Stitches

Anyone know how to block needlework? I would like to block a needlepoint piece, any suggestions on the best method?

The start of my novel. Opinions please? This is the opening to my novel. If it's badly written, or dull, I want to know. Or does it slowly draw you in (there's not an obvious hook, I know). Grammar, sentence construction and structure - I want to know what you think. Please be honest. Thank you! She laid out the colourful skeins of embroidery threads in systematic rows according to colour, shade and depth, until the surface of the table was covered in gleaming silks. An inch of pale oak separated the groups of assorted skeins so the table was now a luminous patchwork, the blocks of colour vivid in the shabby room. In the corner, her mother, still agile, was kneeling hunched over the shears as they sliced through fabric, faded soft cotton-lawn pyjamas, crisp cotton skirts long since outgrown, the fronts and backs and sleeves of her dead husband’s well-worn shirts, confidently cutting triangles, rectangles, squares and diamonds, all by eye. Her mother did not cut curves. The overall design and pattern was achieved by arranging precise geometric shapes only. If a curve were required she would combine rectangles, triangles and squares, overlapping where necessary (which only added substance to the quilting) to give the clever illusion of a gradual arc. But the component parts were always precisely cut angular shapes. She was not an artist. She couldn’t draw a likeness with pencil or paint but she could work coloured threads and fabric expertly by hand using tiny stitches meticulously placed with the dual purpose of joining together the small pieces of fabric in pleasing colour combinations by means of intricate hand quilting on the reverse that was decorative and unique. They worked silently, concentrating on their tasks. The only sounds the steady familiar rasp of the scissors’ rhythmic action and the gentle hiss and crackle of the ray-burn stove, it’s humid warmth permeating the room. Daisy, the daughter, wants to be only that - her mother’s daughter, at this moment, on this day. Today, and over the last few days, she is seeking a return to something she has lost. Her mother instinctively knows this – there has been little conversation between them – and the stillness is comforting to them both. Having finished sorting the skeins of thread, Daisy sits gazing at all the myriad colours laid on the table. She takes her time choosing three toning shades of crimson and tucks them swiftly up her sleeve. She rises and pads across the worn flagstones to the door at the far edge of the room. With a fleeting glance towards her mother she snibs the door quietly shut and tiptoes up the stairs to her room. It is not really her room but the room where she has recently stayed, here, at her mother’s house. Now, because it alone is unchanged in her life, it feels more familiar to her than any other room, anywhere. The bed with its cold iron frame could remind her of school, but doesn’t - the quilt, chequered with brilliant azure and blues from duck egg to clear turquoise, trellis-stitched with hundreds of deep blue diamond-shaped pillows, removes any association there might have been. She wonders if her mother knows how fashionable the room is now, the original time-darkened boards varnished and scattered with two well-worn rugs. A pine chest sits under the sloping planes of the window recess, and on it stands an old French mirror, framed by ornate gilding that is chipped and flaking. Daisy opens one of the small drawers and pulls it fully out till it meets the stop. She bends her wrist upwards to stretch her fingers towards the back, feeling for the tapestry needle and the small pair of needlework scissors, stuck to the underside of the top of the chest with sticky tape, that she had hidden there years before. They’re still there, as she knew they would be. She puts the needle between her teeth and with the scissors dangling from one finger, lifts the mirror and places it on the floor to one side of the window recess. She puts the scissors and the three skeins of silk next to it on the floor. Crossing over to the bed, she tugs at the quilt and drags it across the boards to where daylight floods the room. She lays it carefully on the floor and, sitting cross-legged, drapes the quilt over her knees and now she’s inside a cosy envelope. She takes the needle from her lips and places it carefully on the floating table of multicoloured silk that tents across her knees. Her hair is tucked behind her ears in a swift unconscious movement. She shifts forward to where daylight hits the mirror and peers at her image as, one by one she begins to remove her piercings.

What do you call this craft? Back in the late 60's, I remember doing needlework with a flat needle where you 'punched' yarn through a piece of fabric, and just continued punching stitches right beside each other to make a row of stitching. The needle had a plastic handle, with the needle being about a quarter of an inch wide. Does anyone remember what this is called, or what the needle is called? This is not latch hook. When you hook a rug, you are not pushing yarn through a piece of fabric, you are tying a piece of yarn around a piece of netting. And you are not using a needle, but are using a hook.

