Here you can find the complete versions of the pieces with a “Continue Reading” button. On this page are Therapist Friend, Till Death Do Us Part, Keeper and Weaver, Are You There and Yarn, in that order. Enjoy!
Therapist Friend by Millie Farley (10) FULL
When we were young, you took a cotton string and wrapped it around my heart five times and tied it in a bow. I liked the bow and I liked you. I took the other end and tied it around your heart. The string kept us together even when we were not. When we missed each other and needed each other, we would tug at the line. Our hearts would ache a little, but in a loving way.
But what do you do when you are loved and needed too much? I can’t keep up. Every time you are sad, you tug at my heart. And because I love you, I’ll come running to you with my comfort and affection. So then you’ll be reassured, happier for a while. You’ll lay down the string, the tension will release and my heart will relax.
But since November, something has shifted in you. What used to be tugs are now wrenches. I know you only pull when you need me but you have been needing me more and more often. I struggle in lessons and lose focus at dinner. Do you notice that? I comfort you and you stop pulling, but then, you start again next morning.
One night, you pulled so hard, the tissue of my heart muscle must have been cut and there I was, bleeding out in my bedroom. Blood traveled down the length of the cotton string, staining my dress, sticky droplets falling to my floorboards. You’d never made me bleed like that before.
In my fierce anger and panic, I ran down the halls to your room. I stood in your doorway, lightheaded and I ranted to you, “Tula, can you not find a single outlet for your pain other than me? I come to you when you need me and I try to help you but everyday you are just as sad. Nothing is doing anything, we are going nowhere, we are going backwards, these past months have been too much,” I took an aggressive inhale, “and I am FED UP. I love you but TULA YOU ARE TAKING UP MY GODDAMN LIFE.”
I made you cry. I made you cry a lot and you told me you would leave me alone and get out of my life. I didn’t want that—I think you knew I didn’t—but when you’re upset, you say these sorts of things to me. I melted at your tears. I wiped your pink cheeks, told you I was sorry, and I left. When I got back to my bedroom—accidentally stepping in the uncleaned blood—I felt so awful and guilty that I undid your bow and instead tied a tight knot. A double knot. I was not going to leave you. Not when you needed me most. You were going through worse than I was, your heart was bleeding worse than mine was.
Only a week went by. I doubled my efforts, spent every moment I had with you, but you were still suffering just as much as ever. And I was struggling to sleep.
One day, we went on your balcony under a beautiful sunset. Neither of us paid it any attention. I comforted you, all evening. Once the sun had fully set, leaving us with a gray sky and lifted, slightly happier faces, I turned to you with my hand over my throbbing, hurting heart.
“Why are you still pulling at our string?" I asked. You told me you weren’t.
A crashing realization came down on me and suddenly the air around me had turned bitter and cold. Hell, you had ripped my heart. I was always going to feel pain now, even in our happy moments, even when you didn’t need me. Fated to sleepless nights, unfocused dinners, suffering grades, a constant pain, a constant sadness, a constant reminder of you. Even when I do not want to be reminded, my heart would be stinging, forcing me to think of you. Forcing me to think of you more than myself but goddamn, I was already doing that. What a one sided friendship. No, not even a friendship. I was just your therapist, that’s all I was.
YOU SPLIT MY FUCKING HEART OPEN, TULA.
I screamed. My eyes watered, heavy tears fell down my face. I didn’t dare look at my chest but I could feel the messy trail of blood draining down my dress in a repetitive pumping beat. I grabbed our string. Ripped it against the rough edge of the balcony. I ran out the door, slamming it behind myself, leaving the string torn at the end, trailing the ground behind me.
But what do you do when you are loved and needed too much? I can’t keep up. Every time you are sad, you tug at my heart. And because I love you, I’ll come running to you with my comfort and affection. So then you’ll be reassured, happier for a while. You’ll lay down the string, the tension will release and my heart will relax.
But since November, something has shifted in you. What used to be tugs are now wrenches. I know you only pull when you need me but you have been needing me more and more often. I struggle in lessons and lose focus at dinner. Do you notice that? I comfort you and you stop pulling, but then, you start again next morning.
One night, you pulled so hard, the tissue of my heart muscle must have been cut and there I was, bleeding out in my bedroom. Blood traveled down the length of the cotton string, staining my dress, sticky droplets falling to my floorboards. You’d never made me bleed like that before.
In my fierce anger and panic, I ran down the halls to your room. I stood in your doorway, lightheaded and I ranted to you, “Tula, can you not find a single outlet for your pain other than me? I come to you when you need me and I try to help you but everyday you are just as sad. Nothing is doing anything, we are going nowhere, we are going backwards, these past months have been too much,” I took an aggressive inhale, “and I am FED UP. I love you but TULA YOU ARE TAKING UP MY GODDAMN LIFE.”
