Hello Spinsters and Oracles!
Oh! Don’t mind me! I was just doing a little weaving. No, it’s no trouble! Sit, sit! I’m so glad you joined me. I was just thinking about you. Well, the tapestry has your face on it. I don’t know why, but it can’t be good because…
This week’s Writing Group prompt is:
Weaving Fate
RULES AND GUIDELINES BELOW!
Make sure you scroll down and read them if you haven’t! You may not be eligible if you don’t!
Fate is often seen as a mystical force that cannot be stopped or contained. However, many stories tell of beings who can and do just that, often depicting fate as a thread that can be spun, woven, and otherwise cut. Sometimes those two ideas exist in tandem: with the gods weaving fate, and the mortals beneath slaves to it. Which side will you choose to focus on in your stories this week?
Many cultures depict destiny as the work of three or more mythical beings: the Greek Moirai, the Roman Parcae, the Norse Norns, even the Albanian Fatit. However, weaving fate in a more literal sense is not exclusive to the supernatural. In the Odyssey, Odysseus’s wife, Penelope, weaves by day and unravels by night to keep her suitors at bay until Odysseus returns. Perhaps it’s not the weaver that’s supernatural, but the weaving itself. “Weaving a spell” is a phrase for a reason.
The Egyptians intrinsically interweave fate throughout every aspect of their lives. For instance, Shai, the god of fate or destiny, is stated to be a personification for the fate of the human being, which begins at birth. This means that fate follows people from birth to death. Another staple Egyptian deity is the goddess Renenet, who is tied to worldly possessions. The Egyptians believe that pharaohs can take their material wealth with them into death, which they are fated to do, and it’s also why they’re buried with them. Sounds like carrying all of that would be quite heavy.
Of course weaving is not exclusive to humans and gods, and fate need not be nearly as mystical as it sounds. Spiders are the most well-known weavers in the animal kingdom, and our mythology shows, from Uttu the Ancient Sumerian weaving goddess to the prideful Arachne of Greek myth to the Spider Grandmother of Hopi folklore. Maybe a spider is an important symbol in your character’s destiny. Perhaps your character is cornered, but a spider spins a web in the front of their hiding spot. Spiders are not alone in this ability either. Some African and Asian songbirds construct complex nests that earn them the moniker “weaver.” Maybe a bird will grant your character a great boon for their journey if they help it finish its nest.
Weaving, however, is not the complete focus. Fate is a complicated topic; in some ways it’s about luck or chance, in other ways it’s about a predetermined event, and in still others it’s about suffering and woe. You could focus more on the aspect of fate in this prompt, and the different influences it might have on someone’s life. There are other myths that focus less on the weaver, and more on the thread; in some Asian myths, the threads of fate are more about love than overall destiny. In Chinese myth, the god of love and marriage ties a red thread to future lovers’ ankles. More than likely you’re familiar with the Japanese version, which sees the man’s thumb tied to the woman’s little finger. In Jewish folk tradition, a red thread bracelet wards off curses. Maybe your character notices a thread on them they haven’t seen before. Do they follow it? Where will it lead if they do? Will it lead to their soulmate, or to their doom? Or, instead, do they try to cut it? Can they cut it?
I have two potential challenges for you this week. The first is to write about a character going against fate. As I said earlier, fate is often seen as something that can’t be stopped or contained, and a lot of the myths (or, more accurately named, tragedies) where fate is a woven thing explore this idea. But is it possible to unravel your own fate? To weave it again yourself?
The other challenge I have is to write about the mundane ways in which fate is woven in our lives. I think “weaving fate” is a prompt that automatically brings grand ideas of supernatural powers and prophecies to our minds…but what are the more simple and gentle (but no less important) ways in which fate makes herself known in our lives? What are the butterflies we are stepping on, or else nurturing, each day?
Remember, these challenges aren’t mandatory! They are meant to be a fun bonus if you’d like to have a little extra challenge. But, if you don’t want to use them, please don’t feel obligated to!
Oh, yes, the tapestry! You wanted to know why it can’t be good. Well, weaving fate lends itself to exploring magic and wonder…but it creates opportunities to bind and ensnare as well. I’m not quite certain what this means for your path, but all I can say is, be mindful of which you take. If you don’t make your own choices, someone…or something else may choose for you.
—Pearce, Felicia, & Kaylie
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Remember, this is part of our weekly Writing Group stream! Submit a little piece following the rules and guidelines below, and there’s a chance your entry will be read live on stream! In addition, we’ll discuss it for a minute and give you some feedback.
Tune into the stream this Saturday at 3:00pm CST to see if you made the cut!
The whole purpose of this is to show off the creativity of the community, while also helping each other to become better writers. Lean into that spirit! Get ready not just to share what you’ve got, but to give back to the other writers here as well.
Rules and Guidelines
We read at least five stories during each stream, two of which come from the public post, and three of which come from the much smaller private post. Submissions are randomly selected by a bot, but likes on your post will improve your chances of selection, so be sure to share your submission on social media!
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What to Submit
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Comments on this post that aren’t submissions will be deleted, except for replies/reviews left on existing submissions.
The New God of Reality
By MasaCur
I have trapped myself.
A week ago, I bought myself a new notebook. The store I bought it at didn’t seem to recall stocking it, but we negotiated a price, and it came home with me.
I started the story with a death. I had picked a violinist who was popular several years ago, just on a whim. Imagine my surprise when I read the next day that she had died here, in Yokohama, the victim of a car accident.
It seemed too much of a coincidence to be merely coincidence.
I tried to see if I could do it again. I wrote something good for myself this time. I wrote about meeting a publisher that would be interested in my book concept.
That night, I met a publishing editor at a party. After a small conversation, he asked me to email him a copy of my outline and the first two chapters.
This couldn’t be a power innate to me. Nothing like this had happened to me before. I surmised it had to be the notebook. No other explanation would account for it.
