A thousand times before the spider had meticulously weaved his web across the gap in the fence- connecting his silk row by row until the intricate tapestry was complete. And a thousand times before the man had destroyed it with a single swipe from a stick. Hours of work undone in an instant.
But the spider had only one task in his life- to catch prey and feed. And all the time spent in securing the trappings for this endeavor were never questioned, judged or considered futile.
The man had many other distractions, but never failed to notice the web. Every time his instantaneous anger lead him to pick up a nearby twig and undo the thing with a fierce whip of his wrist. The satisfaction was immediate, but brief.
And so the cycle continued. Time and again, the web was spun. And time and again, the man destroyed it. Spinning and whipping, locked in a constant battle.
Until one day, when the air had turned colder and the scent of harvest was in the air- there was a change. The spider had just finished his creation and was awaiting his first victim when the man came and beheld the web. He picked up a nearby stick and reached out to dash the obstruction away. Then he hesitated. He looked up his house- the pumpkins on his front step, the tombstones on his lawn. A spider’s web fit in quite well with the decorum; even he hadn’t chosen the location. So he put down the stick, walked around the pathway, and went inside.
The spider would never know why, for one month of every year, his web would be safe. But he sat on the side, awaiting his prey, and smiled.
As I've been editing so intensely for the last month, I couldn't help noticing the overuse of "but" in this one. I'm a serial qualifier as well, so I sympathize. Did you consciously choose to apply it so many times? If so, were you aiming for a specific resonance in the spider's safety-oriented existence?
ReplyDeleteI wish! No, it just came out that way. there was no conscious planning involved, I just wrote it during my painfully brief lunch break.
ReplyDelete