Unspooling…
An Adult Fairy Tale
There is a spool of thread in a basket. A delicate shade of green, this spool of thread. It is of the green that lives inside nature’s treasures…and what lies beneath them.
One curious morning, the spool of thread in the basket is awakened suddenly by a strange sound. A strangled sound. A sound made strange by strangulation? That sound! So strange!
“What could it be?” wondered thread in dread. “Another spool, spilled out of the basket…alone? Afraid? Awake? Do you need help, Little Spool? Oh, do not cry. I will help you! A place next to me in the basket? Would you like that? You can be at home here in the basket next to me!”
But nothing answered in return; no spilled spool there to reply.
And yet, the sound persisted, so Thread kept alert, wondering, worrying.
Perhaps it is a cat, or, rather yet, a kitten, crying over its spilt milk?
The sound continued, gnawing at the edges, splitting their ends.
The spool did its level best not to fret, not to spoil the peace and quiet of the basket with the worrisome sound of its own worry echoing worry’s refrain.
Oh, the lovely basket! Do not disturb the basket! With its spool upon spool upon spool of colorful threads: a double, no! A triple rainbow!
And its row of gleaming thimbles, identical, startling in their silvery sameness. All of them set…just…so.
The spool loved looking at Thimbles or, rather, enjoyed being looked at by them, guarded by their vigilance; each one, two eyes magnified by the dozens. But despite and however and alas, the little spool of thread had to admit: the peace and the quiet of the basket was broken, and there appeared to be no way to fix it.
Little Spool began to fret: Where had it gone? What had it done? What could it do?
Little Spool fretted some more: What could it do? What had it done? Where had it gone?
Where had it gone? What had it done? What could it do?
Little Spool fretted so much, it frayed: What could it do? What had it done? Where had it gone?
Where had it gone? What had it done? What could it do? What could it do? What had it done? Where had it gone? Where had it gone? What had it done? Where had it gone?
In fact, it frayed so much that bit by bit, the thread, well, the thread began to unspooooolllllllll.
Hard to believe, safe as it once was, nestled in the basket between shimmery, barely blue, the color of sea and sky, and righteous, boldly purple, the color of magic and mischief, that this unspooling could be…that it should be…that it is.
But should it be? wondered the unspooling thread.
Wonder soon turned back to worry for that very instant the (un)spool caught sight of itself…little bits floating high above, tiny, tufted clouds.
Poof! Gone.
Those bits, they just flew away, (un)spool sighed.
But (un)spool stayed, for that worrisome sound had not abated, not by a bit.
In fact, the sound grew and grew until the basket could not contain it. The basket was inside the sound now; they all were. And all of them were smaller for the cause of it, hunched over, trapped by sound’s wiry cage. But only green thread was filled with dread.
Thimble soldiers were just as they always were, entirely unfazed.
Could it be their many eyes no longer see me, bemoaned (un)spool, realizing just how dire its straits had become.
What of the rest? The other and colorful inhabitants of this formerly cozy basket? Well, who can know the mind of another? All (un)spool knew was that this ever-growing, ever-gnawing, ever-grasping rattle would be its eventual demise.
And Kitten? [(Un)spool secretly named it “Kitten,” for the sound had simmered into the agonizing whine of one who has fallen into a puddle of spilt, spoilt milk and cannot find its way out.] What did Kitten make of this ghastly mess?
Alas, (un)spool did not get the answer it sought for at that very moment, a massive yawn crawled out of Kitten’s craw, neatly dispelling the moment.
Kitten must be embarrassed, (un)spool concluded. Embarrassed and empty and sleepy. Oh, so sleepy!
Do not fall asleep, Kitten, willed (un)spool, for you may drown in that puddle yet! It has happened, I shiver to say it.
But Kitten could not hear (un)spool over the sound of its own soothing, snuffling snores.
Why, oh why won’t Kitten crawl away from this pitiful puddle?
Plainly, the puddle is an accident. Accidents happen, and, as far as accidents go, this one is just a mess, and messes can be cleaned up, and milk is plentiful elsewhere, and fresh at that!
But no matter how many ways or how many times (un)spool worked the problem of the kitten and the puddle, Puddle and Kitten, fretting and fraying, fraying and fretting…nothing ever changed.
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Except for Puddle.
Puddle curdled and stank even worse, even worse, it stank and curdled, until (un)spool could barely catch its breath. If Kitten noticed the stench, it just yawned and stretched and recurled into its blissful slumber, stretching as Puddle grew to meet its new edges.
But (un)spool could not find any rest, no matter how weary, no matter how worried. Not with that smell and that sound rising to greet it every morning and descending to smother it every night.
While the fretting made it fray, the stench sent (un)spool a-reelin’.
Momentum did as it was bound to do (for that is its purpose; not its fault! Do not blame momentum!), and soon, all the tiny bits that (un)spool had collected…flew away.
Poof! Gone.