I made you cry. I made you cry a lot and you told me you would leave me alone and get out of my life. I didn’t want that—I think you knew I didn’t—but when you’re upset, you say these sorts of things to me. I melted at your tears. I wiped your pink cheeks, told you I was sorry, and I left. When I got back to my bedroom—accidentally stepping in the uncleaned blood—I felt so awful and guilty that I undid your bow and instead tied a tight knot. A double knot. I was not going to leave you. Not when you needed me most. You were going through worse than I was, your heart was bleeding worse than mine was.
Only a week went by. I doubled my efforts, spent every moment I had with you, but you were still suffering just as much as ever. And I was struggling to sleep.
One day, we went on your balcony under a beautiful sunset. Neither of us paid it any attention. I comforted you, all evening. Once the sun had fully set, leaving us with a gray sky and lifted, slightly happier faces, I turned to you with my hand over my throbbing, hurting heart.
“Why are you still pulling at our string?" I asked. You told me you weren’t.
A crashing realization came down on me and suddenly the air around me had turned bitter and cold. Hell, you had ripped my heart. I was always going to feel pain now, even in our happy moments, even when you didn’t need me. Fated to sleepless nights, unfocused dinners, suffering grades, a constant pain, a constant sadness, a constant reminder of you. Even when I do not want to be reminded, my heart would be stinging, forcing me to think of you. Forcing me to think of you more than myself but goddamn, I was already doing that. What a one sided friendship. No, not even a friendship. I was just your therapist, that’s all I was.
YOU SPLIT MY FUCKING HEART OPEN, TULA.
I screamed. My eyes watered, heavy tears fell down my face. I didn’t dare look at my chest but I could feel the messy trail of blood draining down my dress in a repetitive pumping beat. I grabbed our string. Ripped it against the rough edge of the balcony. I ran out the door, slamming it behind myself, leaving the string torn at the end, trailing the ground behind me.
Till Death Do Us Part by Olivia Dubelt (10) FULL
Elizabeth
My husband has been missing for 3 days and 6 hours. No call, no text; nothing. This wasn’t completely out of the blue for William. This past year he’s been working later than usual, more work trips. But he tells me it’s for the better good of this family.
The kids have been starting to ask questions.This is the only time I’ve genuinely not had an answer. Although, it’s clear that my oldest daughter is beginning to catch on more than she’s letting me know.
I’ve been going back and forth from the police station for the past three days. While the kids are at school, I’ve been talking to the police about locating my husband. It wasn’t until today that I came across someone who appeared to be doing the same thing.
“Hello, I’m Stephanie and I would like to report a missing person”.
I faintly heard that high pitched voice from behind me. I turned my head enough to hear everything I needed to.
“Yes, my boss William. William Murphy. He’s been away from work for three days and no one’s been able to contact him.” I heard her say.
“Alright, please follow me ma’am. We’ll see what we can do,” a young officer replies.
I almost let out a slight chuckle. I was wondering how long before that floozy came barging in here claiming to know my husband. For all I know, she knows exactly where he is.
Stephanie
“Alright ma’am, now can you please explain to me what’s going on?” The officer asked.
I take in a shaky breath “Yes, of course. My boss, William Murphy is missing and I can feel that something is wrong.”
“William Murphy, as in Elizabath Murphy’s husband”, he asked.
“She too has come and filed a report. Is there anything important you can tell me that might help me find your boss ma’am?” He adds.
“Willia- I mean Mr. Murphy isn’t happy in his marriage. He planned on leaving her. He was going to tell her after dinner the day I last saw him.” I said.
The officer looked at me with a puzzled look and asked, “And how did you know about this?”
I quickly chimed in “We had dinner together, earlier that week”.
The officer proceeded to ask me if Mr. Murphy and I were having inappropriate relations. I said no. I lied.
Elizabeth
Did I speculate that my husband was cheating on me? Yes. Did I want to believe it? No. I did everything for my family. I sacrificed everything for my family. I needed to know why he did it, so I followed her.
“Excuse me!” I shouted.
She turned around, shocked to see that I was talking to her.
“Yes?” she replied shyly.
“I know you’ve been sleeping with my husband,” I said abruptly. She looked baffled.
“I don’t blame you, William and I had our own problems. My main focus is finding my husband and clearly there’s things that I don’t know about him. I’m sure that you want to have him back as much as I do. I would like to have you over for dinner. I don’t want to be your friend, but I do believe that together we can find William” I added.
She quickly nodded and didn’t hesitate to head straight in the direction of her car. Before she could get in, I yelled “7 o’clock” and went back to my car to pick up the kids.
Stephanie
This sounds like the worst idea I've ever heard.
Elizabeth
She showed up no later and no earlier than seven. At least she’s punctual. I wonder if that’s on the list of reasons my husband’s spending nights with her instead of me.
I set the cutlery on the table and went to answer the door. She looked nervous. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t too, it’s going to be a long night.
“It smells delightful in here,” she said.
“It’s roast beef, mashed potatoes, brussel sprouts and cabernet sauvignon. It was William’s favourite.”
She gave a light smile, “He always talked about how amazing of a cook you were.”
