The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Chains of Fate
by Wynelda Ann Deaver

It is soothing, the hook going and out, consuming the fiber, twisting it. Transforming it. A simple chain. Some long, some small.

I rock in the chair they’ve provided. Someone plays a violin in another part of the building. It’s strings are wailing today.

The notes agitate me. My chains are short. Blue. Green. The color does not matter. I’m only allowed to work on the chain until I slip. Then it gets taken off, placed in a small wicker basket. At some point another will pick up the basket and walk to the window. She will raise each chain to the sun and blow gently.

It dissipates, leaving a brief shimmer behind.

I wish they’d allow me to crochet a blanket. A scarf. Anything except for chains. Some too short. On good days, I can get a long one snaking down towards the floor. Mistress always tries to snip it before it can touch the floor.

She walks past me now, her heels clicking on the floor. The finger holes of her scissors look like cranes.

I reach into my yarn box and pull out the next color. It’s golden. I tie off and start. Mistress is across the room talking to another girl. She’s running a spindle. Another in the corner has a loom. So many types of fiber, so many threads cut short.

Maybe I can make it this time. It would be better, stronger if I could make a scarf. A family of chains all working together. But I won’t try this time.

This time I just want to make it as long as possible. My fingers cramp. Mistress’ heels are crossing the floor again. I look up and see another girl stop her. She has a basket in her hands, showing the lack of length perhaps? Or critical of the colors used on those chains? It’s of no matter. Those of us who create have no control of the materials.

Mistress makes her way around her as my golden chain brushes the floor. One link more. Two.

Snip.

It falls to the floor.

I reach down and place it in the basket. The girl comes and takes it to the window. Mistresses breath pinches as if her dress is too small.

What did I do? It is of no matter. We don’t know the significance, although we all have an inkling. A theory. My hand reaches into the yarn box, pulling out another length of yarn. This one is midnight blue.

Time to begin again.

Fiction © Copyright Wynelda Ann Deaver
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.

More about Wynelda Ann Deaver:

Wynelda Ann Deaver writes in the world of dark and twisty fantasy. She is in her own words a ‘girly girl’ who loves scrapbooking. Wynelda is extremely family oriented – her father is her best friend, and her son is the light of her life. If you’d like to read more about Wynelda, please visit her online at Wynword’s Weblog.