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Indecision November 29, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in Absurd Shorts, General, Uncategorized.
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A snake with two heads, one on either end of its long, slender body, slithered into the garden and stopped abruptly. “Which way should we go?” each head asked the other.

“Should we curl up under the cabbage over there?” said one.

“Or maybe settle in by the fence over there?” said the other.

Of course they could not agree, and set off in opposite directions, stretching the long, slender body to the point of nearly breaking in two.

“This way!”

“No, this way!”

Each tugged and pulled but neither would budge and so the snake, undecided and stubborn, went no where.

Seeing the dilemma as it unfolded, a sharp-eyed, opportunistic hawk swooped and made a hasty meal of the indecisive two-headed snake. But the snake was so contrary, it gave the hawk indigestion and he decided he preferred quiet, inquisitive mice, removing two-headed snakes from his diet and encouraging all of his closest friends to do the same.

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The Weaver January 1, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, Uncategorized.
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The weaver put the basket on the ground in front of the girl. Even in its unfinished state, the girl could see that it would be exquisite. Her eyes gleamed. “I want to learn,” she said to the weaver.

“Do you have permission?” the weaver asked, looking her over carefully. She had been wanting to take on an apprentice for some time, but the old ways were frowned upon these days. The baskets, the beads, the trinkets, they were OK – they were commodities to be bought and sold. Economics. That was acceptable. But the craft? The knowledge that went beyond the skill, the weaving? The magickal energy that had to be infused into each piece just so? That had been relegated to the realm of superstition and they had been encouraged to give it up, to stop telling the ancient stories, to forget and become mute. The tourists would buy anyway, so what did it matter? Most of the others were more than happy to give up the old ways, which could often take much longer and make a task more tedious. But she still held fast to the true craft as it had been taught to her, her mother before her, and all the women in her family going back many generations, though these days she didn’t talk about it much.

The girl nodded at first. But then she drew a painted scarf from her pocket and admitted, “She doesn’t know.” She pulled the scarf out to its full length and the weaver had to resist the temptation to grab it, and instead listened patiently as the girl went on. “She doesn’t know and wouldn’t care one way or the other if she did.” The girl spoke without emotion, merely stating a fact. “Daddy’s been gone a long time,” she said, as if that explained things. She shrugged. “But I had this dream, and . . . well . . . I’m not so good with words, but . . . “ The girl hesitated and then thrust the painted scarf at the weaver. “Here,” she said. “I painted my dream on the scarf. The woman there . . . “ and she pointed to an image at the far edge of the material . . . “told me to. Then she said I should talk to you.”

The weaver felt her hands tingle as she took the scarf from the girl. The images were crudely rendered, but the message was unmistakable. The woman to whom the girl had referred was wrapped in a cape that looked, even in its painted simplicity, to be velvet. Deep blue, with a number of small silver beads twinkling like stars against the night sky. And she wore several large colorful rings on her clumsily drawn fingers. The weaver knew exactly who this figure was and she smiled at the girl, handing the scarf back to her, telling her to take it home and sleep with it under her pillow. “Come back when you have another dream to share,” she told her.

That night, the girl did as she was instructed and dreamed once again of the same woman in the dark blue cape. This time the dream woman took the girl’s scarf and wrapped it around her own long, slender neck. A line of letters that the girl had not put there made its way across the scarf and some of the letters fell to the ground and skittered away as the woman tied a firm knot into the material. “Find them,” she said without elaboration.

The girl dropped to her hands and knees and began patting the ground with her fingers, feeling for what her eyes might miss. After some time, she still hadn’t found anything and was in fear of failing the woman’s test, for she was sure that’s what this was, when she looked up and found an A perched in awareness at the apex of a glittering arch. The agile little letter jumped eagerly onto her open hand, landing squarely in the center of her palm. The girl handed it back to the woman, who accepted it without comment.

The girl resumed her search, remembering this time to look both high and low. This was how she found the E trembling and beside itself with worry at the base of a large tree. “Come with me,” the girl coaxed the fearful E. “I’ll take you home.” The little E jumped into the girl’s ear and whispered directions the girl didn’t need. She thanked the E anyway as she handed it to the woman in blue.

“One more letter is still missing,” the woman said to the girl. “Can you guess what it is?” She took the scarf from her neck and held it out between her hands. The girl could see the word PEAK dancing across the painted fabric face of the scarf. Just then the girl heard a loud and persistent hissing and looked down to see a sinuous, snaky letter sliding up her leg. An S! But did it go in front of or at the end of PEAK? Perhaps it was a message that she had more mountainous tests in front of her. She thought for a moment, and then she knew. She took the S and placed it herself on the scarf. SPEAK!

The woman in blue smiled and gave the scarf back to the girl. “Well done,” she said and disappeared before the girl could ask her any questions. When the girl awoke the scarf was no longer under her pillow, but clutched in her hand. She unfurled it and read the message written on it, smiled, and headed to the market to find the weaver.

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