| Your banner could be here!
Find out how!
|Reader's login | Writer's login|
The Wheel And The Loom
by Andrew Dunn
THE WHEEL AND THE LOOM
By: Andrew Dunn
For a long while no one said anything. I held my tongue out of worry. Worry that, if I did say something, it might violate some unspoken bit of etiquette I didn’t know about. There was so much I didn’t know about.
The two ladies hunched over their machines seem absorbed in their work. One sat at a spinning wheel making thread. The thread was taken by the other who sat at a loom making cloth. It was fascinating to watch. The thread forever changing color as it emerged from the spinning wheel. The loom fashioning that thread into a strip of cloth no more than a foot in width.
I was worried too that if I spoke up and interrupted their work, they might stop or be unable to pick up where they left off. The old ladies seemed mesmerized by their work.
“I know you want to ask us something,” the old woman at the wheel rasped.
“He’s afraid to ask,” the woman at the loom replied.
“He can sit there all night then for all I care,” the woman at the wheel shot back.
“Really now,” the woman at the loom grinned, “he’ll ask when he’s good and ready.”
“Excuse me,” I coughed.
“Indeed.” The old woman grimaced but never took her eyes off her work.
“Is that any way to address our guest?” The woman at the loom smiled ear to ear as she said it. I swore her eyes sparkled as she continued making her cloth.
“Where am I?” I ventured.
“Everywhere and nowhere dear.” The woman at the loom replied.
“I don’t understand.” I really didn’t. I had no idea what she meant by ‘everywhere’ and ‘nowhere’.
“You never do!” The old woman at the wheel hissed.
“The fabric you’re making,” I tried, “it’s fantastic.”
It was too. The thread coming off the wheel seemed to glow in a thousand different colors. The cloth coming off the loom somehow combined all those colors into an incredible sequence of ever changing patterns.
“It’s time.” The woman at the loom replied.
“Time for what?” I asked.
“No dear,” the woman at the loom laughed, “time. The fabric of time.”
“What do you mean?”
“The fabric we’re making,” the woman at the loom continued, “is time itself. Every event that has ever happened or ever will happen is right here in these threads.”
I didn’t believe her. Too many late nights spent working on a loom had driven her crazy no doubt.
“Take a look if you don’t believe her,” the woman at the wheel rasped.
I nodded and moved closer to get a better look at the thread coming off the spinning wheel. It was hard to tell, but in that glittering thread I swore I could make out faces.
“I thought time wasn’t,” I struggled for the right word, “a thing. You know? A physical thing. So how can…”
“You thought,” the old woman at the wheel sneered.
“Try and be nice,” the woman at the loom chirped, “and yes, this is time right here in our hands.”
The endless, never ending flow of color from spinning wheel to loom was mesmerizing. The harder I looked the more certain I was that faces, buildings, and all the rest were right there in the thread. And there were dark portions of thread too. Not black. Dark. As if there were absolute nothingness within. The longer I stared at the thread the greater the dark portions seemed to become.
There was so much I didn’t know about.
Did you enjoy this story? Show your appreciation by tipping the author!
Do you like this site?
Recommend it to a friend by pushing the button below!