As a girl she dreamt of becoming a butterfly, pearl-winged and pure.
Instead she turned dark and rigid, crawling out of adolescence on spindly legs. She could not fly, and so taught herself to weave. The silk in her veins was endless and iridescent; the tales it spun were beautiful.
Alyson Floyd spins her stories late at night with caffeine in her blood and a CD in her discman.
love this.
Thank you, Joanna!
This creates a beautiful image. I like your bio, too!
Thanks, haha!
Well spun, Alyson.
Much appreciated, Carol.
This is just SO wonderful on SO many levels, Alyson!
A poem is a spider web
Spun with words of wonder,
Woven lace held in place
By whispers made of thunder.
~~Charles Ghigna
This is a lovely quote. Spiders are such misunderstood creatures, I feel like.