Lineweaver

I stopped because I liked the doors.

They were green with age, ornate and beautiful, set into a mausoleum at Hollywood Cemetery. Then I looked up and noticed the name carved into the stone above them.

LINEWEAVER.

Well.

That's a name.

I stood there turning it over in my head.

Line weaver.

Isn't that what I do?

I take words and sentences and fragments of things I've seen or learned or overheard, and weave lines together until eventually there is a story.

And lately, weaving has been following me everywhere anyway. Women sewing and embroidering. Threads passed between generations. The Fates spinning, measuring, and cutting. Stories unraveled and rewoven. A cloak stitched with the names of women whose stories have been changed by the people who came after them.

Then I wander through a cemetery and find LINEWEAVER carved over a pair of beautiful green doors.

I don't know who Lineweaver is yet.

But I'm fairly certain someone in one of my novels just got a surname.

From the Windows — I Thought I Knew Edgar Allan Poe