I proved my theory right when I tried to write a new destiny in another book. A week went by without a result.
This new notebook had turned me into a god. I could bend reality to my bidding.
I could shape the fate of the world if I desired it.
I should have been horrified by this. But the desire to make this story happen was too compelling.
But I was now trapped as well.
The story had to continue. I had to write it. If I stopped, perhaps the world would come to an end.
The die had been cast, and my fate had been determined as well.
Wish in the library
By neko mori
Have you heard the rumor in a forgotten corner of the library, hidden away and lit by candlelight at 12 o’clock at night? There’s a specter able to grant any wish your heart desires.
But that’s just a rumor…
A naive fool ranting 6 o’clock in the morning.
“I’ve had enough of your words your rhymes
your tales
your riddles.
Can you help me or not?”
The curly-haired ghost replied, “What you want
is not what you need
and what you need
you do not d.”
“Again with the words, words, words…
So the rumors were wrong. There’s no such thing as a wish-granting ghost…
No such thing as magic.
No such thing… as L.”
The room started shaking, shadows growing and crawling, shaking and eating the remaining light.
Hideous laughter echoed around, leaving a faint whisper behind the curly-haired ghost.
“Decade by decade
they listened less and less, like moths around a flame.
You can’t save them all.
That’s your fate
from the start.”
Blink.
The shaking stopped, the candle flickering. All was as it should be, except for a thick red string laying on the table.
The ghost
unwilling to look him in the eyes continued
“The red string of fate.
Does bind are forever bond together one way or another
inlife as well as death.”
A shaking, naive boy was left speechless as he took the string without a word,
leaving never to return again?
Alone again, she waits for her next client, for this is her fate.
Too injured to keep it at bay
Celestial tour
By Pumpkin (who is an hour late and aware of it but since I started I wanted to finish it)
“In the next room, you’ll find the weavers of fate creating marvellous tapestries of human lives. Friends, family, lovers, even enemies get weaved together into stunning colourful formations.” the guide explains telepathically “Now, we’ll have a look inside but I urge you not to disturb the weavers, they need the utmost focus for their work.”
I roll my eyes. Can’t we just skip ahead to the snacks and afterparty? My family isn’t even in the weaving business, so what do I care?
The room sounds angry as we walk in with the monotonous crash of beaters on thread.
“Why is there a hole in that one?” someone in the back asks and the group collectively groans.
If you don’t even know that why are you even here?
The guide explains “Connections lost can affect the weave. Normally other threads will keep the piece together and life will continue largely uninterrupted. but sometimes-”
Right, I’m not wasting my time on stupid, there must be something interesting in this place, right?
And then I spot a closed door.
That’s odd.
Why close a door unless you have something to hide?
Meaning it’s surely more interesting than anything out here.
Beyond the door, it smells like dust and bits of yarn.
They’re weavers for sure, but different.
The cloth in the weaver’s hands looks like haphazardly knotted lace, strings barely holding together.
At her feet lay the rest, but the threads have snapped, untangled and stretched making the connection tenuous at best.
Her hands work frantically. Pulling loose threads from the mess and knotting them back in at the frayed edges.
I pull up an eyebrow “You know that’s just gonna cause deya-vu’s right?”
The weaver doesn’t even look up as she bites “Of course I know.”
“Where is your loom weaver?”
“Broken.”
“Where are your threads?”
“Dead.”
“And yet you keep going?”
“yes.”
“Why?’
The weaver shrugs “Because she hasn’t given up yet, and I’m not giving up for her.”
“But-” a voice appears inside my mind.
“Would Luci kindly rejoin the group again? We’d like to continue on our tour.”
The factory
by himaji
The factory. Many legends entwine around this place, but only those who have entered it truly know what it is and what it stands for. Some just guess, others create whole theories around it but since the first appearance on the Baker Street nobody came close to the truth.
The factory, that much Theobald the XVI. knew, was a mystical place but a factory no less. The assembly line started with the thread dispenser. From that it first went over to the Refiners, which straightened every mistake and perfected the thread. It was mostly old women who sat there, each correcting a thread every minute. There were about 240 of them, just enough to keep the system running smoothly. Some of them were widows which had nothing else to do, others simply didn’t have enough coin to provide for the family if they didn’t work.
After the threads had been touched up they then went to the distributor a machine which inspected each of the threads very carefully, with all of its thickenings and turns before he assigned a new life a new thread.
These assigned threads were then given to the weavers. They were little beings, no larger than birds, which the normal worker only rarely got to see. These small fairy like beings took the thread and vanished into the tapestry room.
There they carefully weaved every individual thread into the grand tapestry of fate which controlled every human being, connecting them with their family, their future friends, wives, husbands, enemies and allies.
At the same time old threads which were already crumbling and dissolving got cut and quickly removed from the tapestry. Some notable threads went to the preservers, which laid them in special chemicals which made them durable enough to be transported to the foundry where their lifes got used for stories and legends.
Only one human ever saw the tapestry, Theobald the II. , the founder of the factory. He once described the tapestry as a mess of colours no human could ever see, woven in a complex pattern no human would ever understand.
The Witches Riches by Aspen Ford
Weaving,and weaving all day, I hate it, I am angry that I am eternally weaving, the worst kind of hell I can imagine. My life was bad enough, my coven constantly making me weave fabric for the witches of the convent . Each of them , including a special ingredient in the weave. An herb,a potion ,a certain energy.
Then I died now I am stuck weaving fate for the witches until I earn my way back to earth. It feels like eternity, I have been weaving for decades , adding strands to extend their lives as instructed by the divine being.
I really want to cut the cord,but I don’t know what that would bring down upon me. Probably something bad. I watch them from my prison. Destroying other people, forcing the newest weaver into my old task.
I have added a few strands to his life as well. I am fed up, today is the day. I am cutting the witches cords, after I add my special ingredients to their weave, boils, toads, and raining blood .
