Waxpaper Scissors

A man in black (actually a dark gray) comes to the door. He bears a commission from an unnamed patron. There will be a celebration. A gift is needed. It is needed within a few hours. We are not to leave the house.

Anna digs out a shoebox from under the bed. It is filled with forgotten photographs. She takes to them a sharp pair of scissors, clipping compelling details. These are glued down and passed to Leo, dusting off an old manual typewriter.

Time is of the essence. We work quickly, not looking back. Anna mops the sweat off Leo's brow with a tattered kerchief.

The clock strikes. The last full stop is typed. Anna binds the spine with a thread. Our first waxpaper scissorbook is done. We will see another dawn.

From time to time the man in black (really a sort of charcoal) comes back to knock on our door. Lately, he finds us in the company of other artists and writers — waxpaper collaborators quickly drawn into the intrigue.