Last week, I set a challenge to a fellow writer to produce a short story to the prompt of “When my grandmother taught me to crochet, I don’t think she realised she was endangering my life”. The results were quite inspiring so much so that I decided I would share in the fun. This is my attempt:

I cursed as, for the fourth time that evening, I’d gotten the loose fate lines tangled with my own. Why had I even tried to learn the needlework? I’m a cutter; not designed for the intricacies of the hook. If it hadn’t been for Granny…

Granny would have known what to do. She would have clucked and cooed and carefully extricated the threads with a toothless smile. Granny was made for needlework. Granny could do anything.

I put down the pattern and needle and started to untangle the mess. As the threads separated, I let out a sigh. My line was starting to fray, almost to the point of breaking; the result of clumsy fingers and inexperienced repairs.

How long was lost? Days? A week? Could be close to a month from the look of it.

I should’ve stayed as a cutter. There’d been no accidents when I’d been a cutter – no unintended ones, anyway.

There’d been no patterns either.

I shook my head and with a sinking feeling in my stomach, took the material from the table. What was it supposed to be anyway? All the patterns looked the same.

Granny could have told me. She knew all the patterns, all the stories. Most of the time, she didn’t even need to look — her eyes had long clouded over with cataracts and were all but useless — but, with a deft hand, she’d decipher any tale. The fate lines spoke to her, she said.

They don’t speak to me but this one didn’t need much interpretation. My finger traced the golden thread of fate running through the weave.

Its twists and turns held the story of a young woman, unlucky in love but brimming with resolve. When fate favoured her, the thread covered the pattern’s face and when fate didn’t, it disappeared to the rear. This pattern held barely a hint of gold but, nonetheless, the gold was there. The woman persisted.

The weave continued a while before a second thread, a young man, successful, made an appearance. The threads danced their merry dance, crossing paths often but never converging and, for once, I understood.

My frayed line gave easily when I tugged at it and, with it looped and knotted, I took up the hook. A quick double stitch bound my line to those of the man and luckless woman.


I sat back, satisfied and smiling. It was worth that lost month.

Granny would have thought so too.

2 thoughts on “Clipped

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