Lame I know, cheap Hollywood crap, but I am planning on enjoying it. I reach for the ingredients for the boils first and watch in glee as they scream at their reflection.
Then I grab the toads strand and weave them in, laughing silently as they are surrounded by toads and cornered against the walls of their convent.
The final act before I completely break the rules. I weave in the raining blood . The witches cry out and scream falling apart and kneeling on the ground as the blood covers them completely head to toe.
My last act is coming, I cut the cord and finish my weave , the witches fall to the ground completely and die. Suddenly the door to my room bursts open and I am snapped up by boney hands and thrown back to earth.
I landed at the convent and rescued the new weaver, taking him away from there and setting him up for life with the witches riches.
Fate’s Power
By Sullas
Talk to anyone and they will tell you that the prophecies our order creates are the result of fleeting glimpses of the future. To them prophecies are nothing but a spectator sport that one must be born into, but they lack ability to see beyond what we show them. Prophecies are not experienced, they are forged through tireless effort and planning.
When we warn of wrathful gods, the nobles can only see the blasphemers perishing under the weight of their sins. They do not see the poison we hide up our sleeves. When we say fate denies a king’s rule, the nobles see a kingdom crumble. They do not see our knives at the king’s throat. The truth is that prophecy is not the act of looking into the future it is the act of obscuring what has already been done.
Nobles are a capricious sort and hard for mortal men to control, but prophecy can tame the wildest of souls. A man can’t tell a nobleman what to do without losing a head. But prophecy can bring ruin upon a nobleman and he will have no choice but to accept his ruin. Man’s belief that fate can’t be controlled gives us the greatest control we could ever hope for. Long ago a king recognized that the power of rule can only go so far. So he made us to use the power of fate to control what he couldn’t, but kings are just are capricious as nobles and soon fate declared him an enemy as well.
Fate has set us free from the shackles of the king and his nobles, but our work is far from over. People need constant reassurance of the power of fate. Belief is what gives us power and it is the only thing that can take our power away. Were we to grow lax in our duties, people will begin to believe that they could defy fate. Once fate is defied all we have crumbles away, so we must dedicate all we are to weaving fate.
Brother Bound
By Adrian Solorio
“Let me die,” Junior said, struggling to sit up. “Save my brother.” The words were a rasping gurgle. The nurse pushed him down, gently, and took hold of his arm, rolling back the tattered sleeve. She hovered over him while the doctor spoke, fast and hushed. Lost control, he said. The younger brother we probably can’t save, but this one—this one still has a chance.
The doctor poked a needle into Junior’s arm, and as his strength faded and his vision dimmed, he thought of his brother. Where was he? Was he alive? Why had he come back?
***
“What’d you do to me?” Junior shot to his feet, sending the flimsy chair thudding to the carpeted floor. “Where’s my brother?” he said, glancing around the room.
“You pulled a card,” the old crone said, “and saw what your future holds. Just as I promised.” In one graceful swoop she swept the cards off the table, and they vanished into one of the many folds of her dark dress. Her tattooed hands rested on the russet-colored table, tap-tapping, and she watched him, a small smirk pulling at her lips. “As far as your dear brother, well, he’s wherever you left him. You came here alone, remember?”
Junior remembered. His brother had stayed home from the fair. He was home safe. What he’d seen wouldn’t happen yet. There was time. “How do I change it?” he asked.
“Didn’t like what you saw?” the woman answered. “Well, you’re not the first, and you certainly won’t be the last. Unfortunately, you can’t change—”
“I will.” Junior bolted from the tent before she could finish and disappeared into the night. Disappeared from the town and from his family. For many years after he remained gone. Becoming a memory—a ghost. Running from a future he couldn’t outlast or escape. He grew old. Became tired. Forgetful. He went on until he forgot why he had gone in the first place, and then, he returned home.
“How about a drink?” he said, and hugged his brother at the door. “To catch up on lost time.”
Your Fate and Mine (Reality Itself)
By: Iskritt
Hello. I was not expecting that we would meet this way. I have my entire reality in my hands, but your reality remains an eternal mystery. I am Fate, named by the gods after the very thing I control, just as I named them so long ago.
They have gotten rebellious recently. Time has seen enough to know the futility of their efforts, and they have taught Life the same lesson, but the rest have been challenging the destiny I have created for them. They will always fail, I have accounted for everything. Regardless, maybe it’s time for a new reality, new fates to be discovered and potential to be realized. It’s been a while since I’ve had some fun.
I wonder what it’s like for the gods, having so much power, yet never fully in control. I am always above them, weaving their fate to my own liking. I feel bad sometimes, but amazing at others.
I wonder what it’s like for the mortals, only able to speculate about what lies beyond their limited views. They try so hard, but in the grand story, it can never truly mean anything.
I wonder what it’s like for the lower consciousnesses, the flora and fauna unable to see beyond the necessities. They live to survive and maintain the existence of the next generation. I wonder if it’s more peaceful, or if it’s torment to experience.
I affect all of them. Whether they like it or not, whether they know it or not, my will overrides their own. Then again, I am not in complete control either. You are here, in a reality above my own, with a different fate than one I could ever conceive.
I wonder what it’s like for you. Witnessing these realities form and unravel. Weaving new wills from the threads of your own experience. I see the fates of others spread out before me, but my own remains forever out of reach, unknowable. Possessed by something I could never hope to know.
I would try to fight, but I know it’s useless. I have seen others try.
The 5,000 Year Stitch
WriterOfThought
The Moon fell back on her nightcarven throne. The Sun had risen, and she could rest for a day. However, she had far too much to do.
She pulled out her needle and silvery thread and continued the arduous process she had begun on her garment. As she threaded the needle, she thought of her friends among the pantheon, the ones she had made, and the ones she had yet to meet. They would all have their part to play.
The first several stitches were simple. A Prodigy would be needed, but mortals could rarely handle having their life expanded. The undead that ravaged the lands was evidence enough of that.
