such novelty was not what truly drew his attention.

As was right and proper for the cavalier primary of the Eighth House, the one who had sworn his soul and body to the scion of the Eighth House, the one who had loved so dearly that sickly necromantic child, Colum Asht’s gaze gravitated toward his young uncle who was nearly in the center of it all.

Silas Octakiseron was knelt down next to one of the planter boxes, the white train of his cloak rumpled around him on the nearly-spotless floor. The hood of his cloak had been removed, in this makeshift private space, with only the prying eyes of his cavalier to see. His hair, tied into a simple braid that had a few tufts sticking out, glowed white under the starlight, brighter than night but not so bright as the day. It was eerie to see, in an ethereal and nonhuman sort of way. Silas was very beautiful as he carefully plucked out small sprigs of plant matter between his well-manicured hands—usually well-manicured, but his nails were long now, digging into the rich, dark earth, with the faintest shaking that Colum could hardly make out.

[yarnnerd]

My parents inherited this quilt from my great-grandmother, but the maker and date are unknown. With no repeating color scheme, it appears to be constructed from a variety of scrap fabrics including shirting, feed sacks, and a few polyester pieces. It is self-bound (the binding is made from the backing). Two edges include half-squares with a different border fabric, suggesting that the quilt top was expanded beyond its original dimensions at some point. The filling is exposed due to damage in several areas, and seems to be cotton batting. The entire quilt is hand-quilted with thick white thread in a running stitch, but the piecing appears to be a mixture of running stitch in the same thread and machine lockstitch in thinner white thread. The binding stitches are quite far apart and perpendicular to the binding edge (this is distinct from a whipstitch, but I don’t remember the name). It’s a very interesting historical textile! My mother is planning to patch the holes and display the quilt on an unused bed.

[wild-stray-renegade]

Polyester Pollution

Author’s Note: It is my personal responsibility to make sure none of these characters are having a good time— I’ve butchered their backstories and present to you the bony leftovers. Literally no one asked for this but the idea came to me and I started writing. If you want to see more of these two or this world, let me know!

TW: Plush...gore? Cursing

Word Count: 1622

     Our paws squelched in the tarry mud below us as we made our way across the open land. There's not much that we can see around us aside from the broken down buildings littering the area. I looked to our right at the one we lived in together with our draconian friend Derrin, as evidenced by the small scorch marks around one of the windows from a few of the wilder nights that the four of us had as a group. The crackling of the torch was oddly soothing in comparison to the silence of the vast landscape around us. My mind slipped into a daydream state about the shenanigans we would get up to. 

     A few seconds in however, I was broken from my dreamlike state. "...I miss him." I heard Damond mumble as he slowly came to a stop in our walk. His ears were folded back in pain. The sunlight bounced back from his little beady eyes as if to highlight the stinging hurt that decided to rear its ugly head in that moment. "I regret not being there for his final moments, not being able to say goodbye."

     A slight feeling of something new tugged at my chest; it felt like I had committed a crime and was paying the price. I'm not sure exactly what crime I actually pulled but there must've been something. "I'm…" I paused with a sigh and looked over at my buddy. "I'm sorry, Damond." I reached out a paw to comfort him but paused. Did he want to be comforted right now? Is touching him a good idea? Would that help or just cause more pain?

     Slightly ragged fur brushed against the fleece fabric of my dirty paw pads, shaking me from my thoughts. Damond had noticed my outstretched paw and decided he wanted physical affection, I guess. "Besnik… could you tell me how he was caught?"

     "Hmm? Are you sure you're ready for that story?" I raised my eyebrows. He had told me to wait for months now; the details aren't exactly a typical bedtime story that you'd tell your children late at night.

     Damond looked up at me with the pace of a snail. "I…Yeah. I'm as ready as I'm ever gonna be." He sat down on a mossy rock beside our path outside of the camp's borders. "I need to know how he passed on."

