Metamorphoses by Clark Theriot

Her plan envelops me, as she tangles and intricately knits her web.

I am lost and was content on staying that way.  My life is only a moment, I know it is absurd. I like to eat, drink, and move in a small radius near me. I have brown, grey and blue stipples on my back that continue down my six legs. I can hardly see, but I can feel and smell — like the web maker I am so inclined to be near.

Yes, I once made webs, but I have changed. I cautiously receive my food by accident it seems, but I eat, even if far and between. I do eat.

But today, I have stopped eating. I only want food from her web. She fed me once, and now I only want her food. She will feed me again, one day, when she is ready to take pause from her weaving. I will wait. I have waited before. I may starve waiting; it seems likely this time. I am growing too weak.

All six of my legs are weak. I can barely move, but I wait. I wait for her to return to the side of her web in which I am tangled.

Sometimes I wish I had the wide, orange and black wings of a butterfly.

But I don’t. I am turning one color, and it is light grey. I am only alive for a moment. But I love the beauty I am trapped near, and she loves me, too. I only hope for a few more moments, if not to eat, at least to have our combined fourteen legs entwined.

© 2012 Clark Theriot

Clark Theriot lives and writes in New Orleans. His work can be found in 3: AM Magazine and purchased in Monolith Magazine’s BORDERS Issue. He may soon move to a place he can pause and reflect and write, more.

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