cobwebs - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The lacework of the happy spider stretches out between fine branches, freely moving together in every welcome summer breeze.
The cobwebs in those trees were the jewels of the spider's world, an art constructed yet welcoming the gales that swept them away and created canvas anew.
The cobwebs adorned the trees as fairground candy-floss, supporting those sweet brilliant strands as the fresh wind carried aromas of pine.
The cobwebs hung from the rafters and billowed in the breeze that stirred the dust in the old house. They hung like great sheets of hair from an ancient hag, white, dirty looking and tangled. They were on the frosted panes of the windows too, obscuring the little light that struggled through them in the dim of twilight.
The bush was covered in hundreds of miniature cobwebs; Annie wondered if it was the home of a school for spiders. They were only visible in the early morning when the dew drops shone from their silky threads and quite invisible in the afternoon when she returned from school. She inspected them closely looking for the tiny engineers of the masterpieces before her, but the creators of the webs must be shy she thought, for she never saw a one.
It is a pity the spider cannot appreciate her art. Intricate, delicate, sculpture of silky thread, bejeweled with dew in the watery light of early morning. A thing of such beauty that if you had never seen one before, or knew of it's maker, you'd think it the work of a mischievous angel; for it is sticky and such that it will break if you dare to touch it.
The abandoned house is more like a halloween horror movie set than an old dwelling. The cobwebs have taken on the repulsiveness of old and dirty lace. The fine strands are no longer white, instead they hang heavy with grey dust. Where they have been torn by the wind that blows unhindered through the empty window frames, they hang in clumps, the artistry of the original cobweb destroyed.
The work of the spiders graces every wall and window frame. The old hang loosely, waving in the draft next to the new delicate silky strands of a living arachnid. Each cobweb is a new home within an old one, something occupied in this old abandoned house.
In the darkness of the old house the cobwebs lie as traps. There is no seeing them when even my own foot eludes my eyes. Each one is enough to set my heart beating faster than it should. Walking into them is the only sound in this whole place other than my footfalls and breathing; they crackle softly as they contact my t-shirt, or worse, my face. Much of the stickiness the spider gave them is gone, encased in layers of dust, yet they still cling in a way that spooks me. I want to run, but I don't know the layout of this old abandoned house and speed wouldn't be my friend.
When River awoke he'd quite forgotten where he was or how he'd got there. Sunlight streamed in through the slats that covered the window opening, illuminating the cobwebs that hung above. His eyes focused on the long matted strands that billowed. The air was stale despite the breeze, musty and damp, reminding him of the mildew in his own place. As the cobwebs danced and his lungs reluctantly inflated, the previous night drifted back to him...
Halloween saw cobwebs proliferate around the neighbourhood, the artists being the children rather than the spider population. They hung from every tree, spanned door openings and waved with the desired spookiness in the chill October wind.