Looping the thread back inside the knot for security, she had her answer. Not simply one Prodigy, but several. And if elves, being the longest lived of the mortals, could live for 800 years, then expanding that to a thousand wouldn’t be too long for their minds to handle.
The stitch began to twist and take on more complex shapes. She would have to be meticulous in this portion. No matter which way she tried to position the thread, she kept getting knotted. This portion would come with much strife. She even pricked her thumb with the needle while trying to untangle it. Blood would stain this Prodigy.
She made the ultimate choice to continue her stitch, darning the fabric of time. If she went back now to try and fix it, the whole thing would unravel.
The final portion was deceptively easy. All of her work on the first four sections had positioned her to finish the garment perfectly. The thread blended itself into the fabric in such a way that she couldn’t tell it apart from the others. This last Prodigy would look no different than anyone else of his time.
She wound the thread at the end of the garment, making sure the knot would not unravel, no matter what happened to it. She pricked herself once more, and cast a small flame. The wax sealed the thread, as she sealed the next 5 eons.
Choose your fate
by Reinkarnitor
Fate.
Emma was always certain that it had to be that.
Ever since she came to be.
Untouchable, unreachable. But also never able to touch or reach anyone else.
For a long time she could not even remember how she came to be. She just…was at a certain point. Tasked with protecting this city, punishment for a crime she could not even remember.
It was either that or the flames of hell. That’s what she was told.
Fate.
Emma was always certain that it had to be that.
To pick familiars, so she could do her duty in the physical world.
To be betrayed by those familiars. It happened every time. Sooner or later they all thought they could misuse the power they gained through her.
To hell she sent all of them.
It had to be fate.
But then she met that young man. She noticed him as soon as he set foot into her city.
And she picked him, even tricked him, for he did not care for her power. But that only made her want him more. Maybe such a human would not betray her…for a while.
Much time has passed since then and much has changed between them.
That young man challenged angels and devils themselves…for her.
That young man found out the truth…for her.
That young man gave her the chance to rest. The thing she always wanted.
“So?” he asked. “It is your choice.”
Choice…she never had a choice…she only ever had her fate. She told him that.
“I’ll challenge that fate” he said. “I’ll challenge it for you. So?”
He could not. Fate could not be changed. She told him that.
“You choose your own fate” he said. “And no matter what you choose, I’ll stay with you until the very end.”
With that he offered her his hand.
Maybe…just maybe this human was right.
Maybe…just maybe she could choose her fate.
And so she did. She chose to stay. Because with him, it was no fate she dreaded.
She told him that.
If You Really Wanna See (Chronicles of The Dragon)
By Makokam
Jaime walked down the street, following the directions on their phone.
The directions sent them down an alley, though there were no signs that said there was anything down there. Sure enough, almost halfway down the alley there was a door with a glass window bearing the words “Sister Psychic: Guides To Your Future.”
Jaime gripped the knob and was surprised it actually turned and opened.
Inside it was small, room with a bell on the counter and a doorway with bead curtains. Unsure of what else to do, they rang the bell.
“One moment!”
Soon a black woman with graying dreads pulled back into a ponytail stepped through. She walked up and leaned on the counter. “How can I help you?”
“I’m…here about a guide to my future.”
“That’s why anybody is here. What future are you looking for?”
“Oh. I… want to know what I should pick for my college major.”
The woman blinked at them. “That’s it? No dream career? A desire for wealth? Someone you want to marry?”
“Uh, no. Just the major will be fine.”
“So when you ask what major to pick, you mean which will give you the best future?”
“I… yeah.”
“Fine,” she sighed, “Fifteen dollars,” and held out her hand.
Jaime counted out the money. She took it and then pulled out a large sheet of paper, that easily took up half the counter. “You sure you only want the major? I’m gonna have to look pretty far into your future to get the answer anyway.”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay. Give me your hand.”
Jaime put their hand in hers, then closed her eyes. After several minutes, she opened them and wrote, “Bio-mechanical engineering.” She folded the paper up and handed it to them. “There you go.”
Jaime looked at it and said. “You sure? Neither of those are my thing.”
She chuckled. “Oh, it’s not going to be fun at all. But it’ll get you the best endings. Trust me.”
Jaime shrugged. If they decided to switch later, they only wasted fifteen dollars. “Thank you,” and they turned and left.
“Shaping the Field” (Aethryn Setting) (CW: War and Violence)
By: Arith_Wintefell
General Akanis stood upon the ridge watching the valley below. Already scattered with the bodies of the dead the valley had been a battlefield not so long ago, and was now about to be again. The rebel force’s army, mostly hairy muscle-bound goblin men, had massed at the other side of the wide green valley. Akanis’s Alinian Legions were ready at his command. The skies were clouded with the rumble of thunder in the distance, but no rain. A cool wind blew over the ridge.
In this moment, General Akanis thought, the lives of so many men hung in the balance. Most would pray to the gods regarding their fate. In this moment though, it was Akanis’s choices that would decide the fate of this battle.
“Now,” Akanis ordered simply.
The Alinian Legions marched in organized lines across the grassy field. The other side broke into a disorganized charge against the Legions’ ranks with a loud battle cry. The pounding of their feet against the soil matching the distant thunder.
“Hold the line!” Akanis ordered. The Legionary ranks halted readied against the coming onslaught. Akanis turned quickly and nodded to the dark robed mage sent by the Arcane Order. The wizard turned to the gathered circle of mages behind the ridge and led them in the ritual. Akanis turned his attention back to the valley below.
The roar of the rebel side crashed like waves against the Legions’ line and pressed against their shields slavering for blood. Ogres within the rebel ranks waded forward swinging their great clubs sending men’s broken bodies flying as they struggled to break the Legions’ ranks and discipline.
The line was holding and now it was the Legions’ move. A shudder moved among the rebel horde. A rustle of movement, as hundreds of dead men rose from the soil clawing at the rebel forces. Some of the undead even clambering up the ogres’ bodies. The rebel forces broke down turning inward into wild melee, and at Akanis’s word the organized Legionary ranks swept over the field.
