The Spool

02/26/2025

This piece was written written when my mental health was in a precarious position. I was in between mental breakdowns and wanted to explore the means by which I managed –and still manage– to balance myself on the edge of stability. The result of this exploration was The Spool which takes a very metaphorical and symbolic approach to the subject. There are two characters, one representing conscious thought and the other unconscious thought (madness–not insanity or suicidal ideation). The resolution of the story is found when those two characters interact and find their own kind of balance; a way of coexisting that didn't involve the restraining of one or the other. It is their harmony that frames the tale as a hopeful one. You can reach a state of inner balance and (a reasonable level of) mental stability, you just need to find your balance.

Short Story 

Cora AE Neher Second Year, English and Secondary Education English Major



CONTENT WARNING: Mentions of suicidal ideation. 





The Spool

Imagine this scene; a bright white dome with bright walls, inside which sits a small cloaked figure. This figure sits on the floor of the dome in a hunched over position, busy with something in their hands. Around this figure coil many hundreds of strands of black threads which twist and turn in every direction imaginable, becoming tangled in its own length. These tangles make hundreds upon thousands of looping knots which command the space with their maddening mess of clots. Among these long lines of tangles and knots lies a beast. This beast is a beautiful specimen; distinctly draconic in appearance with black feathered wings shimmering with glorious iridescence, it lays with its legs pinned beneath it. It has six legs, each clawed and powerful –their muscle rippling with unused energy– and a long, whiplike tail which hangs tangled among the black strands which bind it. One of these strands circles tightly around the creature's sinuous neck, preventing it from moving more than that which is required to draw breath.

These two beings sit side by side day in and day out. Not that the time of day or night can be told from within the eternally bright white dome. Rest is fleeting and short, sometimes coming at length, but more often than not coming along in short bursts.

The figure –who we shall simply refer to as the Weaver– is entrusted with the impossible task of untangling the knots in the black thread. They sit silently, hunched over their work and ceaselessly comb and pull at the thread in their hands. Their hands are worn and covered in cuts that will likely never heal. These cuts were the fruit of the Weaver's labor. Bloodless, but sore, these cuts were made by the passage of the coarse black thread as it rubbed ceaselessly over the Weaver's palms and fingers.

Sitting beside the Weaver is a small spool. The spool from which the thread had come and onto which it could be bound. Should the Weaver have seen and taken up the spool in hand, they could have been spared the eternal frustrations which come once a recently culled knot is made anew as the free stretch is passed behind the Weaver's cloak.

But the Weaver, who never turns their head, cannot see the spool. Their hood obscures it from their view. Besides, the Weaver possesses only two hands which are always occupied with their impossible task. Thus, they would not be able to reach for the spool anyway.

The Beast, however, can see the spool. Its dark eyes are constantly glued upon it, tormented by the lure of freedom which lay just within reach. It knows what the spool is and knows that while rebinding the thread to the spool would release the hold of the threads, it could also allow for the Weaver to utilize the ordered threads and their free hands to bind the Beast within an even stronger cage.

So, the Beast remained silent and both it and the Weaver continued on in their painful existence.

Until one day, when the Weaver's hands stopped moving and the Weaver raised their head. This new, seemingly unwarranted, behavior startled the Beast. What had disturbed them so? What could cause the Weaver to cease their weaving?

For whatever reason, the Weaver then turned to the Beast, their hood falling from their head to reveal the tearstained face of the small child who had worn it.

The Weaver –no, the child– reached a hand into their sleeve and withdrew from it a pair of scissors. These scissors were long, sharp and silver, lacking a colorful handle. The Beast watched as the child Weaver opened the scissor blades and lowered them to their wrist. They closed their eyes…

But then, the Beast began to hum. The child Weaver's eyes shot open with surprise and stared at the Beast wonderstruck. It was a gentle melody. Not quite a lullaby yet soothing enough to bring the child to lower the scissors down to their side. The Beast, who is only motivated by selfish self-preservation, was moved to action by the helplessness of the child. It had also grown accustomed and rather fond of the Weaver's silent presence.

So, the Beast kept humming, even though the thread that wrapped around its neck pressed dangerously around its windpipe, threatening to strangle it. Noticing this as they enjoyed the Beast's song, the child Weaver strode over to the Beast and ran their fingers over the threads which bound it. The Beast, curious, stopped humming and peered down at the child Weaver, who was perhaps three times less of its size. The Weaver had begun untangling the thread from the Beast's chest and wings, but paused when they noticed the Beast's silence. They found the Beast's eyes with their own and smiled. Then they took up their scissors and cut a key strand. As soon as that strand gave way all of the thread which bound the Beast fell away, releasing it.

For the first time ever, the Beast stood to its full height and spread its wings. Grateful for its release, the Beast turned to the child Weaver and nuzzled them with its snout. The child Weaver giggled as the Beast let out a puff of breath which ruffled their short mussed hair in an almost affectionate gesture.

The Beast lifted one of its forward most claws and reached over to pick something up from off of the ground. It brought the item back over to itself then hesitantly offered it to the Weaver.

It was the spool.

The Weaver seemed to understand what it was and lifted it gingerly out of the Beast's claw. They considered it for a moment before leaning down to examine the two new strands made when they had cut the black thread in order to free the Beast. The Beast cocked its head as the Weaver picked one of the ends and fastened it to the end of the spool. A proud and ecstatic smile breached the child Weaver's face and they lifted it up eagerly to show the Beast. But the Beast shied away from the spool as they held it aloft before it.

The child Weaver paused, puzzled. They looked at the threaded spool then back at the Beast. Then their eyes widened as realization dawned. They set the spool aside and approached the Beast with their hand outstretched. The child Weaver's hand made contact with the scales of one of the Beast's forearms, just above the elbow. They patted the Beast as if to comfort it and motioned toward its throat, the origin of the music which had at last led them to communicate. Once reassured that the Weaver would not rebind it, the Beast obliged to their request and once again began to hum.

As of then and onward, the child Weaver –no longer hidden beneath their hooded cloak– and the Beast –no longer bound and silenced– never left each other's side. The child Weaver sits reclined against the Beast's side, untangling and winding the black thread back onto the spool all the while the Beast entertains them both with its soothing voice.


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