     I looked at him for a moment to make sure I didn't overlook any sign of resignation. The last thing we needed was this little shit of a fluffbutt breaking down on patrol. His stoic features worked a little too well in hiding any emotion he may have felt before. "I'm… okay." I circled around him to the other side of the rock and plopped down.

     "So. I can't recall their names or what in the hell we as a collective group have dubbed them as, but we were over there towards the Deslate Sea cause we were scavenging for those parts for Derrin— you remember, right?" I nodded towards him as he nodded back

     "Yeh; he was workin' on that one weapon; the one with the weighted spiked ball on the chain."

     "Exactly. Well, he had managed to track down a spot over there where there was an old hideout; we were thinking it was for another group of plush." I paused as the memories started to slowly creep back into my mind. "I… Well, Derrin was right on the building still being occupied, however he was a bit off the mark on who occupied it." 

     Damond's eyes shot up and locked with mine. I watched the pieces click together in his head. "No. There's no way."

     "Y'see, you say that," I raised my brow as I tilted my head towards him to emphasize my tone. "However when we arrived on the hideout's lot, the land surrounding it was covered in the same oily substance that we run into when we meet those creatures. The ones with the fire manes and tails?" I raised my paw behind my head and wiggled it to imitate the flames that line the back of the horse-like creature's necks and heads. Damond nodded in silence as he was more focused on what I was saying to interrupt. "The slick liquid? Well, I'm not sure it's really a liquid per se, but it had fully coated the area when we showed up. Was that a sign that we should've stopped?"

     Damond started to aggressively nod in response as his ears flopped in time, the black fur swaying with the wind. He didn't say anything aloud but I could see his eyes screaming You fucking dumbass! as they launched daggers into my chest repeatedly. It felt as if he was filled with the rage of a thousand suns and it was all being directed straight into not murdering me right then and there.

     "Yeah, yeah we should've. It was my first scouting mission though and I had never been properly trained; never thought I'd need to before then because we had Miraden with us. The rest of the team was decent as well." I shrugged as I mimicked a snort. "I thought I could be carried along by the others and be the healer of the group." I started to fidget with the small cloth tied around my wrist, the only reminder of my first and only 'owner'.  The text on it was barely legible, faded by the tests of time and the fact I wore it without any care in the world. 

     "So much for being a healer." My vision started to blur as I started zoning out and shutting everything down. The images of the night flooded my brain; the nighttime breeze blowing through my fur, the heavy scent of burning tar and gas searing my nose, the terrifying reflections in the oil as Miraden was jumped by one of the horse-like creatures, one of the hooves landing directly on his spine and cracking it in half, the ear-splitting screech that tore through the night and etched it's pitch into my memory and my night terrors ever since that terrible night, the lifeless eyes staring back at me as my closest friend's mangled body lied in a pool of tar, stuffing and cloth scattered around his corpse—

     A soft tap on my shoulder tore me from my nightmarish trance as I jumped into the air, my sword clattering onto the rock below. My eyes focused onto Damond's auburn, black and white furred face staring back into mine. His brow furrowed in concern as he tried to calm me down. "Hey, Besnik, bud, it's okay. You're safe now. You can't be attacked here. We have the barriers around the perimeters; you're safe. It'll be okay." I noticed my thoughts and my movements were more erratic than they normally were. My paws vibrated due to the anxiety and severe stress triggered due to the attack. 

     "Sorry, didn't realize I was zoning out so bad." A slight stutter escaped at the second word as I was trying to calm down; something I've never done before. I covered my snout with my paws in embarrassment as my face turned into a furnace— this is a horrible time to find out that my warming mechanism from being an Emotional Support Bear still works to some extent.      

