By Andrew Corston
It begins in late summer.
We wake to find every streetlight, car, and building entombed in sheets of bone white silk. Dense tangles that run up tree trunks and blanket fields.
No matter how many times we tear them down they always come back. Thicker, and sparkling with morning dew.
Birdsong disappears as webs reduce woodlands to sunless valleys. Some suffocate inside their homes, unable to escape the heavy threads.
An old wives’ tale says that spiders spinning vast webs heralds the coming of a brutal winter.
And when they enter the house, snow is imminent.
Our fingers can almost touch.
Graphically beautiful story from a beautiful mind holding great promise writing poetry as well as verse. I hope indeed he keeps sending me more.
Thank you very much for your kind words, Rudolph!
Yikes! Spiders made poetic. I loved it.
Thank you so much, Lisa!
Thank you, Jenny!
Thoughtful and evocative. Loved it.
Thank you, Pamela!
Love the imagination in this piece.
Thank you, Jenny!
You must live in the PNW! This story is thrilling in both its naturalness and unnaturalness. Nice!
Thank you so much, Michele! I’m actually in the UK, but delighted to know the story travels so well!