I let out a soft laugh. “Clearly not good enough,” I muttered under my breath.
I led Stephanie into the dinning room. I sat there pretending to care what she had to say about William. I had one agenda tonight and the sooner she stops running her mouth, the sooner I can get it done.
Stephanie
“The dinner was delicious, Elizabeth. I’m really glad we had the chance to talk. I think we should both go down to the station tomorrow and tell them everything we know,” I said.
She smiled back at me. She’s not a very talkative woman. I don’t blame her, I wouldn’t want to talk to me either. I just hope she knows that I love William and I would never hurt him.
“Do you have a bathroom I could use? I just want to touch up before I go,” I asked.
“Yes, second door to your left,” she responded.
That was the happiest I’ve seen her all night. Clearly someones eager to see me go home. If she hates me that much, why even invite me in the first place?
I excused myself from the table and made my way to the powder room. Once the door was shut I could finally take a breath. I feel like I’ve been suffocating all night.
I took another breath and looked down. To my right I could see the shadow of two shoes under the door. I slowly reached over to the knob to see who it was.
Elizabeth
She slowly opened the door and I didn’t hesitate to stick the knife right into her stomach. The same place I put it through William’s. He wants to love another woman? I won’t stop him. Now they can spend the rest of eternity burning in hell. The adulterer and the homewrecker. Shall they be bonded for life.
My husband has been missing for 3 days and 6 hours. No call, no text; nothing. This wasn’t completely out of the blue for William. This past year he’s been working later than usual, more work trips. But he tells me it’s for the better good of this family.
The kids have been starting to ask questions.This is the only time I’ve genuinely not had an answer. Although, it’s clear that my oldest daughter is beginning to catch on more than she’s letting me know.
I’ve been going back and forth from the police station for the past three days. While the kids are at school, I’ve been talking to the police about locating my husband. It wasn’t until today that I came across someone who appeared to be doing the same thing.
“Hello, I’m Stephanie and I would like to report a missing person”.
I faintly heard that high pitched voice from behind me. I turned my head enough to hear everything I needed to.
“Yes, my boss William. William Murphy. He’s been away from work for three days and no one’s been able to contact him.” I heard her say.
“Alright, please follow me ma’am. We’ll see what we can do,” a young officer replies.
I almost let out a slight chuckle. I was wondering how long before that floozy came barging in here claiming to know my husband. For all I know, she knows exactly where he is.
Stephanie
“Alright ma’am, now can you please explain to me what’s going on?” The officer asked.
I take in a shaky breath “Yes, of course. My boss, William Murphy is missing and I can feel that something is wrong.”
“William Murphy, as in Elizabath Murphy’s husband”, he asked.
“She too has come and filed a report. Is there anything important you can tell me that might help me find your boss ma’am?” He adds.
“Willia- I mean Mr. Murphy isn’t happy in his marriage. He planned on leaving her. He was going to tell her after dinner the day I last saw him.” I said.
The officer looked at me with a puzzled look and asked, “And how did you know about this?”
I quickly chimed in “We had dinner together, earlier that week”.
The officer proceeded to ask me if Mr. Murphy and I were having inappropriate relations. I said no. I lied.
Elizabeth
Did I speculate that my husband was cheating on me? Yes. Did I want to believe it? No. I did everything for my family. I sacrificed everything for my family. I needed to know why he did it, so I followed her.
“Excuse me!” I shouted.
She turned around, shocked to see that I was talking to her.
“Yes?” she replied shyly.
“I know you’ve been sleeping with my husband,” I said abruptly. She looked baffled.
“I don’t blame you, William and I had our own problems. My main focus is finding my husband and clearly there’s things that I don’t know about him. I’m sure that you want to have him back as much as I do. I would like to have you over for dinner. I don’t want to be your friend, but I do believe that together we can find William” I added.
She quickly nodded and didn’t hesitate to head straight in the direction of her car. Before she could get in, I yelled “7 o’clock” and went back to my car to pick up the kids.
Stephanie
This sounds like the worst idea I've ever heard.
Elizabeth
She showed up no later and no earlier than seven. At least she’s punctual. I wonder if that’s on the list of reasons my husband’s spending nights with her instead of me.
I set the cutlery on the table and went to answer the door. She looked nervous. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t too, it’s going to be a long night.
“It smells delightful in here,” she said.
“It’s roast beef, mashed potatoes, brussel sprouts and cabernet sauvignon. It was William’s favourite.”
She gave a light smile, “He always talked about how amazing of a cook you were.”
I let out a soft laugh. “Clearly not good enough,” I muttered under my breath.
I led Stephanie into the dinning room. I sat there pretending to care what she had to say about William. I had one agenda tonight and the sooner she stops running her mouth, the sooner I can get it done.
Stephanie
“The dinner was delicious, Elizabeth. I’m really glad we had the chance to talk. I think we should both go down to the station tomorrow and tell them everything we know,” I said.
She smiled back at me. She’s not a very talkative woman. I don’t blame her, I wouldn’t want to talk to me either. I just hope she knows that I love William and I would never hurt him.