     Damond could pick up on my situation as he smiled softly. "It'll be okay, Besnik." He proceeded to pat my head and then handed my sword back to me. "Here, take your blade before it vanishes into the void with half of your belongings. You have your shield and we need to keep the two together, you nut."       I scoffed as the comment playfully stung. I was still looking for my sewing kit so I could fix up the tear on my knee but that's been lost for a few weeks now. I swear, Derrin stole it and hid it among his hoard like the plush dragon he is. "Okay listen here, you little shit-'' The laughter bubbling up in my throat quickly vanished when we suddenly heard the quiet th-thud, th-thud, th-thud of hoofsteps to our right. A loud exhale soon followed as the massive shape of a horse's head peeked around the corner, liquid as thick as syrup dripping from the snout and the mouth. It's soulless eyes stared at where we sat as if it knew exactly where we rested. The neon flames on its neck blazed with a violent energy unlike anything I've ever seen before and illuminating the area around us. Pieces of rough fabric and coarse fur rested in the pools of the tar, the fabric stained and mangled by the substance as if it tainted the fabric to the point of no return. Small tufts of cotton sank into the horse's skin— if you could call it that.

     There was a massacre here.

     "A Nightmare…" Damond's voice dripped with fear as he gripped his weapon with his long tail and preparing to lunge at the towering enemy. "Time to avenge my fallen brethren." The fire reflected in his eyes to highlight the anger and pain that delved deep into his soul, tearing it to shreds with every passing moment. I turned to face the horse and stared into the glowing holes of his eyes, crouching and preparing to lunge. The calm settled on the field as the wind suddenly stopped for a few seconds and all fell silent. The only noises that could be heard were the crackling of the Mare's flames and breathing.

     As if rehearsed for years and then led by a conductor, we lunge towards the Nightmare at the same time with our weapons held high.

[fragileizywriting]

why are things always so much harder for her? why is everything so much easier for others? why does she struggle so much to stop making things so big?

as gently as she can, she slips her phone back onto her towel. neatly folded and rolled up on the stool near the bathtub as she continues to soak. at first it’d been a good idea; a bath, a long one, to roll out her stiffened calves and get into hopefully a mood relaxed enough to find the courage to ask luka for some heavy-petting during their cuddles. still now, she has to warm herself up to the idea. get into it. she feels sexless most times when the heat dies down and her eyes are able to focus, unless she helps herself get into the mindset.

maybe not this time.

instead, she sniffles. cries a bit, when she blinks and her eyelashes stick and glitter with dew.

“luka,” she calls out, gently, just loud enough that he’ll hear if he isn’t humming under his breath while fixing up the mess they’ve made of the covers. “can you come here?” a noise from outside the bathroom has her sniffling harder. “please come in here.”

the door cracks open enough to let a draft in. she tries not to shiver, but finds comfort in the feeling.

“what’s wrong?”

“i got off the phone with my mom, and i feel...”

that’s all he needs to hear. he’s not clothed, and won’t be for a few more days, because her heat is a bitch and refuses to let polyester get close. his touch, yes; their sheets, maybe; soapy water is allowed, too. but scratchy nylon is the first to go when arousal peaks and washes over like the tide and causes her to strip anything that isn’t skin.

he climbs into the tub with her.

there’s not much room. there’s no room at all, actually, because the tub is cramped for her— a tiny thing, a small thing, a handful and a problem of a thing— and when luka stands up, he goes up and up and up. it takes him a while to find a place for his kneecaps, and a place for his ankles, and feet, and thighs— giant, muscle-filled arms wrap around her while she sobs into her hands.

“i’m sorry,” he tells her.

“i did something wrong.”

“i don’t think you did. usually whenever she does this, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“she called me a problem,” she tells him with a sob. another inhale through the nose— a wet, disgusting thing— tells her he’s stewing in bordering irritation. it bleeds through the open air, bruising the scent of patchouli and ylang ylang aromatics into submission. “she— she said that im bothering you.”

“what were her words?”

“she asked me where i was. i told her your place, but that was okay, because you’re okay with spending my first heat with me.” her throat is too tight to swallow, but she gives it a try. “she told me to be careful, that i shouldn’t annoy you, because i know how… bad i can be.”

