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(Tales of the Mosaic – 235 words)
Tessera
A Darned Old Weaving Song
by Industry Standard
Greater Weftings is a working town, and like anywhere that sweat and effort clogs the soul, that dam bursts as alcohol flows, and with it jokes, stories, and songs in cacophony of collective woes. Too many tunes to count, really, but if you stick round the local dives long enough, you'll hear one that goes a little like this:
Darner Weaving, per his given
wove - were 'e not told to
and given orders from the Prock
would do it till 'e died.
And darn old Weaving, hear him heaving
stood - for all they stole 'im
tweaked each fiber from his life
and boxed that all up too!
His legs all sturdy, stood as long as they could -
those callous things were better sold as hard-wood!
So Darner Weaving stood, no more
no richer for-
His eyes all muddled, sketched old weaves while 'e slept -
pried from his skull those secrets paid for his rest!
So Darner Weaver saw, no more
no richer for-
His haggard breath, you bet his throat was all raw -
those wasted heffs, they bottled straight from his jaw!
So Darner Weaving slept, no more
no richer for-
His hands all practiced, hell, they moved on their own -
kept on weaving, cut off clean through the bone!
And Darner Weaving was, no more.
Darner Weaving, per his given
wove - were 'e not told to
and given orders from the Prock
did do it till 'e died.
For all you'd doubt the exact truth of it, part of that tragedy's been felt by everyone in Weft. Worst of it came during the Unspooling when near half the district shuttered, workhouse stocks were liquidated cheap, and everything left found the streets in piles sky high. Locals scrounged best they could, but what good were shuttles, combs, and broken looms, to the hungry and cold?
Well, one pair of severed hands, now free from quotas and workhouse air, writhed and flexed, grasping for all they had known. They found thread, tools, and wove.
They were no richer for it, sure, but the community was clothed come winter.