WRITE ?

This is merely an idea, perhaps welcome, perhaps not, for the next few Saturday posts: a communal writing effort/game. I remember years ago taking part in a couple of such endeavours - for fun. One of these was a comedic effort, on an old AOL forum, the other, on an astrology forum, and more in the story-telling mode I'm suggesting here. Passing readers, known and unknown, might feel a creative urge, and add their words and ideas, regularly or as a "one-off" single contribution. There need not be many participants, two or three would work or even just one to begin, others might step in later, step out again, or continue. Contributions could be a few lines, or a few paragraphs, or even simply an idea for others to follow up.

What brought all this to mind was my coming across a "Preface" written by my husband in 2003. I'm still impressed by it, and would love to give it more life. I'd had an idea for a story or short novel husband and I might write together. We had discussed it while he was with me in England; when he returned to the USA for a while he had thought about the story some more, and wrote what follows as a possible preface to set the scene.

The rough basis of the tale was to centre upon a piece of "magical" fabric. It would travel through the centuries, be recognised by a series of its owners and their connections to others, during various lifetimes...beginning in the middle ages. Original thought was for the tale to start in Britain, then span several centuries, and locations, with focus on just two or three, ending around say, World War 2 or later, maybe even way into the future.

We had brief outlines in mind of where the tale might go, but were never happy enough with them. There could well be other ways to use this preface too. It's not essential to remain within the old ideas. The tale is open ended now, open as to a beginning too, apart from blending with what is set out in the preface below, begging for input.

Here it is:

Preface:

A crescent moon and a single candle spread yellow light across a small room. An ancient woman works at a loom. She works slowly with great purpose, grand design. Her fingers pull the yarn tight, knot it here, counting the cross threads, another knot there. The woman pauses, wipes the corners of her eyes. A candle and a crescent moon are little help to her near blindness. She weaves and counts by touch. She creates to the image in her mind, an image formed of seasons of watching the stars, the changing patterns of her skies.



Over years she has collected life about her. Over these years she collected the sound of the squirrel in the fresh air from the forest, the scent of the wildflowers on their spread down the side of the hill and honeybees on the breeze from the valley, the touch of the rich earth and the polished stones on the path from the hills, the taste of the spring water and wild herb. All these pieces of life she knows. All these things are in the knots and the curious weave of the strip of fabric she is creating. And something else. She pauses and smiles at the crescent moon that is now only a glow in her dimming eyes. She smiles at the stars she can no longer see but knows in her heart are there. She is following their instructions. She and the stars are creative partners in this soft band of fabric.



The flax was gathered on a late summer day. It was years ago. The linen yarn was spun slowly on evenings after the children were bathed and sleeping. The skeins of yarn were dyed in iron cauldrons of color from the wild berries from the hills and from curious red-brown earth left when a fiery stone fell from the heavens. The woman ground these colors in stone cups, blending each with care. The wild bushes and sapling trees at the edge of the small forest held the drying loops of yarn. The sun contributed subtle changes to the colors here and there.



Now after years of preparation, the last thread, the last weave, the last knot was in place. It is a lovely band of textured fabric, a unique scarf fit for royalty. The labor of her life was complete. Complete that is, except for the delivery. The creation is not for her. It never has been. She has known for a long time where the small scarf will go. She has known the color of the container, the place in the stars, the position of the sun. Exactly. And it is tomorrow.



The sun now glows above the trees at the edge of the great lawn in the front of the estate. A pale green and gold trimmed carriage waits at steps. The driver sits atop, holding the reins of a patient horse. Last night’s sleep is still in his eyes. A footman stands ready at the top step of the front landing. Behind him the carriage door stands open.



A small figure emerges from the trimmed shrubbery, approaches the carriage quietly and places something on the seat just inside the open door. Then as quickly, the figure is gone.