by Belinda Roddie
The fates sewed all of our dreams into a purple dress. And the Fat Man in the Sky's wife wore it to all her galas. She sipped her martinis and loved the compliments she received for the gown. "Just some patchwork of futile wishes," she'd say, and then she'd eat another olive.
The fates embroidered all of our hopes onto a black cape. And the Brother of None let it billow behind him as he stood upon a white hill. All the elitists he hated lived below in the World That Continued To Turn, and so he draped himself in hopes that may never be attained. And they were written out in golden thread. Always in golden thread.
The fates stitched our memories into a satchel. And the satchel held pieces of silver for the Beggar. He was poor because he could not buy anything with the silver. But it sure was pretty. And maybe people could sympathize with a man whose pockets were filled to bursting with worthless nostalgic metal. But the satchel held the design of the past, while the cape and dress held seams of the future.
The fates ended their work at five o'clock in the evening. And they packed up their purses and went to Happy Hour at the bar at the End of the Map. They drank to their health and settled their sore fingers against wooden tables. And we dawdled and twiddled our thumbs below, because all of our humanity had been turned into deities' clothing, and we were filled with nothing but fluff and lint.
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.