Short Stories for Writing Class

The Weaver

She is a weaver. She lives alone. She is quiet. She doesn't speak, but she creates.

With hundreds of arms she weaves with endless yarn. It is an unnerving sight, although beautiful; memorizing. She isn't evil, nor is she the vision of good. 

She is misunderstood. She makes art. For all of time she weaves and that's how she communicates. 

She is feared for her appearance, but we all go to her eventually. 

When we meet her, she gives us a scarf, a scarf weaved from her endless yarn. 

Every scarf is unique with different colors and patterns. Many may seem similar, but no two are like. 

No two people are alike. We all have our own unique memories. Each memory is a different pattern. Each color is a different emotion. 

For those of us who meet her too early, she's not able to create enough of a piece to hand over a scarf. There weren't enough memories made. These short pieces are stitched together and form into an endlessly growing blanket. 

All her work is done by hand. All the pieces are stitched with care, all connected, all loved.  

She works day and night. She's too busy for conversation. When one scarf is finished, she moves straight to the next one. 

All of us come to her, willingly or not. Our paths must always intersect. We must claim our scarf, like a painting made from wool. We can thank her, or we can not, but she appreciates the gesture.

We don't understand her, but she knows us. She's always known us. She starts our scarves, creating a uniqueness inspired by our lives, when we first open our eyes. She gives us her creations when we meet.  

She is Death and she is Life. She weaves our lives; our joy, our fear, our angry, our sadness, and all our happiness. A change in color is a change in emotion. Bad memories are jagged and rough, while the good are soft and smooth. She is kind, but she is honest. Each shade, each stitch is you. 

When your time comes to an end, she drapes your life in your arms and when you need comfort you can use it to keep warm. 

*ignores rest*

   Death is a weaver and she is a very busy woman. 

Goddess of death, beautiful, misunderstood. Feared, but she just wants to comfort souls as they cross over.  

?Souls of babies/toddlers have the blanket to snuggle under? They are children who's lives were too  short. Not long enough to make a scarf. Did not have the time to create enough memories

We don't understand death, but she knows all of us. Creates tapestries of our lives with yarn. 

Individual, unique paintings of wool, no too the same. 

She is Death and she is Life (revealed last sentence)

Creates your life (in art form, weaving) and gives it back (when you die) 

When you go to meet Her, She gives you her weaving, inspired by the uniqueness. of your life