The Dream Weaver


A bone needle flashed in the meager sunlight, dragging a thread as thin and delicate as a spider's spinneret. Weaving. In. Out. In. Out. Around. Knot. In. Out. Around. In.

A steady stream of dyed water trickled out of a bamboo shoot into a small earthen pool. Layers of delicate cloth soaked in the pools, draped back out and soaked in another pool of colored water, and another, and another. The cloth was in no way perfect or pristine, it was dotted with knots, patched-over in places where it had frayed or been worn to transparency. Beads of all shapes, sizes and colors hung onto the delicate threads at random places, feathers, flowers, and silver trinkets crushed between the weave. If one looked closely, they would slowly see the tiny patterns knotted into the cloth, swirls of wind, white doves, children's faces, and burning houses, shrieking dragons, and castle ruins. The furthest end of cloth was speckled with blood, droplets from pricked fingers. Another knot formed, intentionally, for once, and she bit the thread loose with yellowed teeth.

The cloth was finished. The needle and scissors were ready. It was time to give the dream shape.


The sidewalk was cold against her bottom; her shoulders lightly kissed the bricks at her back. Paint-stained fingers flew, plucking the strings of her shamisen skillfully. Businessmen, shopping housewives, and rambunctious clots of teenagers walked by her, a few of the passers-by dropping a few coins and bills into the hat at her feet, fewer than there would be if she were playing a more western instrument, like a guitar.

Her lips stretched in a yawn, and she dropped her fingers, setting the shamisen in her lap as she took a swig of coffee. It had already gone cold. Sighing, she poured the change she had earned into the pockets of her pants and secured the hat over her disastrously dyed hair. Her business was done for the day, the sun was low enough to skirt the horizon orange and the five-o'clock rush hour was long since past.

The bottoms of her sandals clapped against the pavement, her height shortened by a prominent but relaxed slouch. The clock tower belched its hourly moans and she looked up, startled, when she noticed the time.

"Shit!" She started running, shamisen bouncing against her back, shoulder bag dragging behind. On the corner of the road, a small group of boys were playing their instruments and singing.

Oh, whoa, baby, why can't I see you anymore?

Your marker-stained sneakers lost among the many feet on the dusty street

She heaved herself over a hedge, moving so quickly it almost felt like flying.

Out of my sight, but not out of my mind, we lean on either side of the door,

Dreams bleeding out of my wrists, rotating our shoulders to the beat

She landed solidly on a table, terrifying the couple out for lunch, the chains on her baggy pants clinking together like wind chimes.

"Hi! Excuse me! Sorry! In a hurry! Bye!'

The man and woman stared as the girl sprinted off, hardly having realized that most of their meal was overturned and ruined.

You're singing, crying my name like the prayer that will save you

But, heaven comes in the form of a candy you can't swallow, for it's far too sweet

Her hair streamed out behind her, whipping around sharply. Her eyes were still shaded by her hat. Her reflection in the water of the bay chased her, panting for breath.

What do you think will come from this affair, what are we meant to do?

They'll take that dirty mouth of yours, wash, rinse, repeat.

The bell tower tolled again. She rushed through a flock of pigeons, sending them squawking and flapping into the sky, alarmed. Strolling civilians found themselves having to jump out of the young woman's way.

"Watch where you're going, you nut!"

Oh, whoa, baby, why can't we see each other anymore?

That unusual shock of hair of yours, going, going, gone

She darted into a back alley and from there into a door that led to a kitchen. The chef looked away from his stove as she slammed the door open.

"You're late again, doll face!"

"I know, I know, don't remind me!"

Between these hearts, you and me, it's war

Hold onto those dreams of yours, beautiful, we're making them into song!

Her bag, instrument, and clothes were tossed to a remote corner and replaced within the span of several heartbeats. She glanced at the reflective surface of the refrigerator, straightening the crinkles in her skirt and tearing down the knots in her hair.



I have no immediate plans to continue this. It was an idea I had, and was eager to write down. I think it would be nice to come back to it later on in the future, perhaps when i have thought the story through. I do like it a lot, but i have other stories and other things occupying my mind, things I would like to finish before doing anything with this.

Then again, I hardly ever manage to finish the things i write, so I may come back to this who knows when.

The "song" in this belongs to me. It is mine. It has no tune, so its beat is up to you, the reader.

Well, read, review, and all that jazz,