I am the weaver. It is the beginning.

Slowly, the first fiber forms, stretching and pulling and giving as I draw it gently and attach it. As more and more thread is spun, they sigh their complaints; the tension taking more then it gives. I speak to them, comforting them like children, adding small whispers of devotion.

They become stronger as more join them, finding harmony in numbers. The patterns become more and more complex and I must concentrate, lest chaos ensues. I begin to weave faster, ducking up and under, through and through, my mind dizzying, and my body pulling. I can feel the strain of my work, and my eyes quickly tire; a faint burning behind the muscle and tissue mixture.

But I do not give up. I cannot even fathom such an idea, and I work late into the night. Every fiber of my being is focused on the miles and miles of thread, the patterns, the very soul of me etched into a single piece of art.

As the sun begins its slow burning over the horizon, the last fiber is cut, the project, finished. I look out across the fruit of my labor, and a single tear of adoration and utter amazement leaks out and drops away. I look at it and I see nothing but the very essence of life dancing across the project, sparkling in the light. Finally, I rest.

It is much later when I awake, and I can only hear a loud noise crashing around close to my home. I scuttle around, disoriented and afraid, tensing for what might be coming. But, then, I see it. The monster; a being with a red, sticky mouth and only a few teeth – a creature with gleaming eyes, and a short, disproportioned body running towards me; towards the project.

No! I scream aloud, Please, no! But, of course, it is too late, and the human toddler runs through the project, destroying it forever. It is lost against his shirt, and he is unaware of my screams of horror and despair.

When he is completely gone, I use my eight legs to run as fast as I can to the remains of the project. There is but a few threads waving in the wind; they scream in their pain and I cry for all that I lost. Slowly, and with great care, I cut them loose, watching with my many eyes as they float away from me, their creator, and I wave an adieu.

When the sun is setting and the moon returns to shine upon the night, I begin again.

For I am the weaver, and this is a new beginning.