“Do you have a bathroom I could use? I just want to touch up before I go,” I asked.
“Yes, second door to your left,” she responded.
That was the happiest I’ve seen her all night. Clearly someones eager to see me go home. If she hates me that much, why even invite me in the first place?
I excused myself from the table and made my way to the powder room. Once the door was shut I could finally take a breath. I feel like I’ve been suffocating all night.
I took another breath and looked down. To my right I could see the shadow of two shoes under the door. I slowly reached over to the knob to see who it was.
Elizabeth
She slowly opened the door and I didn’t hesitate to stick the knife right into her stomach. The same place I put it through William’s. He wants to love another woman? I won’t stop him. Now they can spend the rest of eternity burning in hell. The adulterer and the homewrecker. Shall they be bonded for life.
Keeper and Weaver by Tarian Kylie (10) FULL
Noise always evaporates into the air of the grand castle Fastrum. Perhaps someone would question why the castle was so silent, but it appeared as if no soul with a pondering mind had ever entered the grand golden gates.
Set into the side of a towering mountainside, was the castle, a gorgeous structure. Pillars of polished white stone and golden accents climbed the walls. Each carving was a different form of excellence. Statues of winged children and beasts found only in campfire stories stood guard at each edge of the castle.
The interior of the castle was, unfortunately, quite empty. Where magical furniture and eccentric paintings could have been, there were instead only smooth, undecorated walls. There were no signs of humanity, no signs that the winds of life had ever whispered through the halls, yet no dust piled in the corners.
Despite its appearance, the grand castle Fastrum, was in fact, a home. In the very middle of the structure, was a room where the stars, sun, and moon lived in equal measure. The room contained only a spinning wheel, threaded with an iridescent red string.
Sitting in the seat in front of the spinning wheel, fingers pressed gently against the threads, foot applying pressure to the gauges slowly as she worked, was a woman of inconceivable beauty.
Her eyes were a depthless black, impossible to escape, her face, a series of harsh lines carved from stone. Her very being seemed to glow, as if she existed to hold time, space, and reality.
Her nails, painted a blood red and sharper than any mortal blade, carefully plucked at the string on the spinning wheel. She paused her movements, sitting unnaturally still as she seemingly examined the string.
Her eyebrows scrunched together and she cocked her head to the side in one sudden move. Gracefully, she wound the thread around her finger, leaning in close.
“Ostentus,” the voice that came from her mouth did not match the serenity of her appearance. The voice was startling, rough, and reverberated through the ground. Syllables rolled in the tone of a person unused to speaking.
As she pronounced the word, the string began to glow brighter, shimmering light was cast across the room, the castle blinked, as if awakening after a deep slumber. The sky shifted, moving through days, seasons, years, in the span of seconds.
No sooner had her voice given life to the name, the vibrations faded and it all ended, it all ended, the castle righted itself in time and space, the sky returned to its original hue, the light emanating from the string disappeared. The woman disconnected her finger from the string, moving back into her routine, her fingers pressed gently against the string, her foot applying pressure to the gauges slowly as she worked.
The castle had never needed to be protected by magic or by soldiers, as no mortal beings knew of its existence and the beings who did know of it, knew to stay away. The mountain range it sat on was not hidden, no part of the castle was glamoured. If someone were to venture far enough through the world that they found a rip between realms, they would come across the castle easily.
Humans, despite their curiosity, rarely found these rips between realms. If they did, they would not find their way out, reasons for which remained an eternal mystery.
Noise always evaporates into the air of the grand castle Fastrum and it was a young human man who became the first to question why, exactly that was.
He had a story, as most people do, but it is of no real importance.
When he came upon the castle, not entering did not occur to him as an option. He explored for hours, wandering through the empty, twisting hallways and running his hands along the walls, marveling at how his fingers did not catch against the material. Human as he was, he did not notice he had traveled to another realm, he did not notice the change in the air, he did not notice the way the sky measured differently here.
He did notice how quiet it was. Despite its location on a mountain range surrounded by trees, you could not hear a single note of birdsong. And of course, he questioned why such a pristine building was seemingly abandoned.
The sky had darkened, the stars aligning in perfect rows. The man decided to find a place to sleep. He ventured deeper into the castle and paused only when he finally heard a faint sound.
He creeped towards the sound, coming upon the room in the middle of the castle. In the entrance of the room, on the snow white arch, a few words were carved:
Keeper and Weaver
He caught sight of the surreal woman sitting in front of the grand spinning wheel. He saw the red string and became the first to wonder what exactly the string was for and who the woman was. She was immersed in her work, her eyes trained on the string. The man took a cautious step inside.
The woman did not move, she continued sitting with her back straight and her head carefully tilted. The man took another step. And then another. And another. He walked until he was close enough to touch the woman, close enough to stroke the string she spun.
The man's eyes locked on the woman's fingers, he watched raptly as she moved her hands up and down the spinning thread. That, red, iridescent string. A sort of hypnotic feeling flooded the man, suddenly he could not tear his gaze away from the string and the woman's working fingers.
