Thread Unraveling Novels & Stories

Jolene, or whoever was above her in this, had felt it. I leaned back slowly. We hadn’t unraveled anything. We’d exposed ourselves. "We pulled the wrong thread," I said. Marcus looked up. "Now it knows we're looking."

"The assumption was always that everything reset." The projection continued. "New universe." Another cycle. "New people." Another cycle. "New history." Another cycle. The pattern repeated over and over. Then Mira pointed toward one specific thread. A tiny thread hidden beneath the others. One that stretched through every cycle. The same thread. Unbroken. The room became silent. Because everyone could see it. One thing had survived. Not perfectly. Not completely. But enough. The thread glowed softly. Blue. The same shade as Lily's eyes.

There was a rustling sound, as if something was approaching. I was so frightened that I didn't even have time to wipe myself. I simply pulled up my pants and ran. When I got back to the roadside, Nutty saw my appearance and teased me, "Look at you. You're such a coward. You've got the protective charm, so what are you afraid of?" Immediately after, he cried out in alarm, "Where's your protective charm?" I looked down and sure enough, the charm that had been hanging on my chest was gone. It must have been caught by thorns in the grass and torn off when I ran in such a panic.

“When wrong choices are made, it affects the thread. The once straight thread forms a knot— this knock is an obstacle, one that has to be overcome in order to move forward. Depending on the severity of the decision, the thread might even be cut short completely and life will end before the person reaches the core.” A shiver passed through my body. “So… the length of the thread determines how long someone will live?” “Yes.” The keeper answered. “Some threads are long and smooth, some are long and knotted, some short and smooth whilst others short and knotted.” “Can someone be born with a knotted thread?” I asked. “Yes.” “And a person can be born with a short thread?” Xander asked. “Correct.”

"She doesn't require that in her mind." Silas disregarded him. "The Thread rewrites its pattern each time a bond is broken. One of its oldest strands was ripped apart by you. It is now attempting to heal the wound by reaching out to you. My throat became parched. "That's what the whisper is." Silas gave a slight bend to his head. "And it becomes louder the longer you ignore it." Silas remarked, "You can't stop something that isn't whole." "But you may be able to contain it."

The yarn slips through my fingers for what feels like the hundredth time, another failed attempt at what the instruction manual swears is a simple cast-on. I stare at the tangled mess in my lap, fighting the urge to throw the whole thing across the library. Who thought this would be relaxing?

“Then you leave. And I never speak of this again.” He waited. And I made the third mistake. I took the box and walked toward the bedroom, already feeling my morals unravel thread by thread like the lace in my hands.

A sense that one wrong word, one wrong move, one wrong look, and she’d unravel like the skein of yarn in her lap. Chassie watched Carolyn knitting feverishly. The result of her rapidly moving fingers was a pale blue lump piled beside her.

She lifted her hand, aiming to slap for the second time. Cassandra caught that slender hand, it was slim and small and no difference with her own hand but yet, Cassandra was stronger. She tosses Rowena hand to the side, unintentionally the energy from her anger makes Rowena stumble and almost fall. “I received the first one as it was my fault to sleep with someone's fiance”. She said it softly but clearly. “But not the second time. All of this was a misunderstanding and I am too lazy to explain it to someone who didn’t bother to know the truth.”

Each pass of the Shuttle sears my consciousness, weaving the Unraveler deeper into the structure. The Wild Gardener senses the trap. It SCREECHES, a sound that shatters nearby stars on the viewscreen (or is that my perception fracturing?). It throws itself against the newly forming threads, thorns like cosmic scythes. But the Threads are my scars. They hold. They burn where it strikes, searing its chaotic fury.