A/N - This can be considered to be a collection of short stories all revolving around the fate of a scrap of cloth, a long story about the weaver of dreams, or just writing. It all depends on how you view the warp and weft.

Her hands flew over the loom, the threads twisting and winding to form a story, warp and weft becoming words, pictures. Within the threads was contained a dream.

The weaver studied her work critically, then, satisfied that it was up to par, gently lifted it from the loom and trimmed the excess threads, hanging it in the stall where she sold her weaving.

“A dream for sale!” She called out, hawking her wares. “Sleep deep and dream truly, of dragons, of mysterious maidens, of mountain caverns dark and peaceful! Dream and wake remembering!”

Her voice, carried far across the marketplace, caught the attention of a young man mending pots in a stall near the butcher’s shop. Curious as to what it could possibly mean, he finished repairing the cracked clay jug that a customer was supposed to return for later that day, and ventured through the busy traffic of the bazaar to the small corner where the weaver of dreams sold her wares.

“Are you the woman whose voice I heard across the market, selling dreams?” The mender of pots asked her politely.

She nodded, a grin apparent on her face. “I am the seller of dreams whose voice you heard and whose wares you sought. For you are searching for a dream, are you not?”

He nodded slowly, thinking of a way that his coins might better be spent. “I wished to see one of your dreams, see if it was what I sought.”

“Ah. You have come to the right place then,” said the weaver mysteriously, “for I have only just finished weaving a dream that I believe is meant for you.”

“Oh. Indeed.” The pot mender said sullenly, suddenly believing the woman before him to be just like every other merchant in the marketplace. He peered around her stall, noting the large assortment of wall hangings, rugs, and blankets. “Where is the dream you wove?”

She gestured at a small square of colorful cloth hanging on the wall. “There it is, waiting to be sold. But perhaps it is not for you.”

Considering what his wife’s reaction would be if he returned with a piece of cloth instead of the rice and beans for their dinner, he nodded in agreement. “Perhaps not.”

Spurred by curiosity, he asked her, “How many coins do you want for it?”

“Two, if it so pleases you. If not, then one.” The weaver replied, grinning.

He sucked in his breath. Two coins for a dream? Why, he would have enough money left to buy rice and beans for his neighbors if that was how much the dream cost! Feeling elated, he reached for his purse, and extracted two coins, soon dropping them into her outstretched hand.

“I’ll take the dream, please.”

The weaver pocketed the coins and handed him the small scrap of cloth. “Sleep with this under your pillow tonight, and when morning comes give it to the first stranger who visits your stall asking for a pot to be mended. You will be surprised at what happens.”

Thanking her, he shoved the dream into his pocket and hurried away towards his stall. Later that night, when he was getting ready for bed, he remembered the cloth

When he fell asleep that night, he dreamed a dream more vivid than any he had ever dreamed before.

He was in a wood, sitting next to a pool of water, watching and waiting. Without warning, out of the pool there rose a white-clad woman.

“Tell me what you desire, and unto you it shall be given.”

Suddenly in his mind’s eye it became clear what he desired. He wanted to become a potter. “Lady of the pool, I should wish to become a potter, for I have some knowledge of mending pots, and I believe that by making them I could be happy.”

The woman nodded. “So be it.”

She tapped him on the top of his bowed head, and suddenly he awoke to find himself in his own bed, a scrap of colorful cloth in his hand and a pot on the pillow next to him.

Amazed, for the pot had not been there the night before, he hurriedly climbed out of his bed, being careful not to wake his wife, dressed, and rushed to the market, where he promptly found the nearest potter and asked to become his partner.

“Please good sir, let me join you in your business endeavors!” He pleaded.

The potter, an elderly man who needed someone to help with his business, was reluctant to let the strange young man before him even close to his pottery wheel. “Perhaps if you try to throw a pot - if it turns out as well as my own then I will let you become a partner.” He said slowly.

The mender of pots nodded, and quickly set to work making a pot that would be worthy of comparison. It did not take him long. Somehow, his hands knew what to do. Before long, he had successfully thrown a pot that was would hold up well in the kiln.

Impressed by his skill, the old man let him become a partner, which he would remain for many years to come.

As for the scrap of cloth, the mender of pots gave it to the first stranger he saw. A beggar.