“How does the spider make his web?” I asked, gazing at the threads above us, silky in the afternoon sunshine; Ruben was silent, his eyes closed. I prodded him.
“The spider. How does he start?” I looked at Ruben sleeping. “Does he spit the first thread, or jump, or what?”
“Or what,” he said dreamily, still not stirring.
I ran a stalk of grass down the bridge of his nose.
“Ok!” his eyes opened. “He lets the wind take it, and wherever it lands, that’s where he makes his home.”
“Like you,” I said. But Ruben just shut his eyes.
This piece of writing was for the 100 word (or so) prompt for Madison Woods’ #Fridayfictioneers. I’d be very happy to receive comments and constructive criticism. Click here to read other people’s.