New Flashfic: Lost Girl Seamstress

by distractingdelusions

For reasons already well documented in previous posts, it has been a while since I posted a new story for you. However, just because I haven’t been posting stories, doesn’t mean they haven’t been written! The piece below was originally meant to be accompanied with a couple of illustrations but, unfortunately, that plan fell through and this has been sat in limbo on my hard drive ever since. So, rather than consigning it to the vault indefinitely I have decided to share this tale of a Goddess among us, with you, today.

If you think you know which Goddess this is loosely (and it is very loosely) based on, feel free to use the comments section, or, you can ask me on twitter, as always.

 

Lost Girl Seamstress

 

Anya was a quiet girl. So quiet, in fact, as to be considered mute by the other inhabitants of, Westfield Orphanage. How long she had been there and from whence she came, no-one remembered, no-one asked. Whilst the rest of the girls played and fought in the overgrown wilderness that passed for the home’s back garden, she appeared to be at her happiest sitting in her make-shift den, firmly entrenched on the wooden stoop of the vast, federal-style, boarding house. Alone, beneath blankets propped loosely by storm-felled branches that never bowed, she would weave stems and petals together to craft impossibly complex tapestries from the wild flowers and long grasses growing within the orphanage’ grounds.

 None of the other girls ever dared to interrupt her weaving. Not because she was mute and strange, nor because of the way her sandy skin glowed as she threaded each blade and petal in to its proper place. But because they knew, deep down in their fractured souls, who she was and what each new scene was designed to do.

 Every year, girls came to the orphanage to start anew as, in turn, the older girls prepared to leave the safety of Westfield to forge new paths in the world out beyond the whitewashed fences. Yet Anya remained, huddled inside her grass-stained fortress, rain or shine, never aging; weaving her pictures to mend their souls beneath the ever-changing Virginia skies.

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