He felt that fear should creep down his spine but instead all he could do was stare into the woman's depthless, black eyes. He sunk into them, the drunken feeling only increased. His mind began to circle forgetting why he was here and who he was.
The woman's hand raised until it came in contact with the man's face. Her calloused hand was a contradiction to the smooth skin of the man's face.
She released a breath, a sigh, her face shed its emotionless shape and her eyes crinkled, they became less black than before, more hazel brown. Her chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice soft and light.
Her eyes rolled back into her head and slowly, she faded away, leaving an empty seat in front of the spinning wheel.
The man moved as if possessed, no longer able to formulate questions. The only thing he could think of was the spinning wheel in front of him as he sat in the empty seat.
Noise always evaporates into the air of the grand castle Fastrum. Perhaps someone would question why the castle was so silent, but it appeared as if no soul with a pondering mind had ever entered the grand golden gates.
Despite its appearance, the castle was, in fact, a home. Sitting in the seat in front of the spinning wheel, fingers pressed gently against the threads, foot applying pressure to the gauges slowly as he worked, was a man of inconceivable beauty.
Set into the side of a towering mountainside, was the castle, a gorgeous structure. Pillars of polished white stone and golden accents climbed the walls. Each carving was a different form of excellence. Statues of winged children and beasts found only in campfire stories stood guard at each edge of the castle.
The interior of the castle was, unfortunately, quite empty. Where magical furniture and eccentric paintings could have been, there were instead only smooth, undecorated walls. There were no signs of humanity, no signs that the winds of life had ever whispered through the halls, yet no dust piled in the corners.
Despite its appearance, the grand castle Fastrum, was in fact, a home. In the very middle of the structure, was a room where the stars, sun, and moon lived in equal measure. The room contained only a spinning wheel, threaded with an iridescent red string.
Sitting in the seat in front of the spinning wheel, fingers pressed gently against the threads, foot applying pressure to the gauges slowly as she worked, was a woman of inconceivable beauty.
Her eyes were a depthless black, impossible to escape, her face, a series of harsh lines carved from stone. Her very being seemed to glow, as if she existed to hold time, space, and reality.
Her nails, painted a blood red and sharper than any mortal blade, carefully plucked at the string on the spinning wheel. She paused her movements, sitting unnaturally still as she seemingly examined the string.
Her eyebrows scrunched together and she cocked her head to the side in one sudden move. Gracefully, she wound the thread around her finger, leaning in close.
“Ostentus,” the voice that came from her mouth did not match the serenity of her appearance. The voice was startling, rough, and reverberated through the ground. Syllables rolled in the tone of a person unused to speaking.
As she pronounced the word, the string began to glow brighter, shimmering light was cast across the room, the castle blinked, as if awakening after a deep slumber. The sky shifted, moving through days, seasons, years, in the span of seconds.
No sooner had her voice given life to the name, the vibrations faded and it all ended, it all ended, the castle righted itself in time and space, the sky returned to its original hue, the light emanating from the string disappeared. The woman disconnected her finger from the string, moving back into her routine, her fingers pressed gently against the string, her foot applying pressure to the gauges slowly as she worked.
The castle had never needed to be protected by magic or by soldiers, as no mortal beings knew of its existence and the beings who did know of it, knew to stay away. The mountain range it sat on was not hidden, no part of the castle was glamoured. If someone were to venture far enough through the world that they found a rip between realms, they would come across the castle easily.
Humans, despite their curiosity, rarely found these rips between realms. If they did, they would not find their way out, reasons for which remained an eternal mystery.
Noise always evaporates into the air of the grand castle Fastrum and it was a young human man who became the first to question why, exactly that was.
He had a story, as most people do, but it is of no real importance.
When he came upon the castle, not entering did not occur to him as an option. He explored for hours, wandering through the empty, twisting hallways and running his hands along the walls, marveling at how his fingers did not catch against the material. Human as he was, he did not notice he had traveled to another realm, he did not notice the change in the air, he did not notice the way the sky measured differently here.
He did notice how quiet it was. Despite its location on a mountain range surrounded by trees, you could not hear a single note of birdsong. And of course, he questioned why such a pristine building was seemingly abandoned.
The sky had darkened, the stars aligning in perfect rows. The man decided to find a place to sleep. He ventured deeper into the castle and paused only when he finally heard a faint sound.
He creeped towards the sound, coming upon the room in the middle of the castle. In the entrance of the room, on the snow white arch, a few words were carved:
Keeper and Weaver
He caught sight of the surreal woman sitting in front of the grand spinning wheel. He saw the red string and became the first to wonder what exactly the string was for and who the woman was. She was immersed in her work, her eyes trained on the string. The man took a cautious step inside.
The woman did not move, she continued sitting with her back straight and her head carefully tilted. The man took another step. And then another. And another. He walked until he was close enough to touch the woman, close enough to stroke the string she spun.
