Note: This unfinished piece was written for Highschool Writers' craft, and is about how my mother and father met and had me.
The spider thread glows in the moonlight. It’s a wisp in the wind, silver and shining. The wisp makes no sound.
The two wisps dance in the breeze; each coming from a spool attached to a soul and spilling from a heel. One belongs to a young woman. The other a young man. They laugh together; They laugh with their friends. The beach is bathed in silver, the waves are a slave to the moon. They all swim in the water. They all show off to each other.
The young man with a pointed nose is suddenly pushed in the water. He resurfaces, head popping out and gasping for breath, only to look extremely embarrassed. He does not bring his waist above the rising waves no matter how much the others call.
He has lost his briefs to the God of the sea.
The rest laugh. The silver threads almost intertwine only to be snapped apart.
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The next day, a golden thread pools on the top of the streets. It overlays other footprint coated cords. A frayed strand dances in the air, futile in its attempts to connect peel away from the gold and connect with the another. From through the holes in the many colourful layers, the broken stone refracts the heat in waves.
Clad in denim overalls, a 28-year-old woman continues on her way, ignoring the sweat building on her brow. Her gold thread shines with her eyes. Moron, Ciego de Avilla, was not her original destination; but she regrets nothing. The beaches are lovely. The food was lovely. The company was lovely.
Giggling at the crooked nose 21-year-old, she continues on her way, walking side by side her friend and him. Bursting into hysterical laughter at his embarrassed face, they browse stand as he leads them to the one store that sells underwear. His head is shrinking to his shoulders. His smile is strained. She would later realise he only exhibit these actions when he is nervous. And when he lied.
The spool in his soul is blue, it seeps through the fabric of his shoes to lay near hers. A wisp peels of if it, the same one from the previous night, and reaches for the outlying golden thread. They don’t meet.
Not yet.
*******************************
Six months later, the woman holds her stomach in misery. The pulsating pain there started out small, but has now warmed up to full blown agony. Sinking into the sage coloured chairs, she waits patiently for the receptionist to call her name.
“And there’s the baby heartbeat.”
“What heart beat.”
“The baby’s heartbeat. You’re pregnant - You didn’t know?”
“No????”