“kitty—”

“—that i would be better dealing with this alone,” she whispers. “that way, i wouldn’t bother.”

“you’re not bothering me.”

“my brain feels numb. and exhausted. and i feel like i’ve been floating the entire time, only for that call to make everything crash back down.”

“your heat isn’t going to let you think about this for much longer.” he kisses her scalp. “i guess we can count that as a positive… i’m here, okay? you’re not bothering me. i want to take care of you. i want to be there for you. you’re okay, love. let’s finish washing your face and get you comfy into bed.”

[trystan-morningstar]

Very bad photos, but I made a new thing! It's from Folkwear Patterns, #126 vests of Greece and Poland. I've made every vest in that pattern set before except this one. This was such a fun project. It came together so easily, even the inset pieces in the back. I was nervous about that part because it was sewing opposing curves and neither of the fabrics I was using had any stretch. The black print fabric was a gift from my bestie and it was a pleasure to work with, and the solid black is a faux suede I bought a while ago for another project. The trims I used I also bought a while ago, on a whim from etsy. They were easy to work with but they do unravel very easily lol. I made my own bias binding for the border and arm holes, it's definitely wasn't my best but it also wasn't horrible lol. I'm still not great at binding, I always miss spots when machine sewing it but I will say this was my best time yet so practice does help. I do plan on buying more of the plain black trim (when I'm not broke) and sewing that on top of the bias binding. I'm definitely going to make another one of these already. I have fabric in my stash that I was actually saving for this pattern. It's this patchworky gold and red tapestry esque thing? I got at a thrift store before covid lol. I'm guessing it was a drape or wall hanging, I used a seam ripper to remove the cheap polyester backing and I'm going to use the main fabric for the vest. I'll try and take progress pics but I'm really excited about it.

[thecowprintshop]

.sbl-size-table border-collapse: collapse; padding: 0; margin: 0 0 20px; width: 100%; font-size: 14px; text-align: heart; .sbl-size-table th font-weight: 500; .sbl-size-table td, .sbl-size-table th padding: 8px 0; border: 1px stable #e5e9f2; shade: #3e3f42; text-shadow: 1px 1px 1px #fff; text-align: heart; .sbl-size-table th:first-child, .sbl-size-table td:first-child text-align: left; padding: 8px 5px 8px 15px; width: 103px; .sbl-size-guide-container width: 100%; text-align: heart; margin-bottom: 20px; margin-top: 20px; .sbl-size-guide-container img max-width: 200px; ; margin: auto; This silky-soft premium 100% microfleece blanket is right for snuggling and are even hotter than they appear. Excellent for watching films, snuggling, chilly outside evenings and extra! • Outer cloth: Micro-mink 100% polyester • Lining: Extremely comfortable microfiber fleece • Ornamental blanket sew round edge • Excessive definition printing colours • Accessible in 3 sizes • Printed, minimize, and hand-sewn by our in-house crew As a result of it’s handmade for you, these blankets require 6-8 enterprise days earlier than they're shipped. Orders positioned earlier than midnight will likely be included within the following day’s batch for manufacturing. Inch M L XL Width 42 ¾ 51 ½ 60 Peak 57 ¼ 68 ¾ 80 Centimeter M L XL Width 108,8 130,6 152 Peak 145,5 174,6 202

[voltsco]

Cross-border Pillowcase

Product information: Product category: cushion cover/pillow cover Style: modern and simple Jacket material: polyester Filling material: PP cotton Material: Linen Pattern: geometric abstraction Filler content: 90% (inclusive) -100% (not included) Size: 45*45cm

[murthysewingmachines1]

Exploring the Unique Stitching Capabilities of Zigzag Sewing Machines

Zigzag sewing machines are a staple in both home and professional sewing environments, offering a wide range of capabilities that extend far beyond basic stitching. These machines are designed to create zigzag stitches, but their versatility goes well beyond just that. Whether you’re working on a creative project or a more technical task, understanding the unique stitching capabilities of a zigzag sewing machine can help you elevate your sewing skills and create professional-quality results.