The man's eyes locked on the woman's fingers, he watched raptly as she moved her hands up and down the spinning thread. That, red, iridescent string. A sort of hypnotic feeling flooded the man, suddenly he could not tear his gaze away from the string and the woman's working fingers.
He felt that fear should creep down his spine but instead all he could do was stare into the woman's depthless, black eyes. He sunk into them, the drunken feeling only increased. His mind began to circle forgetting why he was here and who he was.
The woman's hand raised until it came in contact with the man's face. Her calloused hand was a contradiction to the smooth skin of the man's face.
She released a breath, a sigh, her face shed its emotionless shape and her eyes crinkled, they became less black than before, more hazel brown. Her chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice soft and light.
Her eyes rolled back into her head and slowly, she faded away, leaving an empty seat in front of the spinning wheel.
The man moved as if possessed, no longer able to formulate questions. The only thing he could think of was the spinning wheel in front of him as he sat in the empty seat.
Noise always evaporates into the air of the grand castle Fastrum. Perhaps someone would question why the castle was so silent, but it appeared as if no soul with a pondering mind had ever entered the grand golden gates.
Despite its appearance, the castle was, in fact, a home. Sitting in the seat in front of the spinning wheel, fingers pressed gently against the threads, foot applying pressure to the gauges slowly as he worked, was a man of inconceivable beauty.
Are You There by Tarian Kylie (10) FULL
“Are you there?”
Darkness encases me, a blanket weighs down my shoulders and your voice softens the edges of the tin-can telephone I press to my ear. There's something in the way you mull over the syllables of each word you utter under the moonlight. I can hear your smile. We whisper about every topic that comes to mind until the sun rises. Your school, mine, our friends, our soccer team, and whatever else mattered to us in that time.
We were immersed in this world of ours, a world of late night conversations, of summer afternoons on your tattered trampoline, and of winters spent pressed side by side. Youth tugs at the creases in our faces. We never dare to cling to it, we thought of our youth as temporary, something that would inevitably be shed, a second skin in the way of our true selves, whatever that might be.
Our tin-can telephone connects us, tied with the strongest of string. The day we found the string blends into every other hazy morning with our moms in a dimly lit haven of cheap accessories. When I pick up the can, the string tugs always taut. We talk every night, the lights of our bedrooms flicker in a code we made based on a movie with a forgettable name. When I press the can to my ear I am welcomed by the familiar buzz of your voice.
“Are you there?” you whisper.
The time doesn’t last forever. We get busy. Then we get busier. We grow our second skin like we always knew we would and allow ourselves to mature, to grow.
We promise one night over our tin cans that we'll grow side by side, and never away from each other. I fold the promise away and press it into my heart so that I’ll never forget it.
Middle school greets us in the way it greets everyone. With the opportunity to make decisions and to change irrevocably. So we adapt. You get a boyfriend and I make new friends. I switch schools and I stop playing soccer. Your body changes, your mind changes, you don’t know how to change at the same frequency as me. I don’t know how to change properly, everything I do comes out wrong and I find myself forgetting about what once mattered to me. I forget to look out my window and you forget to flick your light. Neither of us notice.
Static rumbles between us. Our friendship becomes obsolete. The once-strong string that connected us has frayed.
Years pass, the can lays discarded on my windowsill. I find myself missing you, I want you to miss me, too. I want to connect, but silence has given space for fears to creep through my head. I want youth to tug at the creases and to listen to you whisper through our tin can telephone.
My gaze is brought to your window when I notice your light flickering. I’m hesitant as I raise myself to my light switch and blink my lights in response. My hand shakes as I grab the tin can. The string tugs as strong as I remember it, what seems like forever ago. I put the tin can to my face, the sharp edges cut into my cheek.
“Are you there?” you whisper.
Darkness encases me, a blanket weighs down my shoulders and your voice softens the edges of the tin-can telephone I press to my ear. There's something in the way you mull over the syllables of each word you utter under the moonlight. I can hear your smile. We whisper about every topic that comes to mind until the sun rises. Your school, mine, our friends, our soccer team, and whatever else mattered to us in that time.
We were immersed in this world of ours, a world of late night conversations, of summer afternoons on your tattered trampoline, and of winters spent pressed side by side. Youth tugs at the creases in our faces. We never dare to cling to it, we thought of our youth as temporary, something that would inevitably be shed, a second skin in the way of our true selves, whatever that might be.
Our tin-can telephone connects us, tied with the strongest of string. The day we found the string blends into every other hazy morning with our moms in a dimly lit haven of cheap accessories. When I pick up the can, the string tugs always taut. We talk every night, the lights of our bedrooms flicker in a code we made based on a movie with a forgettable name. When I press the can to my ear I am welcomed by the familiar buzz of your voice.
“Are you there?” you whisper.
The time doesn’t last forever. We get busy. Then we get busier. We grow our second skin like we always knew we would and allow ourselves to mature, to grow.
