The priest opened the church when the ball appeared, but some outsiders trekked to the woods to watch as the ball started breathing in time to the prayers. It grew larger with every Amen, sucking up twigs and leaves and flowers. Its goodness was terrifying. It had to be stopped.
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Shilling wove sticks into balls, folded paper into birds, bent paperclips into mice and squirrels. Altering the way things are, making one thing into something else, that’s what he did.
But time changes things too: sticks grow brittle and break, paper tears, and rust bleeds from the squirrels and mice.
Perhaps it was the war years. The wet, calloused knees, incessant floor scrubbing, boiling of bones and rejection of modern refrigeration had all contributed to the acquisition of her nickname, Hair-Shirt-Hilda. As a joke, they gave her a huge ball of twigs and a knitting pattern for Christmas.
"What doesn't bend, breaks," he said, his eyes squinting at the fuzzy mass of sticks. He had long forgotten that he was its originator and so the wooden orb grew perfectly and without ego. Each day he added a fresh twig to the entanglement, forgetting it by the next morning.
The sphere of twigs and leaves sat in amongst the trees breathing quietly, waitng for its time, softening and spreading, its inner waters becoming thicker, more perfumed, the soft crunch of its voice getting ready to snap.
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