1. Adjustable Stitch Width and Length

One of the standout features of a zigzag sewing machine is its adjustable stitch width and length. These settings give you the flexibility to fine-tune your stitching to suit different types of fabric and projects. Whether you need a narrow zigzag for delicate fabrics or a wide zigzag for stronger seams, you can easily make adjustments to achieve the perfect stitch. This adaptability makes the zigzag machine an excellent tool for working with a variety of materials, from lightweight cotton to thick denim or stretch fabrics.

2. Versatile Stitching Options

In addition to the standard zigzag stitch, many modern zigzag sewing machines come equipped with a range of other stitch types, such as:

Scallop Stitches: Perfect for adding decorative edges to garments or home décor.

Blind Hem Stitch: Ideal for hemming garments without the stitch being visible on the front side.

Triple Zigzag Stitch: Provides extra strength and durability for seams that undergo high stress, such as in heavy-duty garments.

Stretch Stitch: Great for working with stretchy fabrics, as it allows the fabric to stretch without breaking the seam.

These various stitch types offer a level of creativity and functionality that is crucial for both simple and complex sewing projects.

3. Edge Finishing and Fabric Protection

Zigzag stitches are perfect for preventing fabric from fraying, which is especially important when working with raw fabric edges. By running a zigzag stitch along the edges, you can easily finish the fabric, giving it a clean, polished look while preventing it from unraveling over time. This is especially useful when sewing with fabrics like cotton, linen, and polyester, which are prone to fraying. Additionally, you can achieve the same results without the need for a serger, saving time and money while still achieving professional results.

4. Sewing Stretch and Knit Fabrics

When working with stretchy or knit fabrics, a straight stitch often fails to provide the necessary flexibility. A zigzag stitch, however, accommodates the stretch of the fabric, allowing the seam to move with the fabric. This makes zigzag machines the go-to choice for sewing activewear, swimwear, and other garments made from stretchy materials. The stitch flexibility ensures that the fabric moves freely without the seam breaking or causing puckering.

5. Creative Embellishments

Beyond functionality, zigzag sewing machines offer ample opportunities for adding creativity to your projects. With their ability to create intricate patterns and decorative edges, zigzag machines are perfect for personalized touches. You can add stylish borders to clothing, home textiles, and accessories, or use the zigzag stitch to create unique embroidery designs that stand out.

Why Murthy Sewing Machines?

For those seeking versatility and creativity in their stitching, Murthy Sewing Machines is celebrated as the Best Sewing Machine Dealers in Chennai, with a robust selection to meet every need. If you're ready to Buy Zig Zag Sewing Machines, explore our top models, like the Brother GS2700 Automatic Zig-Zag Electric Sewing Machine, known for its ease of use and precise stitching, or the Ranew 130K Embroidery Zig-Zag Sewing Machine, ideal for intricate embroidery and decorative stitching. Zigzag sewing machines open up endless possibilities, from flexible seams to unique patterns, making them essential for any sewing toolkit. At Murthy Sewing Machines, we’re here to help you find the perfect zigzag machine to bring your creative projects to life.

Conclusion

Zigzag sewing machines are more than just a tool for basic stitching—they are incredibly versatile machines that can handle a variety of tasks with ease and precision. From adjusting stitch width and length to sewing stretch fabrics and creating intricate decorative stitches, the capabilities of a zigzag sewing machine are vast and varied. Whether you're working on a simple home project or a professional garment, a zigzag machine can help you achieve seamless results with flexibility and creativity. Explore the possibilities at Murthy Sewing Machines, where we offer the best selection of machines to suit your needs.