We promise one night over our tin cans that we'll grow side by side, and never away from each other. I fold the promise away and press it into my heart so that I’ll never forget it.
Middle school greets us in the way it greets everyone. With the opportunity to make decisions and to change irrevocably. So we adapt. You get a boyfriend and I make new friends. I switch schools and I stop playing soccer. Your body changes, your mind changes, you don’t know how to change at the same frequency as me. I don’t know how to change properly, everything I do comes out wrong and I find myself forgetting about what once mattered to me. I forget to look out my window and you forget to flick your light. Neither of us notice.
Static rumbles between us. Our friendship becomes obsolete. The once-strong string that connected us has frayed.
Years pass, the can lays discarded on my windowsill. I find myself missing you, I want you to miss me, too. I want to connect, but silence has given space for fears to creep through my head. I want youth to tug at the creases and to listen to you whisper through our tin can telephone.
My gaze is brought to your window when I notice your light flickering. I’m hesitant as I raise myself to my light switch and blink my lights in response. My hand shakes as I grab the tin can. The string tugs as strong as I remember it, what seems like forever ago. I put the tin can to my face, the sharp edges cut into my cheek.
“Are you there?” you whisper.
Yarn by Eleonore Brunelle (10) FULL
gifted education program at an unfamiliar school. I was not attending school consistently though. On weekdays, I would claim a corner in my mom’s office to do “self-directed learning”. This included but was not limited to: finger painting, advanced math, Vi Heart YouTube videos on repeat, and Rainbow Loom bracelet-making. I had a lot of time on my hands.
During this period of particular childhood oddity, three of my aunts decided separately that they were all going to take up crocheting concurrently. Each of them would send me photos of their creations (plushies, scarves, hats) on and/or next to their dogs. The association of crochet and dogs lit a fire under my boney ass. Though my abilities were limited, I was nevertheless inspired to start my first crochet project.
The idea for my project was absurd. It wasn’t a complete or respectable concept, but no one was going to get through to me on this matter. I was fluent only in simple, single crochet loops. Sticking to my strengths, I started with a chain of crochet links, then continued to loop…and loop…and loop. My technical ability did not progress in the slightest, regardless of my initiative and passion. My desire to grow this one chain of crochet loops was obsessive. Inherently pointless as well. This reaction to the photos my aunts were sending me was not at all appropriate in extremity.
A month passed, and I did not return to school. The holidays came around and extended my sabbatical.
The chain got long enough that I had to start wrapping it into its own ball. This was the material birth of an entity that would drain my parents’ pockets as well as my own, with frequent trips to the crafts store. I would beg my mom to take me on the weekend or before CrossFit. I’d leave with a minimum of one new tacky yarn ball, excited to feed it to the monstrosity of a mass I was growing at home. The thread would disappear within the week. Once, I was denied my weekly trip, which was a bump in the road that sent me into a spiral. I spent that week rummaging through our old crafts bin hunting for crusty, loose string I could give to my yarn baby. I wondered at one point if there was a way to turn cat hair into thread. That said, our cats were victims of many of my other childhood shenanigans, additionally baths and fashion shows, so they were not too fazed. I can’t say the same for my mother.
My mom was getting fed up, both with my newly developed dependency on yarn and with the crochet ball’s constant presence during family time. That said, it did not resemble a yarn ball in any sense of the word. Because it was getting so big, and it took so much length to wrap around and conceal the underlayers, the clashing colour combinations and textures were hard on the eyes. If presentability or consumability of yarn balls was charted the same as a political spectrum, it was an extremist. An anarchist or else a dictator. My mother, being the staple of reason and justice of my childhood, suggested that maybe I could move on from the chain of loops and start projects that would end up actually resembling the creations I was being sent from my aunts. I was unresponsive, so she took matters into her own hands.
She put a poster up on the announcements board in the lobby of the Anglican church we attended on Sundays, looking for someone who could teach me how to crochet. Someone replied, obviously, because of the overlap of the demographics of people who go to church and people who can knit or crochet. I can’t recall the lady’s name, but she was dressed like many of the older women who sat in the pews, widowed or with their aging husbands. She had purple secretary glasses, a walker or a bedazzled cane, and wore a scarf bought at the monthly crafts sale for fundraising. I didn’t absorb any of her teachings—bless her soul—as it was during my time spent with her that I discovered crochet stuffies and hats and scarves were not where my heart rested. I didn’t see her again. My obsession progressed.
My yarn baby was my pride and joy. I invited a friend over once solely for the sake of showing it off, unbeknownst to her. She thought we were going swimming, but I had the brilliant idea of unrolling the entire thing for her; its length would be its most impressive trait, surely. To put it into perspective for her, I took it outside onto the street (this was early enough in the spring that the street sweepers had not yet come). I told her to stand beside the stop sign at the corner of my lawn and hold the free end as I walked with the crochet ball down my street, past five houses, into a cul-de-sac, and back three times.
That’s insane.
