8 posts
  • nocturnal_enigma 16w

    * 19.4.2022; 5.31 A.M (Malaysia)

    ABCB rhyme. About spider web. @miraquil
    #spiderweb #wod #NuEmSpiders #Spiders

    #Acrostic #NuEmAcpo #Webs #Web

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    WEBS ~

    Webs sewn by spiders.
    Eating trapped insects.
    Butterflies, mosquitoes.
    Seeing them as objects.

    © Nuruliffa Emirah
    @ nocturnal_enigma

  • mmbftd 94w


    What makes a nest?
    Is it fear?
    The need for comfort?
    A warm blanket
    Connected to thin cold skin
    In the night?
    Twigs and sticks
    Constructed by miraculous
    Birds as the frenzy to complete the task overtakes them?
    Ignoring dangers
    Hunger pangs
    One singular mission
    To complete on time
    Before the sacred eggs
    Join this world.
    Nests are needed now and then
    A step into a life often dangerous and overwhelming.
    What makes a nest?
    The care given in it's planning?
    In it's very architecture?
    The Jumping Spider creates
    In perfect timing
    Her nursery nest
    With a secondary smaller version not far from the first, a small step away from home for her brood of teeny babies.
    Her construction may look haphazard to those who've never had time to watch the process from beginning to end. But it never ends for the mother spider, she is in constant movement, modifying and improving her nest. It is pliable but steely strong. She moves her abdomen back and forth, back and forth, a dance of the universe. A movement she has known since she was born. Her white reflective lines of web deposited with the comfort of repeated motions; like the brick layer on the street, one brick on mortar and again, and so it goes.
    Her web catches and refracts the light. It makes beautiful rainbows at just the right angles. And yet this nest has no angles. No hard corners, no theory of buildings here. And yet this is a caring nest. After a few days she feels it will protect her and her future, so she lays her eggs and they are in a ball like structure of golden yellow hung just right at the top of the nest, the most North it can be.
    She will tend to hundreds of tiny spidelettes. She will care about them, guard them with her life and nurture them with foods she has spent weeks collecting and depositing around the inside and outside of the nest. Her brood will not starve. They will feel safe and know no fear for these first weeks of their lives. And mother's careful eyes will be on them at all times. As she restructures this nest to accommodate their growth. Pushing her body up and down to widen the structure for the growing brood so they have room to move around inside.
    I watch in awe, tiny black shadows inside the nest, undulating like waves of life as she sits guarding, a larger black shadow beneath them, also inside.
    She keeps the 3 doors of her nursery nest sealed up, and exits only to feed and collect food for them. She is a lovely and caring creature.
    And what makes a nest?
    Four walls and a crib?
    Two arms and full breasts?
    A womb pulsing with two heartbeats. Hot blood whooshing as a lullaby?
    Twigs and sticks, buildings and bricks, webs and slits. Feathers and fluff to cushion the bed.
    A nest is needed. It is required. For us to all become.
    And we yearn for such safety still, even as time makes us big.
    I want to build a nest. For myself but also for you. I will use my love for it's base and my careful eye for it's walls. I will use my compassion for it's size, it must be big enough to comfort everyone.
    And though I've never been a mother, I will use the templates set out by nature. Whether nurture or that. It's all around us. This primal information passed down in instinct. I hope we don't forget how to build nests for each other.
    What makes a nest?
    Let me start with that alone.

  • takomi_ 174w

    Sometimes situations in our lives have a close resemblance to a spider's web. The harder one tries to free oneself, the more one gets trapped into the situations and ends up being a prey to one's own thoughts and actions.


  • inkdripqueen 208w

    living in the web of life

  • bellethebookie 213w


    And butterflies so upset like us, stuck in webs of life, help spiders like you to find their next preys.

  • mkandres 241w

    The Story

    They say that every abandoned building has a story to tell. As I looked at the old farmstead-style house from the cracked sidewalk, I wondered what sort of tale it would weave.

    Why had it been abandoned? Had an elderly couple just given up on it and moved to a warmer climate? Had the city purchased it in order to construct a mega highway that never materialized?

    I chewed at my bottom lip; contemplating. Soon, my thoughts got the better of me. I had to inspect the crumbling home for clues. Nancy Drew would be proud.

    As I drew closer, neglect became more evident. The windows were covered in smudges of dust. Yellowing newspapers were piled in a corner on the front porch. Dark weeds grew thick and threatened to strangle my kneecaps.

    My knock on the door produced no one to welcome me. I knew it wouldn’t.

    The hinges on that door as I opened it let out an ear piercing screech. If anyone was inside they could probably already smell the stench of my fear.

    The lime green carpet was stained with God-only-knows-what and dust covered every available surface.

    A rat the size of a small dog ran across the toe of my sneaker and I muffled a scream. I had to keep my wits about me. I was here for answers, not to spook myself.

    The house seemed tired and somehow sad in its shades of black and grey. Oh how I wish it could speak.

    Cobwebs clung to sheet-covered furniture and the distinctive smell of mildew permeated the air. But, I could tell immediately that the place had once been a beauty to behold.

    Weak sun rays from the dusty window glass caused an overhead chandelier to twinkle. Rose-patterned wallpaper in the kitchen somehow seemed cheery and bright.

    And then I noticed the small porcelain doll adorned in an old-fashioned dress and bonnet. She was propped on a sideboard, a sepia-toned photograph in her rigid fingers.

    I peered at the image within the four corners. What was it? I squinted. A young girl? Aged ten or eleven maybe?

    I flipped the picture over in my hands. Written on the back was “Angela – 1898.”

    How strange, I thought. There was no dust on the doll or the photo.

    Turning toward the next room, a cold shiver ran down my spine and a silent scream caught in my throat.

    How had she emerged from the photograph? How had she gotten into the house? Why was she coming at me with a knife?

    --Melissa Andres

  • throughherwords_ 249w

    Strings to pull
    Or push,
    Peeling sweet layers,
    Kissing your webs.


  • flaringflames 306w


    Oh cupid what have you done?
    You threw me in a hole
    And watching me rot,
    Waiting and hoping,
    Praying and wishing,
    Why me i ask
    What have I done to fall
    In such a trap,
    Full of weds made of steel,
    Trapping me in with no way out,
    Making me wonder
    When will this end