Scrounging through a litter bin Sarah sought to to find precious aluminum cans in the bin. She could have some money if she found enough. Sometimes, people only ate some of their takeaway food, and Sarah got to eat. If she wasn't too fussy, she could deal with the stomach aches if it were too stale. Alcohol costs money, which is what collected aluminum cans were hunted for. She went down to the water's edge in the park, where teenagers had parties. Sometimes, she would find a tin of beer half-drunk.
There was a noisy gang there. She had trouble with them before and avoided them when she could. Screamed her head off if she couldn't get away from them and hoped a cop would be close enough to help her. She skirted away, hoping they wouldn't notice her being too close. She had to be careful, so she wouldn't get caught. They left old Scraggy a scar on his face because he was too close.
Her stomach grumbled, but she was used to hunger. She brought the aluminum cans she had to the scrapyard. She needed what that greedy, nefarious penny-pinching old merchant Scag would give her for them. As she made her way to where she might exchange them, she walked past a TV shop. On the TV, there was a news program about some auctions. Someone was selling dresses, and people were bidding on them. She remembered when she wore dresses. Dizzying figures were rolling across the screen as people bid for various dresses. Five thousand, ten thousand.
The TV presenter then started to talk about the star lot. Sarah didn't hear anything that was being said. There were subtitles she could read. She looked and saw it was her red dress being sold. She recognized it immediately. It was definitely hers. Not only that, but she hadn't seen it for forty years, ever since that bitch Erica stole it. Memories flooded her mind: her first time wearing the dress and how jealous all the other women were. Daniel hugging and then kissing her, then sad memories of Daniel getting shot dead.
The figures on the screen started to rise, starting at fifty thousand, then went to one hundred, then one hundred and fifty. The auctioneer, a woman with a suit and her hair in a bun pointed with her hammer to various positions in the crowd. Then, it jumped to two hundred and fifty thousand. The TV presenter wiped the sweat off her brow with a tissue. She was saying something about how the dress was one of a kind. The stitches were extraordinarily unusual, and she had never seen anything like it before. Sarah knew it was unique because she had made it herself and dyed it with beetroot to the shade she wanted it to be.
Sarah looked at the figures again. They had risen to five hundred and fifty thousand. Sarah's stomach rumbled, she was hungry, and she knew she had to eat. The presenter watched as the auctioneer said, “Going once, going twice, going three times, sold”, as she slammed her hammer down. The TV presenter was ecstatic with joy at the finishing bid. Sarah knew she needed advice as fast as possible. The following day, she went to her case officer and told her what she needed.
Two days later, Sarah was at the auction house. She tried to walk in but was repulsed by the aghast receptionist who was wiping her hands with a wet wipe after touching the homeless woman.
Sarah was shouting that she wanted her dress. There was a man in the background laughing at her. The receptionist was on the phone looking directly at Sarah. She went on shouting for some more time until the police were called and moved her along. She was sitting on a bench when a young woman approached. “Hi, my name is Emily. I work for the auction house. I couldn't help but hear you at the gallery saying that the dress was yours. Which dress were you talking about?”
”Yes, it's mine, and I want it back, that bitch Erica stole it from me. I want it now, you hear?”.
Then Sarah paused, “Were you the woman with the hammer who sold my dress”.
“Yes I was the auctioneer.”
Emily could see this woman had bathed in a long time. There were sores on her chin and beside her nose.
Emily said, “Come with me, and we'll get you something to eat.”
When they walked into the restaurant. A bald head waiter was instantly by their side, “Miss Emily, I'm sorry, but there are no tables here today”, despite the scattered empty tables in sight.
Emily pierced him with a look and pulled out her phone. She dialled a number which obviously was on speed dial. Then said, “Hello, Mr. Fritz, I found that woman you asked me to find. She's hungry and needs to eat. I've brought her to your usual restaurant as you requested me to, but they won't serve us. Can you speak to the head waiter and see if he can manage a table, please?”
The pompous head waiter didn't look so arrogant now; he was sweating, and his bald head shone like a mirror. Emily handed the phone to the head waiter. He gulped, “Hello, Mr. Fritz.” He tried speaking, but obviously, Mr. Fritz had a lot to say in a few choice words. “Yes, yes, Mr. Fritz, it will be just as you say”.
The waiter turned to Emily and, with a smile that only a crocodile could achieve, brought Sarah and Emily to a table close to the kitchen door.
Sarah was offered a menu but refused. She asked Emily to order for her. After an hour of eating and drinking, Emily got down to business.
”You said it was your dress. Can you verify this with documents or witnesses?”
Emily listened to Sarah's life story.
Her family was descended from people who were wiped out in the 1800s. The skills she has were passed down from generation to generation. Emily showed interest in the parts about the dress but feigned interest in the details about this woman, Erica. Or how sad Sarah's life was now. Sarah was a skilled stitch mechanic, and the dress was made from a single thread. She was the last of a line of stitch mechanics who could weave with knots made on her fingers. Emily couldn't make any sense of what Sarah was saying but recognized that both the dress and Sarah were unique. She called the head waiter and asked for some thread. Then, asked Sarah to show her the knot. Sarah started weaving and talking. The knot was eight-sided. It required four fingers of each hand to be wrapped with thread, and the thumbs were folding the knots as they became available.
Emily's eyes ogled as the finished weave started to appear. This was very new or ancient and forgotten.
Four weeks later, Sarah was unrecognizable; her facial sores were almost gone, and the smell she had was gone, replaced with perfume. Mr. Fritz was generous to his new dressmaker. She was on TV shows showing people how to create the knot, but no one could recreate it. People gushed over her and the twinkle in her eyes. One presenter mentioned that the price of the dress had increased ten times what it was valued at since the auction.
She finally met Mr. Fritz one day. He was happy to see her. Sarah didn't like the look he was giving her. “So this is the woman who made the dress. Well done, woman, I have to thank you for increasing the dress's value.” Sarah turned to find Emily had disappeared. Mr. Fritz didn't look as friendly now. He looked positively demonic. She was terrified.
”Did you know that living artists never see the true value of their work?”
She realized what was happening and made a staggering run for the door.
The dress came up for auction again shortly afterwards.
Media called Emily to get interviews with Sarah about the spectacular success selling the dress.
“How much of a share would Sarah receive of the eight million it was sold for?”
“Will Sarah be answering questions about her beautiful dress?”
“Will Sarah return to the streets and help her down and out friends?”
“Will Sarah give classes on how to do the stitch she's famous for?”
She told them she was not so crass to discuss her friends financial matters but did say Sarah had taken the chance to go overseas with her large windfall, try to reunite with long lost relatives.
This is
’s first time publishing through Liberty Magazine and we just wanted to know if you would like to see more of their content featured on this publication? Take part in the poll below to let us know.If you like the article please like and share to promote Liberty Magazine and the work of Boris Doyle. Comment down below if you would like to also be featured on Liberty Magazine, or if you wanted to tell us how you felt about the article.
That was an excellent story. Well done sir.
This is the side-effect of living in a society where the whole of human value has become transactional units of economic production. We need to remake clans of the post-industrial era and to increase economic friction. Failing to do those things will ultimately lead either to collapse or the partitioning of the human soul; turning ourselves into automata. If we succeed in re-crafting ourselves into smaller clan-structures we'll be in a position to build a new golden age in as little as a century or two.