Once upon a time (as most fairy tales go), there was a girl who was unhappy. Nothing too distinctive about her; she could have been anyone off the street. Like most humans, she was unhappy with her lot and sought to better it. A wiseman told he, if you meet the Ourobouros, joy, wealth and so much more will be yours. How shall I find it? I know not, but if you pick the nettles of the forest green and weave them into a cloth of thread so fine it seems moonlight made, the Ourobouros might seek you. So, she did dutifully as the wiseman said. Day after day, she would travel to the forests, returning only when her baskets were overflowing with nettles. At night, she would stamp on the nettles till her feet were crimson ribbons of flesh. Then, the weaving would begin. Days bled into weeks, weeks bled into months, months bled into years. The cloth was long and gossamer upon the skin and yet the Ourobouros did not come. Alas, she passed on, the nettles she had lived with for so long cloaking her in a funereal shroud. And if the Ourobouros arrived in the end, no one knows of it.
~The End~
No comments:
Post a Comment