What traces of thread remained began to shred, and green grew thin and thinner until, finally, the thinnest, most delicate line of nature’s treasured shade was…let loose. (Let loose? Kicked out? Set free? Or just lost?) It did not know. How could it? It is not a sage; it is barely a string. And Thread without Spool can hardly be said to count for much.
Without its own spool and without the other spools beside it, (what is left of the tiny shred of) Green Thread did not know where to go or what to do.
Should it rest blissfully, the way Kitten had, curled up in curdled muck? No. That wasn’t right. Tired as Green Thread was (the last little piece of it, anyway), it did not dare not drift into blissful, ignorant slumber.
Perhaps it feared Suffocation or maybe it was The Drowning. Hard to say. Neither fate a fortune.
It knew not much. All it knew was this:
“There is not enough of me anymore to escape Puddle with its maddening sounds and stupefying smells. If I am to find a Basket in which to be, then I must gather more of myself.”
Those frayed bits here and there, the ones that hadn’t already floated away, those are still useful, aren’t they? Can’t they be? Useful? At least to me? But Thin Green Thread dared not wish these wishes aloud, for it did not want to know if these wishes were too big for it. It needed hope, however small, to keep it company.
Lil Bit, as it had come to understand itself, did what it could, picking up another stray fragment here and another piece over there, creeping quietly around sleeping Kitten and spreading Puddle.
But Lil Bit was so eager to be spooled again, so fretful of never returning to its spot between Barely Blue and Proudly Purple, that it became more and more worried and hurried as it went, losing as much of itself as it gained until Lil Bit became downright frantic.
The more frantic the fretful bit became, the harder it was to gather up the other bits. They rolled together into tiny balls and rolled away. They broke apart till fibers fluffed into puffs of nothingness, carried aloft by Kitten’s snuffling snores.
Lil Bit watched in dismay as teensy shreds of itself fell right into the puddle of rotten milk, lost forever.
The frantic, frayed, fretful Lil Bit who could not fall asleep finally became furious!
“Why should this be my lot? To be unspooled so, and then let loose? (Kicked out? Set free?) Only to be lost? What is the meaning of that?” demanded Lil Bit, not at all expecting an answer.
“I DO NOT SEE THE SENSE OF IT!” shouted Lil Bit, but no one could hear its outrage over the roar of Crying Kitten and the stench of Curdled Milk.
Spent of its storm, Thread only longed for itself, longed for Home…a home. One it could live in; one it could breathe in.
“If only I could tie enough pieces of these bits and bobs to myself, then perhaps I could fashion my own spool, find a new basket, somewhere quiet and peaceful, where breath is free, and green can be. Yes, I would miss my friends, Barely Blue and Proudly Purple,” mused Lil Bit, who had to admit it ached and longed and dreamt of them every day.
“Oh, to be nestled again between them, safe and sound and snug,” sighed Lil Bit, weary now of its own wistful shade and tired of its own tedious company.
Meager and loathsome, it had become. Its company. Not Lil Bit….. Unless the two were the same?
It did not know. How could it? It was a Barely Hanging By A Thread by now.
If Thread without Spool cannot be said to count for much, then however shall we measure and weigh this tiny tuft of poof? It must be accounted for; it must account for itself, if nothing else.
So Lil Bit set out to right its wrong.
“I do not know what I will do without that row of watchful, glinting, gleaming thimbles, always on duty. Not to mention my colorful friends. But I cannot see a way. The puddle is too big, the smell too sour, the sound too loud. It is ruined,” Lil Bit sighed, “ruined for what’s left of me.”
That thought settled as heavily as a woolen blanket on Lil Bit, making it sleepy. Oh, so sleepy!
But Lil Bit had seen where slumber had gotten Kitten, now grown into a proper cat.
Why, at this very minute, Kitten was lolling in the shaft of light that shone upon the filmy caul that settled on the stinking spill now spread across the floor. Lil Bit knew that was not the way. It did not know much, but it did know that.
It also knew that tiny tufts do not last long out in the open air, exposed, so it burrowed deeply into Woolen Thought and nestled in its briars…but no matter how sleepy it got under there, Lil Bit stayed alert by focusing on Itch, grown irksome by now.
Lil Bit huddled under Blanket for as long as it dared, concentrating on the itchy grains from Woolen Thought, abrasive in their comfort.
“Wait a moment. Wait just a moment, there,” realized Lil Bit, a little late. “An itch has purpose. Itch is there to be scratched; it is there for scratch. That’s what I need: purpose! And a friend. For as long as I itch, I will find my way! For surely there is one out there for me.”
So Thread focused everything it had left on becoming something else: a problem to be solved.
Con-cen-trate. Con-cen-trate. Almost theeeeerrrrrrreeeeee.
Climbing ever higher and diving ever deeper, the itch became Lil Bit. And Little Bit became Itch.
Now I know what is left for me to do, though (lil b)Itch; it is, in fact, the only thing I can do:
Find my SCCCCCCRATTTTTTTCCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
