The Weaver of Fate, 246 words
Jace tore the bandage off his shoulder and looked into the mirror. The spider stared right back.
The tribal tattoo covered the top left quarter of his warm brown back and had spilled his blood and marked his body. He hoped the gesture would appease the eight-legged weaver of fate. Because, clearly, he’d done something to piss her off.
Jace splashed cool water on his face. He wore his grief and exhaustion like a mantle. His brother’s suicide. His cousin’s murder. His grandmother’s soon-to-be-fatal diabetes. When was it going to be enough?
He shrugged his shirt on over the seeping ink and freed his iron-straight black hair from its ponytail. Just as the spider could break the web of connectedness between people, she could create it. He would just have to have faith.
“Can you do a spider?” came a muffled female voice.
Jace flew out of the bathroom and into the lobby of the tattoo parlor. She glanced over her shoulder when the door clicked behind him. Their eyes met. Flashed. Caressed. Connected.
“Why a spider?” Jace asked in a strained voice.
Her brow furrowed, then she grinned. “Because the spider is the weaver of all things. Her web connects us to something bigger.”
He nodded as his heart knit together in the presence of its soul mate. The relief was so enormous it nearly brought him to his knees. His sacrifices were finally enough. At long last, the weaver of fate smiled on him.
It was actually a lot of fun, and very interesting to try to tell a story in less than 250 words. It forces you to focus on THE story, THE main conflict. Give flash fiction a try, and let me know what you think!
Thanks for reading,
PS--naelany threw down a challenge, and I just couldn't pass it up! Her terms: 100 words exactly (gulp!) and use the word "petal." How'd I do?:
The cherry tree’s pink petals danced like snowflakes to the ground. They provided her solace, life in a field of death.
The woman knelt. Brushed blossoms off block letters. You should be able to see the name, she thought. She pulled the dead stems out of the cup. Slid the new bouquet in. Fluffed it. Hoped it mattered.
But how could it?
How could flowers, even the ones from the flowering tree that had made her choose this plot for her mother, ever be enough to say, I love you, I miss you, My heart breaks that you’re not here?