[poetry-mall]

Cross-border new telescopic doll ornament Christmas holiday atmosphere arrangement old man snowman elk telescopic doll

Product category: Venue layout props Material: Polyester Size: European Retractable Doll Old Man, European Retractable Doll Snowman, European Retractable Doll Elk Applicable holidays: Christmas Style: European, American Category: Doll

[ashishvlogsblog]

How to Add Elegance to Your Dubai Interiors with the Right Rugs

When it comes to enhancing the aesthetic appeal and comfort of your home or office, few items compare to the timeless charm of Rugs Dubai . Rugs are not only functional, providing warmth and comfort, but they also bring texture, color, and a personal touch to any space. In Dubai, a city known for its luxury and refined tastes, rugs play a significant role in interior design. From traditional Persian rugs to modern, chic styles, Rugs Dubai offers a vast range of options to suit every taste and budget.

The Perfect Blend of Style and Comfort

One of the most important reasons why people in Dubai choose rugs is their ability to add both style and comfort to any room. Whether you're looking to create a cozy living area, a welcoming office environment, or a relaxing bedroom, Rugs Dubai has something for every need. The right rug can set the tone for your entire room, complementing the furniture, colors, and overall theme. With a wide variety of materials, patterns, and sizes available, you can easily find the perfect rug that reflects your personality and enhances the décor of your space.

Materials That Matter

The material of a rug plays a crucial role in its durability, texture, and aesthetic appeal. In Dubai, many rug suppliers offer a wide selection of materials that are perfect for the local climate and lifestyle. Wool rugs are a popular choice for their softness, warmth, and resilience, making them ideal for living rooms and bedrooms. Silk rugs, on the other hand, offer a luxurious, glossy finish and are often used in more formal settings or as statement pieces. For a more contemporary look, synthetic fibers like polypropylene and polyester offer a range of designs and are often easier to maintain.

A Wide Range of Designs and Patterns

Dubai is a melting pot of cultures, and this is reflected in the variety of rug designs available. From traditional Persian and Oriental rugs, with intricate patterns and rich colors, to modern, minimalist styles with geometric patterns and neutral tones, Rugs Dubai offers something to suit every taste. Traditional rugs often feature intricate motifs and medallions, while modern designs focus on bold, abstract patterns or even custom designs to fit specific spaces.

If you prefer a more subtle and understated design, you can opt for solid-colored rugs or those with simple borders. Whether you are decorating a minimalist apartment or a grand, opulent villa, the right rug can tie everything together and create a cohesive and stylish environment.

Durability and Maintenance

Living in Dubai means dealing with the unique challenges of a hot and humid climate. When choosing a rug, it is essential to consider both durability and ease of maintenance. Rugs Dubai suppliers offer rugs made with materials that are resistant to wear and tear, even in high-traffic areas. Wool and synthetic fiber rugs, for instance, are both durable and easy to clean, ensuring that your rug stays looking beautiful for years to come.

Additionally, many rug suppliers in Dubai offer professional cleaning services to ensure your rug retains its beauty and extends its lifespan.

The Right Rug for Every Room

Whether you're furnishing a cozy apartment, a luxurious villa, or a commercial office, Rugs Dubai has the perfect options for you. A well-placed rug can define the space, provide comfort, and enhance the overall atmosphere. When choosing a rug, consider the size of your room, the function of the space, and the color scheme of your décor. Larger rugs work well in spacious living rooms, while smaller rugs or runners are ideal for hallways, kitchens, and bathrooms.

Why Choose Rugs Dubai?

In Dubai, where luxury and style are paramount, Rugs Dubai stands out for its wide selection, high-quality products, and expert advice. Whether you're looking for a classic rug with intricate designs or a modern piece to complement your contemporary space, the choices are endless. With the right rug, you can elevate your living or working environment, adding warmth, texture, and timeless elegance.

So, transform your space today with a rug that speaks to your style and needs. Explore Rugs Dubai for the perfect addition to your home or office!