Rêveuse; a String

The red string hung loosely. 

The string was the color of autumn sunrises and sunsets. 

An emotional connection, fueled by the Gods. A long piece of string, winding down summer roads and cutting through thick winter woods. The intangible string always stuck with her, acting almost as a beacon of light. 

A red so powerful it sent her on prolonged afternoon daydreams and brief evening nightmares. 

Train tracks. Her feet stepped one in front of the other, and lying ahead still stood a million feet of string. A tug on her heart, and she looked up. 

The sky looked awfully dreary, the clouds blooming later than usual without the birds’ morning melodies. She could taste the pills, feel the sterile injections, and see the white-walled rooms. 

She could feel the Fates playing cat’s cradle. Clothos set up the game, holding the string between her two hands. She felt the tugs, the pulls, and the laughter of the three women above her.

They would lift one side, and thread it through the other.

Atropos’s fingers slipped. 

The spring fields. The summer road. The autumn tracks. The winter woods.