Wednesday, June 5, 2013

The Drama King's Day

The more I struggled, the more tightly I was wound; strands of distant logic whipping about my flailing extremities and pulling me close. I spoke, but to my surprise all that passed my lips was a viscous goo, not only unintelligible but quite tacky as if kindergarten flour and water paste. It oozed from me on its mission, to further secure my doom by adhering me in some permanent way to the beast's tapestry, my very being interlaced within its weave.

At last, my entrapment complete, my last wiggle waggled, the arachnid itself chittered along its shimmering filament highway and approached me, jaws opened, controlling hunger its only cause. Without so much as the customary paralyzing preliminary, it crudely made its beveled mark of ownership, then with some dastardly chitinous tool proceeded to inhale every ounce of life from my bones, never stopping once if even only to breathe, until I was nothing but physical shell and subconscious thought; and that, a sorry puddle of confusion and self pity.

It's been hours I've hung here, immobile, disconnected from reality, wondering what my next step might be and then, laughing at the thought that within my grasp might even be a next step. I am cocooned, a relic of a once tasty late morning snack for one of great appetite; for one of enormous need. I am an empty carcass and only waiting for the rain to break this web free of its hold, and to pound me into the earth where I might become one with my creator; dust to dust as is written.

Ever have someone suck your entire soul from you in an hour? Ever walked away from a conversation wondering if your lips should be sewn together, leaving you with every reason to cease interspecies association? Ever been so excited by something that you literally feel all tingly as children's books might describe, and suddenly find cause to change your mind as if you were tethered to an on/off switch?


He said we should write a book together. I said I had some great ideas. And then, I fluttered my teeny wings right into his web. 

I suppose, instead of this, I might have related the result of that meeting by scribing "An old friend and I tried to do something with each other and it didn't work out." But really, what kind of writer would I be if that's the best I could do?

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