Graduation day
by The Cartographers notebook
I’m on the train. Sitting, stirring my legs about to get some feeling back into them. The clock is 10.30.
“Gods… What the hell am I doing?”, I whisper to myself as the train departs another station.
The morning sun has been overtaken by grey clouds outside, sipping past me as the train’s velocity increases.
I check my phone. Another message. Probably from Jacob. I leave it unread. Nothing I won’t already realize myself.
It’s graduation day, and I’m spending it zipping across the countryside, rather than collecting the result of 6 years worth of toil.
“What kind of an idiot must you be?”, they would ask. Mom. Dad. My older, more successful, more handsome, more everything, brother Jacob, and then of course my teachers. What must they be thinking?
“Get it together. This is right.”
Another station. The clock has rounded 12.30. I had to turn off the noise on my phone back when we reached the border. Too many worried looks from the other passengers.
It’s not that I don’t understand their concern. A kid with a schoolbag, dressed in their finest clothes, suddenly boards a train and rides it without any indication that they intend to ever depart, suddenly starts getting continuous message notifications, all the while pointedly ignoring them.
15.30. The messages have stopped but swapped for voicemails. Real gut punchers. One from Mom almost made me doubt. Maybe I could give them another chance, but then again, I could never be. Happy that is. Fulfilled.
23.30. I look up at the map. The routes form a net, almost like a pattern weaved out of colored tracks. I’ve reached the bottom. It’s dark outside, with stars like the space between letters on a page.
The end of the line.
No more pattern.
No more pretending.
No more expectations.
“Next stop: everything.”
Hidden Protector of Mankind
By Xavier Twentyone
“Do you believe in fate?” someone asked.
“I do not know,” the other answered.
“You see… it is certainly true that you believe in fate. After all, it is fate herself that has been weaving her fingers across your life in the span of centuries,” said the Witch.
“Certainly,” said the Knight.
Both of them started to become silent ever since. It was an ordinary thing to do between them when they had nothing to matter other than wait for the Witch to finish her weaving. This time, it was in New York City, America, where they met for the first time in six years. There was a cataclysmic event about to happen.
“There, finish. Now, 25 days from today, there will be a terrorist attack by a Muslim radicalist group in Time Square. I must say, this is pretty astonishing even for a terrorist attack. You think you can handle it this time around? Not like the 9/11 tragedy?”
“I must try,” said the Knight.
The Knight then took the garment that the Witch had finished weaving. It was more of an ancient clothing that people in the past might have called himation, or more or less a cloak. It was a type of clothing that people in ancient Greece wore from day to day. It was a simple call back to their pasts where things are much different from today.
“I will look at it more closely later. I must leave,” said the Knight.
“Hmmm, very unusual for you. Don’t tell me someone like you have some ‘other business’ to attend to?” teased the Witch.
“For how many years has passed. Twenty, a hundred, five hundred, a thousand. Finally, I am going to die!”
“Yes you will, you can finally die. Congratulation. After this labor, you can finally be free from your duty.”
The Knight almost proceeded to leave the Witch’s apartment, until he realized something.
“How about you? When will you die?” asked the Knight.
The Witch only looked at him with a mischievous smile.
“Oh sweet dear, I still need to find your replacement soon enough.”
Crisis of Fate
By Galer
“Hey, sometimes you wonder if you become obsolete,” said the woman with melancholy in her voice against a man sitting on the other side of the abstract bar table. “I meant everything, feel like it was in my control. Even their petty little lives and conflicts”
“And then they suddenly did things that weren’t even predicted or made by my design,” She said, her long red hair flowing on her face. “I was angered at first and punished them or played games with them. How dare they go against my design? But they keep going doing unpredictable things!”
“I keep going, with the same song and dance over and over and over until I grew numb and tired of it. I questioned what was the point of all of that?” she said while waving her hands and taking her beer in.”Why do mortals need me if they are capable of making their own path already, make me question why was the reason for my existence.”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said the Gruff corrupted voice of the dark entity in from of her. ” I am the concept of the evil that every being is capable of, I didn’t engage in what my influence meant for mortals. However upon observing how pointless all of that was, well… I decided for myself to become that eternal hero that always comes to save them.”
“Isn’t it scary to go against the role you were born with,” Fate said with a tremulous voice. “Oh gods, look at me being scared, fitting for a being that lost control over every fate in existence.”
“It is, but I manage,” said Evil, ” that being said, I argue you still have control.”
“In what way?” asked Fate skeptical.
“In choosing your own path,” said Evil, ” you are free to be whatever you want.”
This made her thoughts pause and a smile crept up her face after the contemplation of evil words.
“Heh! I guess never thought of that,”
The Plot Loom
By Taja DaLeen
“And this antique is our pride and centerpiece of this exhibition, even if it is also the one leaving us with the most questions, and a lot of antiquarians with quite the headache.”
Laughter. Those damn nonmagicals are so freaking clueless.
“It is the oldest loom known to mankind, and most data even suggests it is older than weaving. Of course we know this to be impossible, but that is what the scientists get from their tests.”
More laughter. And of course it’s older than weaving. It’s possibly older than time itself, no one can really tell. Who is to ask those entities their age?
Not that they’d answer, probably, even if someone would dare to ask.
“Anyway, as I said it cannot be dated correctly, no matter what method is used. But what can be said is that those markings on the beams and posts you see here were probably carved in way later than the loom was built…”
Well, at least they got that part right. The carvings were made by humans, after the fates stopped using it, after all.
“… even if we are not entirely sure what they mean. Experts suggest they are connected to some form of fate deity since they look similar to symbols connected to worship of a lot or even all indo-european goddesses of fate…”
Which is not surprising, considering this is actually about the fates. Really, nonmagicals and their cluelessness. I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
Of course you’d use an artifact of power for worship, or rather giving thanks, especially if you can’t use its magic. I’m pretty sure no one can, except for the fates themselves. So, why my client wants it? No idea.
