“We could sit there?” She points tentatively at a cafe table facing the busy market square.
He heads for their usual unpopulated corner. Following obediently, she glimpses a hanging cobweb. At its centre, a desiccated corpse spins slowly.
She watches him suck his drink dry and plans her escape.
Viv Burgess wrote this story.
Arachne’s skill still amazes me. In the early morning sunlight, I have often watched dew shimmering in rainbow-drenched glory along silken strands laid down by Madame Spider between the soft open petals of two crimson roses.
When a fly buzzes by and lands, he remains. Amazed also? No. Madame’s breakfast.
Joan spends her days typing, daydreaming, talking on the phone with her daughter and collecting seashells on long beach walks with her husband.
I stepped on a spider. I felt bad, thinking I had killed him for sure, but by some luck or spider fu he found a crevice in the sole of my boot, and when I lifted my foot his legs uncurled and he scrambled off, both of us supremely happy.
Peter Schireson is a Zen Buddhist priest and writer living in the Sierra Foothills of California. His poems and prose have been published in a number of journals, both in print and online.