The Yarn Spinner - Snippet
Might write a full thing of this. I really hope to, but I've got a draft to finish and so many more to start. Please enjoy this snippet from another Instagram prompt. (I forgot what it was) ;((((
She sat there at her loom, working furiously at the nearly-finished piece. The shuttle slides back and forth between the threads, interlacing fibers before they are stacked together neatly with a quick pull of the reed. She works fast, heedless of mistakes. Â
The end is near, she knows it.Â
 She’s seen the newspaper articles portraying their deaths, graphic and disturbing. She can’t count the nights those horrifying pictures had stolen from her. Fear became sleep’s greatest enemy. Â
Why does she feel fear? She wonders. Everyone dies at some point. She doesn’t wish to end like this. She’s still young. A full life ahead of her. But alas, the devil doesn’t discriminate.Â
She remembers Thirdy, blonde and joyous, like a bard from the old nations, singing tales of victory. Tabitha, somber and thoughtful, her pieces questioned life and its meanings and the pondering of a human spirit. Old Man William, with his one eye spectacle, writing stories since he was a young lad, encased with the wisdom he had gained over the years. The list went on and on. Â
Now, they’re all gone. And she was left. Â
Quinn, the one destined to spin the yarns. She told stories not through a pen but with a loom and a spindle.  Her tapestries are a different kind of parchment/ medium. But she was to end the same way as the rest of them. Â
She couldn’t help but weep, tears falling from her eyes onto the colorful threads below. It was finished. She cut the thread and took out her final work. Â
Death was near her door. Â
She wraps it up quickly and hands it off to Maddy Lady, her beloved Lady-in-Waiting- (For our dear Quinn was a duke’s daughter, ironic how not even the guards could save her from her fate). The girl ducks out the window, tossing the tapestry before jumping out as well, falling onto the soft cloth below. She picks it up and runs into the night, street oil lamps lighting her path as Quinn watches forlornly from her dimly-lit room until the shadows of an alleyway swallow her up. Â
Wind blows through the open window, catching her curls and tugging at them, whilst drying the tears on her face. Playful still, even with her end so close. She hears his footsteps before she sees him. She turns to face her murderer, the Author. All the stories she’s heard of him come right back to her.
There’s no way to escape him.
He plays his game like he’s God.
In a way he is.
He controls your very being, your very life.
I’m sorry, she thinks, that the story you were a part of wasn’t one you were satisfied with.
But it gives you no right to do this. Â
Dark eyes flash as if she had spoken her thoughts aloud and for a moment Quinn wonders if this mysterious killer is actually a woman.
A gloved hand reveals a gun beneath the robes, poised and ready. A pointer finger held steadily over the trigger. Â
Thirdy had been hanged.
Tabitha had been poisoned.
Old William stabbed.
Such an unromantic way to die, she couldn’t help but lament.
This whole time, dread had gripped the young girl. But now, face-to-face with death, fear’s slimy grip falls away and she squares up to meet the Author. Chin up. Shoulders back. Never let them see it. Â
She remembers her friends. Â
Smiling and laughing.
Thoughtful and curious.
Ancient and wise.
Their stories all wrapped in her blanket. Hidden, safe. Til Maddy Lady released it to the publishers and the aftermath would be so profound that all this bastard’s crimes would pale in comparison. Â
She meets those eyes, one last time.
She knows now they can hear her.
So she screams in her mind,
One last line.
You can never keep us silent.
*gunshot
