Today’s photographic inspiration is a little spider I paparazzied while it was just minding its own business at the FDR Memorial in Washington DC. (Also, that’s a cool monument that anyone in the area should check out.)
The cretinous two-eyed-two-leggers called him “itsy, bitsy”. Mr. Spider felt anything but. He was the industrious, inventive arachnid! Every morning he woke up as the warmth of the sun stirred his blood to life. He stretched his eight legs, blinked his eight eyes, and got to work. No complaints about Mondays. No dawdling until he got his coffee. Just. Work.
Each day he spun a fresh web. He created the thread on his own. He wove it using a pattern he had no need to record in a blueprint; it was so well-memorized it may as well have been in his DNA. In the center of his web he would sit, presiding over his splendor, waiting for the winged ones to come admiring. It was by the magnificence of his work that he lived, and it was by shoddy craftsmanship that far lesser spiders died. He stood watch over his flawless creation as the breeze battered it, as two-eyed-two-leggers threatened it with their bumbling motions, as spider-eaters came looking for an easy meal.
When each day dimmed, he collected the tatters that remained and vowed to create an even more splendorous web tomorrow. That was the only way he’d meet his Mrs. Spider. That was his one true goal, the flame that burned deep in his tiny heart that fueled his mighty legs and his thread-making spooly-thingy. (For all you two-eyed-two-leggers reading, yes that is the official arachnid term for it). One day he’d impress the right lady spider with his handiwork. Sure, after they mated she’d proceed to bite of his head to nourish their growing offspring, but it would all be worth it.
Mr. Spider stretched his legs on a fine April morning. The trembling in his hairs told him that this would be that day. Today he would catch the eyes of his one, true–
Ronald slammed his shoe down over the spider. He hated the creatures and the creepy piece of vermin looked like an eight-eyed pervert leering on the edge of the copper railing. He looked at its guts wedged in the treads of his shoe and cringed. As he wiped the gunk on the concrete walk, he thought only one word, “Disgusting.”