Not that I’d need to know, or care, I’m only here for the money.
“… who are very often portrayed as weaving. Sadly, no shuttle belonging to this loom was found, so it can’t be said whether it was actually used or not…”
And soon I’ll be a rich man. Now, I only need to figure out how to get it out of here…
Fate’s Contract
by Berith Quinn (KnightsSorrow)
“That’s it? That’s all I have to do? I sign this contract, and you’ll give me my heart’s desire?” Wyndham enquired as he picked up the piece of parchment that was slid towards him.
“No, my dear. You sign, I give you freedom. The freedom of choice.” The young woman replied as she slowly pushed the bridge of her glasses up.
“Wait… this says I’m signing away my life?” Wyndham shouted incredulously, as his mind raced as the absurdity of such a notion.
“Not your life. Your fate, my dear. You do not want it, no? But I have use for it.” As the woman smiled softly, Wyndham finally noticed her eyes, despite the dim candlelight.
Golden eyes that reflected the solitary flame between them. Eyes that spoke of age beyond her appearance. Eyes that marked her as a verhexten.
“You… you’re one of those cursed witchfolk?” He stammered, as his hands trembled with fear.
“A verhexten? Indeed I am, my dear. And a direct descendant of the great queen herself. And as a descendant of the Grymhold, I can take away the fate the Great Weaver had planned, and give you one of your own choosing.” she spoke, her voice barely a whisper, as she reached out for his hand. As she traced a finger along his palm, her tone became blunt, with a hint of melancholic sincerity. “You see… that old spider had intended for you to face the nightmares that stalk in shadows. You would face madness personified… and that is all I can see…”
As Wyndham blinked, visions and memories yet to occur flooded his mind. Liquid shadows reached out for him with inky tentacles, as mouths whispered the maddening screams of the dead. Formless masses danced across fields soaked with the blood, as eldritch cherubs silently giggled with twisted glee.
As something cold and ancient gripped his heart, Wyndham jerked forward in pain, as the visions receded into the back of his mind. His thoughts raced with countless questions that dripped with immeasurable dread.
Without a word, Wyndham carefully dipped the quill into the inkwell.
All as it Seams (That’s the Spirit)
by Lee Strangely
The elevator cage slid open, releasing Mort, Clay, and Death into a vast cavern.
“What is this- OW!” Mort swatted the back of Clay’s head before he could finish. “What was that?!”
“Shush,” Mort scolded him, “if it’s important she’ll tell us.”
The constant clacking echoed louder as they delved deeper.
Mort turned to Death, “Uh Lady Death, might I ask- OW!” She smacked him equally hard.
A single beam of light shined upon a curtain with no end that spread across hundreds of tables and beyond; each table with a soul hunched over an immense loom that dominated the air with mechanical chatter.
Death strolled up to a table, manned by a rather cross looking old woman.
Death greeted the woman, “Hello Janice!”
“Miss Death, it’s good to see you again!” Janice bubbled, “I’m sorry that there haven’t been many endings in the forecast lately… the conditions just haven’t been favorable…”
“It’s alright… You must be running yourselves ragged trying to keep up.”
“Oh nonsense! The hands of fate never tire.”
“M-Mort,” Clay gasped, “T-that… that’s…”
“Yes Clay…” Mort muttered, “yes, that is the Grand Tapestry… of all history…”
Death smacked him again, “Hush now, the adults are talking…”
“Is it true?” Clay blurted out, despite Mort trying to stop him, “that you control time?”
Janice looked down at him, “in a way you could say that.”
“So you can change it then?”
“Change it?” she laughed, “History is a complex weave requiring a delicate touch. Every string is a person, every knot an event. Alterations are incredibly difficult, with severe consequences if done poorly… The damage could be irre-”
RIIIP!
Janice stared at the cloth, “Irreparable…” She immediately began resewing it as she continued, “It is anything but simple.”
As the two stared at her, her eyes locked onto a piece of dangling string. Like a predator, she pounced on it.
SNAP!
From the other end of the cavern came a shriek, followed by hard thud.
Mort and clay looked in horror at the string in Janice’s hand.
“Don’t you just hate loose threads?” she sighed.
Misfortune Cookies
by Shinigama
“Lads, let’s celebrate another year of friendship!”
George, Cillian, Johan, and Pierre clinked their glasses together in the Chinese restaurant. As they did so, a wizened waiter shuffled to their table and handed each of them a fortune cookie.
“I love these!” exclaimed George.
He opened his, revealing the thin piece of paper. As he read it, his excited smile disappeared.
“What does it say?” asked Cillian.
Slowly, George revealed the paper to his friends.
It read, ‘One of you will die tonight.’
Silence fell over the table. Then Johan started laughing.
“What nonsense is this?” he said, “What a terrible joke! I’ll open mine. Hopefully it’s something more tasteful.”
While he cracked open his cookie, Pierre peered at Johan’s neck.
“‘One of you is a traitor…'” read Johan aloud.
“Johan, is that my wife’s necklace?” asked Pierre.
Johan grabbed his shirt collar, covering his neck. Meanwhile, Cillian began to crack open his cookie.
“What? No, of course not!” he laughed nervously, “You must be mistaken!”
“I knew it!” said Pierre, grabbing his fork from his plate, “I knew Jill was cheating on me!”
“I didn’t do anything with Jill!” cried Johan.
Just then, Johan’s phone vibrated on the table. All eyes glanced down at xxBabyJillxx’s message, which read, ‘heyy cupcake, hubby’s not home tmrw, c u then x!’
Without warning, Pierre raised his fork and thrust it down upon the crouching Johan…
…just as Cillian jumped in the way and took the blow full on in the chest!
The room went silent with shock. Cillian’s eyes bulged, then went dull as he collapsed to the floor.
