Once upon a time, there were three girls. Their names were Cleo, Leila, and Alice. Across ancient Greece they were known as the finest dancers, pirouettes so elegant they were described as 'soaring through the air like doves'. No one knew them personally, but the three girls knew them. They could read the lives of people on the audience's faces, knowing why they gaped in awe or shouted in joy.

They knew many dances. You might've heard of some. Sambas, boleros, bossa novas, canaries, and so many more. They also danced ones you've never heard of, such as the weaver's spindle and the loom's weave. But, alas, they were also weavers.

Weaving tapestries of magnificent art, sunsets rising on the horizon, deep seas filled with oceans of fish. But the one thing they weaved the most? Daily life. Someone biting an apple, someone walking towards a spindle, someone sleeping peacefully on a bed surrounded by overgrown roses.

To many, they were captivating. To some, too captivating. To wives who had been abandoned as their husbands chased after the beautiful yet silent women, they were monstrous. It seemed every man fell in love, the lucky ones being those who had interest in their own gender.

One day, a group of divorced women, gathered at town hall as their former men stared longfully at the dancers. "They must go!" a woman shouted, a girl by the name of Meg.

"They have caused heartache!" a young woman named Anna cried. The girls agreed on one thing: The dancers had to go.

Yet how was an entire different story. Some screamed, "Bludgeoning!" and "Cut off their heads!" which received shocked yet not disagreeing gazes. Others shouted, "Poison!" and "Drowning!" which were disregarded. How would they even get to the dancers at a good enough time to do so? Which made them realize their first two ideas would have them attacked by the men.

Then, Meg spoke again. "What if..." The girls leaned towards her. "We set their caravan on fire?"

The three girls were often seen going in and out of a caravan, so it was believed that's where they lived. The women praised Meg's idea. Anna, however, was concerned. What if the dancers fled the fire and saw them? The men would be after their heads.

Yet her worries were nothing to the cries of agreement, and Meg's plan was agreed upon. They sneaked towards the caravan at the dead of night, torches clasped in their ringless hands. Anna stayed back, the fire clutched weakly, reluctantly.

And with a hearty cry, the women threw their torches at the caravan.

Except for Anna. She saw as a dress appeared in the doorway to the caravan, many threads held in her hands, followed by a sharp pair of shears. And she ran.

As flames and screams and victorious laughter roared behind her, she ran and ran and ran until she got back to her measly little cottage. There she snuffed out her torch, snuggled into her bed, and hoped it was all a dream.

In the morning, however, all she discovered was the rest of the village women hung for their treason by their former lovers.

And as each fell from their stools, suspended in mid air, she heard an old crone's laughter and the snip of shears coming from the dancers' new caravan, where a slogan was carved into the wood.

Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, the finest weavers (and dancers) in Greece. May Fate smile upon your burning torch.

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