And so I taking the string again, for what was I but a weaver? I take the string and offer it, ecstatic and flushed with excitement. Yes, take it! Take it with you! YES! This is my gift to you! Take it please!
Weaver I may be, but I can not force it upon people. Oh if I do, the string breaks so much more easily. That I found. And as that person looks at me with wary, but gentle eyes, I feel the acceptance course through my body. Oh yes, I am a weaver. A ghastly weaver. And I take the string easily in my hand, fondling the soft threads spidering themselves out at the end. I slip the string around the index finger, for is that not the most familiar of all? And the string is tied into a tight knot. Knot and all, it is solid. I tie the other end to my finger, a finger laced with dozens of threads, all extending out like a web reaching for support.
And then I feel the string pulling, pulling hard. And I'm so scared. Scared, scared as the fine web starts to shake, the string starts to
Black Wire Ch 1Silent. That's about all I can say about things. It's really silent. Even as I walk down this street, there's this pregnant silence that seems unnatural. I don't know why there is. It's really strange. There's a child crying across the street, wailing at his mother. The mother looks exasperate, patting him on the head and trying to suppress his cries without putting a firmness in her voice. A trio of girls pass me by, murmuring blurred words, laughing as they walk, and I can't help wonder if they are laughing at me. And the cars. There's so many cars, rushing down in furious races. They're monsters, metal beasts that tear up the roads, etching small black scars into them. And the squeal, the revvs, and the exploding trigger in my head blasting, they should be driving me nuts. They should be making me clamp my ears, even as a sharp squawk spills in the air. But no. There's only that pregnant silence. Why is it there? Why can't I hear the cars passing by me? Is it because they're just li