How's my story so far? Ever since I can remember, the countryside has been off limits. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t dare ask. Except for once, I got up the courage to ask my mother why it was so bad. She didn’t respond but only look up solemnly from her needlework, letting out the faintest sigh, her usually lively green eyes dulling. Years have passed since then and only now has the wonderment of the hills come back to me. I found everyday things I used to do without any complaining boring and dull. Things had lost their crisp, sharpness, so that’s when I decided I had to know what the hills were hiding. That night I prepared to explore. “Goodnight Dara,” whispered my mom, softly tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear, and shutting the door. I lay in bed only for a few moments longer as I listened to her light footsteps fading down the hallway, then I jumped into action. I sat up and reached under my pillow, my hands meeting a cold and waxy candle I had hidden under there the night before. I reached for a match off my side table and struck it. The candle’s luminous glow filled the room, making it easier for me to find my bag. I got it a few years back for my birthday. Father made it especially for me by stitching my initials on it. As I am making my way over to my door a loud screeching noise fills the air and I fall back onto my bed in surprise. I push myself up using my arms and walk over to the window. Looking out I see lights filling almost all the homes of the village as families wake up in a startled stir. Sounds like the alarm, I thought to myself. I fling open my door and run down the hallway yelling,” Mom! Dad! Be right back! I’m going down to town hall to find out what’s up,” as I ran out the front door. So I run down the road past the bakery and up a few more buildings till I got to the town hall. The sound was louder than ever now that I am closer to the source, it’s the town emergency bell and something terrible has happened. As I enter through the big termite worn doors, I hit a wall of people blocking my view of the town wise, Gaelin. I can barely hear his voice over the confused chatter of everyone in the room. With the bell ringing overhead all I heard was one word. Sacrifice. “Please! People! Quiet down so we can all settle this out,” Gaelin’s booming voice filled the room and instantly silenced it. The sound of the bell even stopped. Gaelin had long silvery strands of hair that fell upon his shoulder limply. He was dressed in a robe adorned with red and black symbols. Everyone knew there was only one reason why such an ominous cloth would be brought out of the dark. There has been a death. The villagers crowded in one big mob raised their hands upright to show respect to the elder and their eyes met the floor out of embarrassment. Gaelin raised his wrinkled hand outwards in response, accepting their apology and began to speak. “Tonight, a deadly monster has come back to haunt us once more. Tonight this monster takes on the form of a kidnapper, taking one of our own children…” he trailed off, tears welling up in his eyes. A cry of grief is heard from a woman in the back of the crowd. She comes forward and I recognize her as the doctor’s wife as she screams out to Gaelin,” My daughter! Eliza is gone! Why’d did all of you let her go out there?” Reponses like,”You should’ve kept an eye on that child” and “It’s too late, the old woman is probably already cutting her up,” were scattered throughout the crowd, spoken in such monstrous indecency to a woman who has lost her only child, that I cannot even continue to record the banter. SMACK! Gaelin pounds his fist on the makeshift podium, and it falters a little. “How? How can such decent and caring people such as you be such demons to a woman who merely wants her little girl back?” his eyes scanning the crowd locks sights with someone I can’t see and he begins to speak again. The hall is quiet. “I have already consulted with the Elders and we have agreed that our next line of action is to be executed swiftly and without question. We have decided that to keep our children safe, that the sacrificial ceremonies to this monster must be started once more.” Many gasped whilst others quietly turned around and walked out. Many, in fact, chose to leave after this statement that half the room was gone in a mere two minutes and I was free to move towards the front. What direction should I go with the story? Any thing I need to work on? :) thanks

