1. A story entitled “A New Beginning”.
“You won’t find much down there” said the weaver, her voice a low pitched cantilene.
She’d told you this, thought Lux, her conscience betraying her will.
“But how do I know that–“
“What makes you want to go so badly?”
“I just want–“
“Want what? Do you want to get lost? To disappear? To start anew?”
Lux stayed quiet, the weaver was right. She was, most of the time. Half of the tiny creature still yearned for something.
“I just want to go” Lux settled on, instead of trying to find a thread to pull her thoughts into coherence from.
“And what about you?”
“Me?” The weaver’s voice had a tone of hilarity that left Lux unsure of what words to follow with.
“Oh, me…”, the weaver’s lips curled in a slow smile, her eyes closing, revealing all the lines living had left on her skin “I’ll survive. I always have.”
The question, prodding Lux from behind her tongue, was a silent one.
“And if I don’t then what of it? I have been alive so far, I’ve seen the sun rise and set on what wasn’t the waste lands and I’ve survived what came to be, and the many suns that rose and set after what is was for the first time. I am not scared to stop breathing”.
The wind blew silently, moving the crooked, wooden house’s tents.
Lux stood there, in silence.
“You know why I pull these threads? I do it because I know that when I’m gone they’ll stay. To hug in my stead the people I love, to caress their faces when they pull it over them, to fend the cold and the night around them when I won’t be able to.”
“Should I stay here to weave, then?”
“It’s not about the weaving itself, Lux” the woman’s elongated fingers brushed on the younger one’s hand and patted it in reprimand. “It’s about loving”.
“Then why should I stay?”
“Did I say you should?”
“No. You told me I should go”
“I told you there isn’t much there”
“But what if my new beginning is there”
“New beginning… hasn’t your weft been laid? Haven’t your lung filled with air already? Your life isn’t going to start again and your past won’t change regardless of how hard you want to forget it.”
“What’s the point then?”
“But I told you already…” the weaver’s voice was suddenly soft “life is not about weaving”.
Lux exhaled, her breath betraying how watery her eyes, trained carefully away from the weaver sat.
“and it’s not about leaving. Or starting anew every twenty moons.”
And what if Lux’ cheeks were wet, what if her heart was aching from the “what if”s, what if her hands were strongly gripping the tent’s pole to stop her fingers from shaking.
“It’s about love”.
The clouds above the waste lands burned of a merciless red.
“You just need to learn to accept it”.