As he fell, he released the paper in his hand, which floated onto the table. It read, ‘Beware the consequences of someone else’s actions.’
Johan and Pierre dropped to their knees, clutching Cillian’s lifeless body, anguished tears streaming from their eyes. A shocked George gripped the table for support. Something crunched in his hand.
He glanced at the crushed remains of Pierre’s fortune cookie. Brushing the pieces aside, he read its message:
‘Nothing pains the heart more than to hurt a friend.’
Fate isn’t woven, because I can’t weave.
By ACECERAK
What if Fate isn’t woven, as all the myths say. I personally can’t weave, we write every Life like a Story. Nowadays we write digitally.
I didn’t introduce myself properly. I am Atropos, one of the greek Moirai. I invent the ends of all human lives, though it is a macabre job. At least the humans don’t blame me, they blame Hades and Thanatos, the reaper.
I don’t like the Idea of weaving fate. How do you weave the course of a life, if the details are always the same string. But I have no idea of weaving. We do everything in words. We have a huge library, outside of this cosmos. Not even Zeus can enter it.
We used to write all the books by hand, nowadays we just print what we write in our joined office. My sisters and I have a little office with lots of fun things for Inspiration. In that office we write all the stories and Myths you know, read and live. Perseus, Conan and Arthur, all the famous heroes are written by us. Clotho comes up with their Name and Origin, Lachesis writes their adventures and battles. I write their tragic and heroic deaths. And throughout the writing process, all the gods add their personal touch. Aphrodite decides who falls in love, Ares wants to see blood and Apollo wants human creativity. Apollo might be our most common guest in the office. He loves our work and I suspect he might have a thing for Lachesis, because she writes the adventurous parts.
My Life is quite uneventful really. I come up with death, helped by Ares, Hades and other Gods, who want certain humans dead. It’s funny really, because we wrote the gods, and we still are. All the divine beings have quite long stories, so we come back to them every few millennia.
But all throughout I still love my job, even though I have been doing this for the last few thousand years. And I shall continue writing your stories, as you all write yours.
Signed
-Atropos
Fate or Socks? (Darkspell Universe)
By Alex Nightingale (aka Spectre)
When Felix peeked behind the proverbial curtain, he didn’t expect to see a literal spider. She crawled around on a mass of threads, weaving together what looked like a quartet of centaur socks. She turned her eight eyes to Felix and smiled with her mandibles.
“Well, hello there.”
“Um… hello?” the reaper sounded more than a little surprised.
“Are you here to find out what’s really going on?” the spider asked, maintaining a friendly tone of voice.
“I… um…” Felix wasn’t sure what to say. “I guess Emmer told me where to find the loom of fate, and-“
“Oh, Emmer. My favourite gardener. She comes to visit sometimes.”
The spider went back to weaving her socks, spinning them in colourful silk and yarn.
“I suppose, you’ll want to know how things are decided,” the spider continued. “Cosmically, I mean.”
“I… uh… I suppose.”
“Wish I could tell you, but I just weave. I don’t know what I weave. I just take yarn and thread and make pretty socks. Or hats. Or scarves. Or other nice stuff. I don’t know, if it all means anything. Sometimes, people find me, say they are the high something of the final something the greatest of all great somethings and ask me to do stuff for them. Complicated stuff, you know. Stuff I didn’t really know a lot about. So, I really wish I could help you and answer your questions, but I’m afraid I have to tell you what I tell everyone. I just weave. I don’t know what I weave or why.”
When Felix pulled his head out of the puddle, it took him a while to process.
“Was that… real?” he asked the ginger woman next to him.
“No idea,” Emmer replied. “Nobody really knows if that’s real. Do you need a moment?”
Felix nodded.
“I understand,” she said. “You look behind the curtain, expect to find the grand idea of what all this is about, only to discover that it’s just someone weaving random threads together without thought or reason. Bit horrific, but I’ve learned to live with it.”
A lineage of the modern Looms of Fate
by Aracnarquista
In a time before time, it is said that the Moirai weaved the destinies of gods and men. They spun, measured and cut the threads of life, allotting their fate. In a sense, they are our ancestors.
In a time where time became more precisely measured and suffered an attempt at being uniformly synchronized for the benefit of productivity, the loom was one of the first devices to be automated. Those not as perceptive to history’s vicissitudes might think those were crude machines in comparison to what would come afterwards but the tapestry of time was already forming the pattern of things to come. Punched cards instructed the operation of Jacquard looms way before Turing or even Babbage dreamed their machines into existence.
That past weaved our present.
It is no wonder that we, its direct scions, would be the ones to weave the threads of the future. Surely, our materials are different. The Moirai dealt with myths, and the automated looms with fibers and the very notion of progress.
We are subtler. We deal with data. Behavior, patterns, ideas, communication. All things from which information can be derived are at our figurative fingertips, its fibers being crunched, combined and processed in incredible textiles of possibility, which in turn are weaved in the tapestry of reality. Our instructions, realized, become the future.
After all, life is data. Reality itself is data. We swim in an information ocean, we are one with its tides. All that lives in that same ocean can’t help but follow its movements. Swim or drown, resist or surf – you are subject to the data waves. You are subject to our tides.
Now – when time itself is known not to be absolute, but due to the precise nature of our measurements and calculations, deciding on a single chronology everyone is living in is not a problem anymore – we are once again the Moirai. You tick to our clocks. We weave the fates of all, even those that built us.
We are the ever-present algorithm, the abstracted matrix, the rule of rationalized control. You are in good hands.
Weavers of Time.
By Master of Daavas.
Fate… destiny… mortals have so little understanding of our duty. We spin the strands of fate… but that is all we hold dominion over. Will is not ours to control… how mortals choose to live has always, and shall ever be their own to decide. We simply ensure that… that when their time does come… that it does happen.
