Yarn by Jon Armstrong Page A

simple pair of shorts that I might want to wear. In less than five minutes I was done. I turned off the power and stepped off the foot pedals. I had made something! I had created a garment. I began to giggle like my mind was rotted. But just as I was about to take it from the knitting heads, the door design opened.
    Kira dropped a plasticott bag and rushed at me. "Traitor to the heart of yarn! Retreat your soul. The smoke of disgrace. The undying knots of agony!" Her warTalk came so fast and angry, I couldn't keep up.
    "No!" I said, holding up my hands. "I just tried. I didn't break it."
    She whipped out her knitting needles and jabbed them at my throat. "The scars of injury have spoken," she said. "Corporate Operations Officer is your title and duty. The Stanton-Bell is jewelry. Do not rest even the heat and soil of your fingers upon it! I will have to have it cleaned and reset!"
    Her needles stabbed me. I touched my neck and found blood.
    Spinning around, she yanked the shorts I had knit from the hooks. "This… this… sorry rag of loops! Where did it come from?"
    Ashamed and embarrassed now, I didn't answer.
    She bellowed. "Travel to me now, musician Ginn! Travel with the quick!"
    Ginn, the water-guitarist, pushed the door open and peered in with a look of annoyance. "What?"
    Kira held up my skivvé. "What is this aberration of crotch? You will not grime and foul the equipment. There is an earth and wind between the vibrating rings on your blunt club and the harmony of the men's fantasy skivvé."
    "Cut me!" Ginn scoffed. "I didn't touch your dick tube machine." She let the door slam. A moment later an angry grinding of water-guitar filled the salesfloor.
    Slowly Kira turned toward me. Her eyes were disbelieving. "Make harmonies of reason and elucidation. Do it now! From where did this come?"
    When I swallowed, the scratch on my neck stung. "I just turned it on… I was just trying it… I'm sorry… I just wanted to make something."
    Her eyes were wide and incredulous. "You are a spot! You are a spyglass and an undercover! You are not the prisoner you claim! What house are you from? What mysteries have you stolen? What covert ideas have you slipped?"
    I shook my head. "I'm from the slubs."
    "Then how?" she screamed. "Prisoner explain: How did you tangle the yarn with such grace and insight?" Her lips were trembling.
    I was confused. Did she like what I'd made? "I just got on and did it."
    "Training on a craft knitter such as the lofty Stanton-Bell is three long years. And with that stretch comes no assurance of artistry, refinement, or clarity. I have knit for seven years. I am worthy, but no master." She came within an inch of my face. The muscles at her temples tensed, as she seemed to chew unhappily while she looked me over as one might a machine for defects or a sample of knit for pulls. In a flash she held her pins at my face again. "You now will convey the warm luxuries of truth." She enunciated each word as if releasing an emerald or ruby. "Or I will knit your larynx closed."
    "I don't know… I saw you do it… You just turn one handle to make it go and pull the other to change the… number of hooks… and…" Her eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. "I don't understand why it's hard."
    Her nostrils flared and her cheeks flushed. "It is a skill and a dexterity, and the number of knotted skivvé I have sung on the Stanton only to abandon as rag would fill the hallway before the flagship." In a flash she had jammed her knitting needles in my nostrils. She hadn't stabbed me, but I could smell the sharp metal. "You were never a prisoner! What be you? Speak before I bobble your brain!"
    "I am from the slubs! I was born in Stelikom." Beads of sweat bloomed in my hair and down my back. She was going to kill me. She was just as rot as every other saleswarrior! "I started fixing B-shirts. I sewed the neck holes because they weren't cut right. And I… used to dream about grids and lines. I didn't know what they were… I