White foam spat from the can, coating the web, incapacitating her perfectly formed legs. Yellow and black stripes quickly disappeared from sight, encased in noxious, nerve-stilling gas. Like a child in the fetal position, she rolled into a ball, but the poison was her mortal foe, trapping her in her own web. Wrapped in silk, a brief moment of empathy for her prey, but no one’s dinner tonight. Her beautiful danger lurks silently no more.
I think of you, Arachne, in my empty victory, how your only flaw was your perfect gift; your beautiful weaving brought not admiration from others, but ultimate tragedy. Perhaps you and my Writing Spider are not so different. Her beautiful web, so precisely located and immaculately designed, drew me to her, eliciting fear coursing through my veins like a triple espresso, fear paired with awe at the beauty of your work and your fierce presence triumphant upon your masterpiece. Now I am writing and you will write no more.
Have you siblings that will seek revenge? Do pheromones release like a rallying cry? But wait, my skin twitches so lightly on my spine. Simply a chill or silent revenge crawling up my back?