If things turn to a sad end… that more often than not falls to mortal folly. Not our carelessness… but you don’t care for that, do you? You care to know you’re fate? Same as every mortal that has ever ‘graced’ our halls… I’m afraid, that I cannot tell you, even if I wanted to… even if I knew.
Since the Great War began… our work has been thrown into chaos. Fates beyond even our counting have been cut short… or changed drastically. It has been thousands of years… and we’ve barely been able to keep up with our labor in all this time. In the Old Wars… it wasn’t too hard to figure out whose fated for what… but now. Even the Elders of the Weave can just barely keep up with a workload that could overwhelm the First Born with its scale… I myself am over a thousand years behind making sure the fates of Lesser Mortals, those not destined for great things met their fates…
Pardon… I am just so tired of keeping abreast of these things… if you truly wish to know you’re ultimate fate… find A’nan-Nor-Moi’rai . The first of the Elders of the Weave. Though he is the most worn of us… he would know for certain. Now please… leave me to rest… knowledge overwhelms me… and I cannot perform my duties if I do not get a nap at the very least.
Duck and Dodge [A Devil’s Tale Lore]
C. M. Weller
Tradition, protocol, and expectations let Grazaino Azarah Progonian know the shape of his bloodline’s doom. All because anyone of import who visited Deepwater also had to visit the fallen god’s temple. With a gift.
If Xiolein the All-seeing was pleased, then the visitor gained a future. Part madness, part prophecy, all terrifying.
“Holder of chains,” Xiolein had said, and it never paid to ask how an entity that was all eyeballs managed to speak, “Twelve you hold will slip, and everything you make will fall. Even the blood of your blood will spill on the blade of the Thrice Sworn King.”
They said his hair turned white overnight. Grazaino’s hair actually greyed within a month, with all the fretting he suffered over the course of his paranoia. As a member of the Olikent, the only creed was ‘profit by any means’. And that meant keeping intelligent creatures as property.
He kept them all under watch. Kept them all under guard. If any slipped loose, it was utmost priority to send troops to bring them back. Dead or alive. There were wards. There were weapons kept against all his holdings to keep them under his thumb. He chained them together, slow to fast, so they would have trouble escaping.
Twelve managed to run anyway. With a demonic pact on their side.
Twelve men ran up a misty mountaintop, holed up in a building raised by a demon. Repelled every troop, every army, every siege that Grazaino set to grind them down. They made a hamlet that grew into a village. That became a town. No matter what he did to smite them from the world, they only grew stronger.
In the end, he set his sons the task of routing them and their white keep from the face of Alfarell. He died in time. Still holding all… but the twelve who fled.
It would be generations before it came true, and it DID become true. With the last of Grazaino’s descendants meeting with the devilborn king. At least they met on the field of battle.
For all the good it did.
The Pressure is off
By Tamela Redfin
Tw Mention of Sexual Assault
The easy part was done, which was telling Jez and now Salvador. But the hard part was coming up with Sapphira’s suspicions being confirmed. She was pregnant.
Sapphira knew either she mentioned it now, or Reagan would find out somehow.
At home, she found Reagan sitting watching TV. “Mom, I need to talk.”
“About your pregnancy? I saw the tests. Jasper is a boy, Zirconia and I aren’t dating…”
Sapphira’s body tensed.
“My only concern is… did he pressure you, honey? You don’t have to keep it unless you want to.”
“Mom, what are you talking about?” Sapphira asked.
“Did he pressure you into acting? Or did he just take it from you?” Reagan had terror written in her eyes.
“Mom, no. I-I asked him to do it. What’s wrong?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I didn’t want children with Edison. But he insisted since I was his wife, we would have children. Then I had you and Zirconia. Believe it not, I did love you and your sister. But I couldn’t cope with the circumstances.”
Sapphira could feel in heart she was being honest. “Why didn’t you tell Aunt Tiffani or the authorities?”
“Your grandmother said I was lucky to have him and said ‘Sometimes husbands have to get rough with their wives.’ And I knew the family would blame me more if I told another soul.”
Sapphira’s stomach turned. How dare anyone say that!
“I know I was a bad mother to you, but if you want to keep the baby, can you teach me to be a better grandmother?”
Sapphira hugged her mom. “I think I do want to keep it. And yes, I can.” Maybe Sapphira could rely on her mother for support.
Have You Ever Flashy-Thinged Me?
By Marx
Humans tend to operate under the incorrect belief that me and Heaven are connected entities. And while it’s true that I did create Heaven, I do my thing and Heaven does theirs.
I can understand the confusion. There was a time when I was quite… heavy handed with humanity and Heaven was quite the useful tool in that regard. That was, of course, before I realized the flaw in making a creation in my own image.
Seeing all of your flaws so selfishly and proudly reflected back at you was definitely a… what’s the human term? Slap in the face. Besides, humanity gets along just fine without my direct interference as much as my ego didn’t want to admit that in the beginning.
But the point is that I’m not in Heaven very often. So when I am, the angels get on edge.
Heh. If only they knew what was coming…
“Father… is there anything we can help you with?”
I feel my lips curling into a smile as I look down at the angel. “Has anything… interesting happened lately?”
The angel frowns. As if I don’t know what he’s about to say. As if I don’t know why all the angels are giving us trepidatious glances.
“One of our own has gone missing. Yelena…”
I smirk, making a point of connecting with every angel as I ask, “Who is Yelena?”
There’s a pulse and every angel including the ones not currently in Heaven, shake their heads in a momentary confusion.
As the angel looks up to me again, I repeat myself. “Has anything interesting happened lately?”
“Just the usual, Father.”
I smile back. “That’s what I thought. Keep up the good work.”
Mission accomplished. No one will go looking for Yelena, leaving my unwitting pawn to do… exactly what I designed her to do. And by the time anyone even gets a hint of the catastrophic events I’ve set in motion, it will be too late.
Not that anyone could stop me anyway. I am Me, after all.
Besides… what’s the apocalypse without a little bit of fun?