This was written for Flash! Friday (a weekly competition for 150 word fiction). The photo of St. Kelda was the photo prompt and you had to include a baby and the name Stella.
Broken thread
I met the man beside the stone house. He came at sunset, the baby in his arms. He didn’t have to explain; I knew exactly what happened. She was chosen. That was all there was to it.
“Her name is Stella,” he said and looked up at the swirling stars. As he did so I wrapped my cloak around me, hiding me from his sight. It was better this way. In the morning no one would ask after the missing child. It was the same with me.
I stepped into the stone house; our halls. Some called us faeries. If only we were. But someone had to do the work.
The other women looked up from their looms for a moment. Only mine was empty, the last thread broken at the moment Stella’s mother gave her last breath.
One day I’ll have to tell her how we are chosen. I’ll have to tell her that it was my fault.
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| St Kilda, Scotland. CC photo by Neil Wilkie |
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