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My yen for sewing waffles with the number of yen in my piggy bank.

This particular April 16th (D+1 Income Tax Day), I was motivated.

Since a pricey, dressmaker’s form was not in reach,

an internet how-to had to do,

for making and draping my very own dummy.

(I know what you’re thinking)

Nothing more than an old sweat suit, duct tape and a few cans of aerosol, foam insulation, it seemed a snap. Here in hangs the tale….


I slipped on the sweats, sat down on the bed, extended my legs and winded the tape from ankles clear up to my thighs.

Once past the knees, I realized that standing-up with ease needed help,

so I called “please” to my husband near-by.

His facial expression as he entered the room should have certainly given me pause.

But, I had a vision and was off on a mission that good sense could not deter.

Once pulled to my feet I began to entreat ‘till he gave in and wrapped me up tight.

Butt to waist then chest and down arms, a prisoner I teetered and swayed.


Extrication came next, the directions declared by wending a line down one side to be snipped along carefully with scissors,

under one arm, down the body, and length of one leg.

Like some giant clamshell the contraption would then bend open

allowing me to be shucked out.

Well, he tried to be careful, gentle and kind, but the tape was very tightly wound, and each time the scissor points dipped to gain new purchase

they would prick my skin and I’d scream.


He pushed me back upon the bed in utter consternation, trying to redistribute the pulp from the shell, but it did nothing to quell the pain.

Inch by inch my tender flesh was pricked, and louder became my cries.

The poor man was trembling and ready to faint when at last the deed was done.

And I popped from my shell with one final yell, as he swore-off this hair-brained scheme.


Tho’ bloodied and battered, I persevered to tape the thing back whole and hollow, and squirted the foam within.

For many a day, this headless specter leered back at me

from its prop in a far dark corner.

I had lost the will to make it work and my sewing career to boot.

Then one fine day a friend would jokingly say.

“My, what a fine practice target you have.”


So now, with revenge ever so sweet, it sits outside in the woodpile,

and serves me well with a target on its chest,

or a can on its shoulders as we practice our archery skills.

Each arrow prick is a Bull’s Eye for my psyche.



[” If it’s supposed to move and it doesn’t use WD40, if it’s not supposed to move and it does, use duct tape.”
If it’s more complicated, use your Swiss army knife.

~ Anonymous]



It is strangely quiet
Here in the shadows
A solitary figure
Who to be
by what name?


Heather Blakey February 2007

My impatient muse waved farewell and sailed to her island retreat where she plays and waits for the ferry women to bring any candidates for her services. That lazy lady swings in a hammock quite unsympathetic to my distant messages, refuses to read emails, won’t answer thought waving, and, as for snail mail, refuses to give out her address. I’ll have to call in the chief ferry woman and make my way over the sea.


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February 2007
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