She threaded each bead so carefully that one would think she was threading gold stones through twine. Red. Red. Orange. Orange. Yellow. Yellow. Green. Green. And back again.
All the while sitting on the oak tree stump on top of Lone Hill.
No one knows how long she’d been threading that necklace. Some people say for millennia, others say for just the night. However long it was, I didn’t care. I thought that she was threading those beads together for a different purpose. I thought that she threaded to keep herself away from the madness or whatever it was that threaders liked to do.
According to my grandfather, she was the last one alive.
The last one that kept herself silent in the cold, the hot summer winds, and the flowers of spring. Every now and again, she would take a stretch or sleep or doze off, but whatever the Threaders did, they did without end, without reservation, without hesitation.
Red. Red. Orange. Orange. Yellow. Yellow. Green. Green. And back again.
One the third day of the seventh month of the year of Talmato, I climbed Lone Hill and visited her. Back then, I was more of a boy than a man, though I thought I was a man. I should have known better than to go alone. But, I reasoned, if I thought that I could find my way around women and taverns, I could find my way back home from Lone Hill.
I waved to her. She did not look up at me. Red. Red. Orange. Orange. Yellow. Yellow. Green. Green. And back again.
I called to her. “Excuse me.”
She did not reply. Red. Red. Orange. Orange. Yellow. Yellow. Green. Green. And back again.
I cleared my throat. “Are you the last threader?”
She stopped threading the beads along the twine and turned to me. The necklace, several feet long, laid in her lap. Her eyes reflected the same color as the beads, changing from red to green like a rainbow.
And with a voice like the wind, she said, “Yes. Would you like to join me?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
She held out her hand. I touched it.
And my body grew smaller and smaller, until it was the size of a pebble.
And she picked me off the ground and gave me a smile more wicked than the glint of her needle.
Hey, everybody! Here’s another flash fiction/micro-fiction piece borne from a three-minute free-writing session. I wish I remembered the prompt for this one, as I remember enjoying writing it. But I think I rekindled that joy effectively.
Anyhow, see you on the next post (next Friday)!