Webs, Emily Ward

Webs

It’s not yet ten in the evening when I step over the edge of the courtyard, and into the circle of paved stones, closed flowers, and shadows.

The umbrella, which is never closed, branches out across the rickety wooden table, uneven metal chairs, and the tilted rose bushes.

The houses around me are silent, quiet, sitting in the glowing darkness of a city that always teems with life and light.

I don’t notice it at first, the brush of the thin strand across my face, soft and sticky at the same time. I continue towards my door, only stopping when I feel it again.

It’s like a stutter this time, the thread skittering across my forehead and nose before it breaks and rests on my cheek.

My fingers find the cobweb, the liquid lace of an arachnid, and brush it away.

It’s that time of year when all the spiders are out hunting,

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squatting between the trees, patrolling their webs with the finesse and dedication of White House security guards.

Dozens of webs stretch out across the courtyard, spinning and shining with brevity in the glint of a reflected lamp on the main road.

There are layers, webs that stretch from window to door handle, trellis to front step, chair to flower pot, and leaf to petal.

There is a psychopath’s mess of intertwining strings hanging above our courtyard. Some of the threads are small, short, spindly things that break on contact; others are thick, layered, that snap after a step or two of stretching.

I brush them away as I advance, my house only a few moments away. I pull out my key and fumble for the lock, my fingers skittish and hurried, because I found the webs, but where are the spiders?

Emily Ward ’15

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