It’s another Dystopia Rising story. This one is about my new character She and not about Jeanie. If you have yet to check out Dystopia Rising, you seriously should. It’s utterly amazing stuff from the amazing people at Eschaton Media.
Spin the spindle. Let the fibers twist together into the thread above the dangling wooden dowel. Grab the dowel and wrap the fine thread around it. Repeat the process.
Spinning yarn. It was simple and beautiful. And mindless enough that She didn’t have to think about all the things confusing Her. It was easier to understand.
She glanced up and looked around at the currently empty room. Over on the bar was the record player, quiet and with no disc spinning and revealing messages of the Kings. Her mom had started to tell her about his kings and the great union. It sounded so much like the great whole and seemed to make so much sense. She would have to ask the true believer priest who usually sat at the record player about them. She’d also have to ask Her mom to tell more.
It was almost a strange concept. She vaguely remembered having a mom before the caravan had come to take Her away. Her mom had begun to teach her about the requirements of brewing for the elders. Mom had explained that it is very important to share the knowledge of the generations past with the ones to come. She never could ask Her mom what that had meant. And now, now She had a new mom. And a sister.
The dead one was kind and made sure to guide Her when She was worried or confused. The smiling girl was sweet and didn’t seem to judge Her at all. They were both kind. Was it the right decision to join the neighborhood and join with them? She hoped so. They were trying to help Her and guide Her.
But they weren’t the only ones.
There was the white haired pocket. That one was always trying to make sure She was safe. That one wanted Her to feel like She belonged here. It was strange to have a pocket that would get so bothered by understanding the things that She thought, but still stand up for Her and defend Her. She liked the white haired pocket.
There was also the tea commies. They were generally helpful and always got so angry at the thought of someone hurting Her in any way. Even the loud visiting doctor and the priest at the record both respected Her and treated Her and Her thoughts as though they were very okay.
It was strange that there was anyone who wanted Her around. She was used to all the many in town who were afraid of Her or didn’t want Her to exist. But to realize that many wanted Her around and were willing to protect Her.
Could it be that She might have found a place to belong again? Could it be that She might have found a place where She could one day feel like She was allowed to be herself?
She shook her head. It was too much think about right now. No, spin the spindle. Work the strands of fiber into workable yarn. That was easier to understand right now.