Small Wooden Blocks For Crafting Novels & Stories

Lines intersecting like crossed threads. Marks I’d seen burned into shrine stones and etched into the little bone charm Kade had left me. My stomach turned. At the base of the trunk, nestled among roots, sat a small arrangement of objects. Dolls. Four of them. Each is no bigger than my palm. Made of twigs bound with hair and thin strips of leather. Faces drawn in rust‑colored pigment. Each had something pinned or tied to its chest. A scrap of cloth. A tiny wolf fang.

The best she can describe the small crafts is that they look almost like motorcycles, but rather than having wheels, they seem to have some sort of sled looking rails across the bottom. Additionally, Sammy can see that there are also 2 small ones, which look to be some sort of rocket type engine on either side of the crafts in the rear of each one. There is also a clear capsule surrounding the seat on each one of the crafts. As Sammy makes her way through this warehouse type room, she begins to subconsciously count the crafts, but she quickly rethinks it knowing that what from she can see, there have to be at least a 1,000 of these smaller crafts lined up in rows within it, if not more.

Outside, the late afternoon sun was beginning to drop behind the tall, jagged pine trees that bordered the Wayne property. In the sunroom, Zach, Heidi, and little Leo were scattered across a large woven rug. Leo was quietly building a tower out of wooden blocks, his small hands steady under Zach’s watchful eye. Zach, now practicing the control Duncan had taught him, was carefully passing the blocks to the younger boy without cracking the wood. Heidi, however, wasn't playing with blocks. She was sitting by the large glass window that looked out toward the thick forest line, humming a soft, disjointed tune. She was drawing on a large sheet of white paper with a purple crayon.

From the thousand what-ifs I hadn’t spoken out loud. The air in there was cooler. Still held the faint smell of sawdust and oil. It grounded me. I sat on the edge of the workbench, letting my legs dangle, and picked up a piece of sandpaper. I ran it along the edge of a carved wooden block—part of a project I hadn’t finished. A nameplate for the baby’s crib. I hadn’t carved the name yet. We didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl. But the space was there.