Infected fonts

Gleaned from washer lint traps and waste cans in the homes she cleaned, and bits of colored rag tumbleweed littering the streets, she stirred up a kaleidoscope slurry. Imagining the letters from the discarded scrap rearranging themselves into new stories, she washed away the inappropriate words with the other dregs.

Doctor in hand, she spread the rag pulp over a screen form, smoothing out any bubbles or lumps. Holding up the wooden frame, she watched the excess liquid trickle down the sides, wetting her sleeves and dripping on her shoes.

A gurgling stream of water flowed haphazardly from her old garden hose, leaving the grass and soil around her work station swampy. Her galoshes speckled with mud and sullied fonts, she hummed a tuneless song like an incantation over her preparations.

Setting the boxes out to dry, she moved quietly to other forms she worked on earlier. Gently turning over the frames, she tapped the bottom to release the sheets of new paper, then clipped them to a cord hung between two trees to continue curing.

Tiny flakes of flower petals and autumn leaves adorned each in random patterns, any virulent inks purged from the fresh pages.

The last piece pinned up, the garland of paper swaying in the warm breeze, she stepped back to admire her work. Satisfied with the results, she picked up the hose, turning the faucet up until the stream from the nozzle was strong and steady. Her thumb over the end to intensify the spray, she washed away any remaining silt from the benches and grass.

Drying her wet hands on the end of her apron, she left the paper leaves fluttering on the line before going inside. Her presence no longer felt, contaminated letters, swept away by the deluge, are picked up by small eddies of wind, twisted and distorted. The dirty fragments spit out on the malleable sheets, wormed their way into the wet pulp, hiding away until they could spread their infection to unsuspecting prey.