Because its true length had always been concealed, I was flabbergasted. As I was doing my laps back-and-forth, I observed my friend who had on her bathing suit on underneath her spring coat and jogging pants sink lower and lower towards the ground. This could only have been interpreted as awe. No one surpassed my mother’s level of disbelief though. She refused to let me bring the snarl of a crochet chain inside after I had “bathed it in mud”, so she sent me and my friend to her house to get her mom to sort it out. The process of re-wrapping the ball was extremely tedious and sandy. Her mom let us sit on the couch in front of the TV. We watched Good Mythical Morning for two hours while my friend picked out the dead leaves and untangled the chain while I re-wrapped.
I went back to school eventually, somewhere else, and I had much less time for crocheting. The tacky, grimey, still-a-little-leafy ball retreated to the old crafts bin in our crawl space to collect dust, out of sight, and out of mind.
During this period of particular childhood oddity, three of my aunts decided separately that they were all going to take up crocheting concurrently. Each of them would send me photos of their creations (plushies, scarves, hats) on and/or next to their dogs. The association of crochet and dogs lit a fire under my boney ass. Though my abilities were limited, I was nevertheless inspired to start my first crochet project.
The idea for my project was absurd. It wasn’t a complete or respectable concept, but no one was going to get through to me on this matter. I was fluent only in simple, single crochet loops. Sticking to my strengths, I started with a chain of crochet links, then continued to loop…and loop…and loop. My technical ability did not progress in the slightest, regardless of my initiative and passion. My desire to grow this one chain of crochet loops was obsessive. Inherently pointless as well. This reaction to the photos my aunts were sending me was not at all appropriate in extremity.
A month passed, and I did not return to school. The holidays came around and extended my sabbatical.
The chain got long enough that I had to start wrapping it into its own ball. This was the material birth of an entity that would drain my parents’ pockets as well as my own, with frequent trips to the crafts store. I would beg my mom to take me on the weekend or before CrossFit. I’d leave with a minimum of one new tacky yarn ball, excited to feed it to the monstrosity of a mass I was growing at home. The thread would disappear within the week. Once, I was denied my weekly trip, which was a bump in the road that sent me into a spiral. I spent that week rummaging through our old crafts bin hunting for crusty, loose string I could give to my yarn baby. I wondered at one point if there was a way to turn cat hair into thread. That said, our cats were victims of many of my other childhood shenanigans, additionally baths and fashion shows, so they were not too fazed. I can’t say the same for my mother.
My mom was getting fed up, both with my newly developed dependency on yarn and with the crochet ball’s constant presence during family time. That said, it did not resemble a yarn ball in any sense of the word. Because it was getting so big, and it took so much length to wrap around and conceal the underlayers, the clashing colour combinations and textures were hard on the eyes. If presentability or consumability of yarn balls was charted the same as a political spectrum, it was an extremist. An anarchist or else a dictator. My mother, being the staple of reason and justice of my childhood, suggested that maybe I could move on from the chain of loops and start projects that would end up actually resembling the creations I was being sent from my aunts. I was unresponsive, so she took matters into her own hands.
She put a poster up on the announcements board in the lobby of the Anglican church we attended on Sundays, looking for someone who could teach me how to crochet. Someone replied, obviously, because of the overlap of the demographics of people who go to church and people who can knit or crochet. I can’t recall the lady’s name, but she was dressed like many of the older women who sat in the pews, widowed or with their aging husbands. She had purple secretary glasses, a walker or a bedazzled cane, and wore a scarf bought at the monthly crafts sale for fundraising. I didn’t absorb any of her teachings—bless her soul—as it was during my time spent with her that I discovered crochet stuffies and hats and scarves were not where my heart rested. I didn’t see her again. My obsession progressed.
My yarn baby was my pride and joy. I invited a friend over once solely for the sake of showing it off, unbeknownst to her. She thought we were going swimming, but I had the brilliant idea of unrolling the entire thing for her; its length would be its most impressive trait, surely. To put it into perspective for her, I took it outside onto the street (this was early enough in the spring that the street sweepers had not yet come). I told her to stand beside the stop sign at the corner of my lawn and hold the free end as I walked with the crochet ball down my street, past five houses, into a cul-de-sac, and back three times.
That’s insane.
Because its true length had always been concealed, I was flabbergasted. As I was doing my laps back-and-forth, I observed my friend who had on her bathing suit on underneath her spring coat and jogging pants sink lower and lower towards the ground. This could only have been interpreted as awe. No one surpassed my mother’s level of disbelief though. She refused to let me bring the snarl of a crochet chain inside after I had “bathed it in mud”, so she sent me and my friend to her house to get her mom to sort it out. The process of re-wrapping the ball was extremely tedious and sandy. Her mom let us sit on the couch in front of the TV. We watched Good Mythical Morning for two hours while my friend picked out the dead leaves and untangled the chain while I re-wrapped.
I went back to school eventually, somewhere else, and I had much less time for crocheting. The tacky, grimey, still-a-little-leafy ball retreated to the old crafts bin in our crawl space to collect dust, out of sight, and out of mind.