Oh. Aww. That last line just makes it.

Oh, Holli, that is just wonderful.

Okay, it finally jelled.

Lacemaker

She sits upright in the unpadded wooden chair. Her back is ramrod straight, her ankles are neatly crossed, her toes barely reach the floor. The heels of her shoes touch the rail of the chair where the wood is worn, rubbed by generations of heels. The specially-made arm of the chair holds the plump velvet pillow. Bobbins dangle from their threads all around it like a fringe of carved beads. Her fingers fly and she holds seven, eight, nine bobbins at a time, weaving them between her small flexible fingers too fast for the eye to follow. She is eight years old.

Oh, Holli, I really like yours. Especially, like P-C, the last line.

Bev, you were channelling Millay, I think. Gorgeous. And Holli's made me tear up a bit, for some reason.

All the ones that have been put up have been amazing. There's something about this particular theme.

I'll send to folks in the morning; Kristin did my initial beta for me and she was quite right about a couple of things (I'd sent without even rereading or spell-checking), so I need to twiddle. I'm hoping to finish it in the morning.

Hah. I did a triple take on eight-not-eighty.

Hair-fetishist me wrote this drabble:

When I was in high school, I usually sat behind Lauren. Lauren had nice hair. And she'd let me play. She'd let me braid.

A braid is a fascinating knot, an artistic knot. Right-over, left-over, right-over, left, with an orderly, aesthetic result. I'd braid and comb out, for hours on end, my hands, my eyes, and my mind all employed in the tying of my artistic knots. A guilty pleasure.

Now, when I'm in class, I remember braiding. I remember my friend, who let me tie up her hair in my inexpert knots, because, against all odds, she loved me.

Yay, the eight-year-old lace maker! I do bobbin lace as well, and I was thinking of doing something with lace for this drabble.

My lacemaker came from a photo, years ago, in an article on Brussels lace in Victoria magazine. She sat, in her velvet dress with its lace collar, her hair done up in French braids, her face a study in concentration.

I really wanted to do one about eight-year-old and younger rugmakers in the near east. I may still do.

Deb, glad it was helpful--I can't check my home email until tonight though, so if you want to email me between now and then (or to know what your response was last night, which I haven't read), try my work email: ktaylor at waterfordschools dot org

I adore the drabbles from last night. Gorgeous, moving, and different!

Delurking in this thread with my first drabble....

The woman told me to tie the knots tightly, holding my wishes in my mind as I formed each one. The string would fall off my wrist, and when it did, the things I sought would find me.

That was a month ago. The knots at my hand have grown dirty, started to smell of chlorine and cigarette smoke. They are brownish-gray, but tightly knotted as ever. It’s time to cut them off, before they sink right into my skin.

I reach for the scissors, and the string catches and pulls on the handle of the drawer. It pops, and my wrist is free. As I rub it, I sit, and I wait.