String

Sylia lifted the fabric up to her face, carefully examining her craft for any flaws. Specks of dust floated through soft beams of light streaming into the room as she double checked then triple checked the cloth.

Seemingly satisfied, Sylia stood from her chair and moved to place it on a nearby table. Looking it over, she decided to start another stack of cloth; the previous one was beginning to grow too tall for her liking. Placing it down upon the weathered oak table, she exchanged the fabric for a spool of thread the length of her thin arms.

Surrounded by the solace of her workspace, Sylia took a moment to admire the results of her labor. Before her, she saw many squares of fabric, their pastel colors contrasting with the bland grey of the basement walls. Sylia wanted to think that each cloth held a small piece of her and that each would one day take up a new life of their own in a piece of clothing or another project.

Humming softly to herself, she walked back to the wooden loom and placed the new spool of thread in. As she sat down in her worn seat, she made sure everything was in order before getting back to work. Passing the shuttle through the threads, Sylia felt her mind narrow on the fabrication of the cloth, with each pass beginning to follow a natural rhythm…

"Sylia, you've been down here for hours.”

Trying to ignore him, Sylia continued weaving under and over, under and –

“So please just do yourself a favor and take a break. I love how you're passionate about this whole weaving thing, but you've already skipped lunch and I won’t have you miss out on supper. It’s not healthy of me to eat for two you know."

Sylia looked up from her work. Her father stood in the basement doorway, leaning against the frame and giving a little pout.

"I'll be up in just a moment Father, just let me finish this quick and–"

"That's what you said an hour ago... and the hour before that. Any longer and your bread may actually start to mold."

Knowing she wouldn’t win this fight, Sylia slowly brought the loom to a still. Sighing to herself, she stood up and began to walk toward the door.

Her father began to motion toward the dining room table like an English butler.

"Thank you Madam Sylia for joining us today.”

As they walked, her father’s expression suddenly brightened, as if he conjured up a genius idea. 

Clearing his throat, he addressed Sylia.

“I thought I should mention a tiny tidbit before you eat; I don't believe I cooked the meat quite right this time. Please don't be too surprised if it's a little bit... stringy."

Seeing her father chuckling softly to himself, Sylia let out an exasperated sigh.

"Father, that's a horrible pun..."