What do you think about my story, should I continue writing it? Ever since I can remember, the countryside has been off limits. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t dare ask. Except for once, I got up the courage to ask my mother why it was so bad. She didn’t respond but only look up solemnly from her needlework, letting out the faintest sigh, her usually lively green eyes dulling. Years have passed since then and only now has the wonderment of the hills come back to me. I found everyday things I used to do without any complaining boring and dull. Things had lost their crisp, sharpness, so that’s when I decided I had to know what the hills were hiding. That night I prepared to explore. “Goodnight Dara,” whispered my mom, softly tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear, and shutting the door. I lay in bed only for a few moments longer as I listened to her light footsteps fading down the hallway, then I jumped into action. I sat up and reached under my pillow, my hands meeting a cold and waxy candle I had hidden under there the night before. I reached for a match off my side table and struck it. The candle’s luminous glow filled the room, making it easier for me to find my bag. I got it a few years back for my birthday. Father made it especially for me by stitching my initials on it. As I am making my way over to my door a loud screeching noise fills the air and I fall back onto my bed in surprise. I push myself up using my arms and walk over to the window. Looking out I see lights filling almost all the homes of the village as families wake up in a startled stir. Sounds like the alarm, I thought to myself. I fling open my door and run down the hallway yelling,” Mom! Dad! Be right back! I’m going down to town hall to find out what’s up,” as I ran out the front door. So I run down the road past the bakery and up a few more buildings till I got to the town hall. The sound was louder than ever now that I am closer to the source, it’s the town emergency bell and something terrible has happened. As I enter through the big termite worn doors, I hit a wall of people blocking my view of the town wise, Gaelin. I can barely hear his voice over the confused chatter of everyone in the room. With the bell ringing overhead all I heard was one word. Sacrifice. “Please! People! Quiet down so we can all settle this out,” Gaelin’s booming voice filled the room and instantly silenced it. The sound of the bell even stopped. Gaelin had long silvery strands of hair that fell upon his shoulder limply. He was dressed in a robe adorned with red and black symbols. Everyone knew there was only one reason why such an ominous cloth would be brought out of the dark. There has been a death. The villagers crowded in one big mob raised their hands upright to show respect to the elder and their eyes met the floor out of embarrassment. Gaelin raised his wrinkled hand outwards in response, accepting their apology and began to speak. “Tonight, a deadly monster has come back to haunt us once more. Tonight this monster takes on the form of a kidnapper, taking one of our own children…” he trailed off, tears welling up in his eyes. A cry of grief is heard from a woman in the back of the crowd. She comes forward and I recognize her as the doctor’s wife as she screams out to Gaelin,” My daughter! Eliza is gone! Why’d did all of you let her go out there?” Reponses like,”You should’ve kept an eye on that child” and “It’s too late, the old woman is probably already cutting her up,” were scattered throughout the crowd, spoken in such monstrous indecency to a woman who has lost her only child, that I cannot even continue to record the banter. SMACK! Gaelin pounds his fist on the makeshift podium, and it falters a little. “How? How can such decent and caring people such as you be such demons to a woman who merely wants her little girl back?” his eyes scanning the crowd locks sights with someone I can’t see and he begins to speak again. The hall is quiet. “I have already consulted with the Elders and we have agreed that our next line of action is to be executed swiftly and without question. We have decided that to keep our children safe, that the sacrificial ceremonies to this monster must be started once more.” Many gasped whilst others quietly turned around and walked out. Many, in fact, chose to leave after this statement that half the room was gone in a mere two minutes and I was free to move towards the front.

Have any of you ever made an old needlepoint piece into a pillow having to trim down the piece? I have been given a very old seat cover from what looks to be a dining room chair. The work is off the chair and an odd shape. I'm a fairly good sewer (one who sews, not the drainage ditch..lol) and love old textiles. I would like to make this into a square or rectangular pillow and will have to cut into the old needlepoint to accomplish this. Anyone ever done this? I'm thinking I will need to leave a generous border of the original work, and maybe use "fraycheck", which you will not see as the needlework will be inset into a coordinating fabric. Any tips? I'm also going to use some trims, etc to make this lush. I am going for something of this nature...although I'm sure I won't come close to anything this gorgeous! http://www.cest-chouettehome.com/ Thanks for any help you can offer! Happy Holidays! This will be a gift for someone very special to me, so I need to get on this. It's 14 degrees and snowing, with a 30 mile an hour wind, so today works well for me!