Drabble (170 words)
Under a starlit sky she sat the glass of the solarium barely keeping a semblance of civilization under that sky. Her work table was filled with spools of thread, so many colors and shades. It was every single one that she owned. In front of her was a loom, one that had been passed down in her family for generations. Every woman in the matrilineal line had weaved something for almost 400 years. Or so the tale goes.
Now that she is about to become a mother herself fit is her turn to add her tale. Slowly her hand reaches for a spool at random, loading the fly with care. In a daze she moves every breath seemingly added to the flow of the weave. At random she changes threads, weaving a pattern without care for the consequences. It moves in a dance that only her family can understand. For this cloth is no ordinary cloth. She weaves her life into the tapestry of fate, as all before her did.
Now that she is about to become a mother herself fit is her turn to add her tale. Slowly her hand reaches for a spool at random, loading the fly with care. In a daze she moves every breath seemingly added to the flow of the weave. At random she changes threads, weaving a pattern without care for the consequences. It moves in a dance that only her family can understand. For this cloth is no ordinary cloth. She weaves her life into the tapestry of fate, as all before her did.