queens of disaster,
a five thousand piece puzzle becomes infinitely easier the moment you stop thinking about all the pieces.
instead, look at the units, the segments that make the entirety of the image. is your puzzle of the scottish highlands? then take the castle, put it in one pile. the sky in another, the forefront and therefore lightest hill in by your castle and the darker hills, by shade, in their own, minute hills.
patiently breathe life into every little piece. then smugly and proudly press together your masterpiece, and take in what you yourself created. something invariably whole.
of course, the one time isla had put in the effort of putting together that very puzzle, her mother had swept it off the table, and made a gnarled mess of it underfoot. she apologised later. isla never touched a puzzle again.
that didn’t mean the girl forgot the art of knitting together a pretty picture though -- instead, she’s elevated it.
“how was your christmas, isla?”
here, the puzzle is the face of overwhelming content. first, take the teeth -- all thirty two, white and straight, and pile them so they curve upwards. then, blushing cheeks, in two twin hills, and a pile of raucous laughter, a funny story, and perhaps a yorkshire trinket, if the person viewing it is worthy.
“ahh, right lovely! always great to get home, innit --”
then, when they’re gone, take the portrait and gnarl it underfoot.
then, pour as much tequila over it as humanely possible, and smooth it out. apologise. kiss it better. smile. find the one person you know is tired of puzzle mastery, and knock on their door.
“peyton.”
knock harder.
“oi, peyton, open up!”