Welcome. I'm not sure how you got here, but here you are! You're welcome to stay and look around a bit.
The Writer looks around expectantly. A smile is on his face and his shoulders bob up and down excitedly. Gosh, his toes must get tired from all that bobbing. Though the sticky nameplate on his chest reads "Matt", perhaps it should say "Bob."
This place is awfully confusing. Bare white walls. Eerie silence. Dust motes dancing on rays of sunlight from... where? There are no windows. Apparently someone has imported a full orchestra of crickets as well. In one corner, there appears to be the wispy remnants of a spiderweb. Likely the spider has grown too sedentary to repair his web, what with all the crickets. Imagine him, sitting in that dark invisible place that spiders go when hiding from view. He sits on a throne of cricket parts, playing no less than four of the world's smallest violins. (One for each pair of legs, mind you, since two spider legs are obviously needed per cricketolin.) Is that a concerto?
The smile falls off the Writer's face. Bobbing has ceased. As he stares at you with piercing blue eyes, an intense apprehension grips your insides. What are you doing here? Fortunately, he breaks the uncomfortable silence.
Okay, so it's not much yet. We're working on it, promise! I'd offer to pull up a chair, but we haven't even gotten those yet. Perhaps it's just as well that you come back later, say around June? Lovely month, June. We're going to try to at least have chairs by then.
Please be patient with us. There's this big, fat spider stuck to his chair in the dark, back areas that you can't see. He told us he needs to spin all his webs back there first before coming out in the light. Now, we just need to get him whipped into shape before turning him loose in here. Until then, the crickets rule the light.
Many Apologies. But have no fear, for the spider cometh! Just, probably not until June.
Read more
The Writer looks around expectantly. A smile is on his face and his shoulders bob up and down excitedly. Gosh, his toes must get tired from all that bobbing. Though the sticky nameplate on his chest reads "Matt", perhaps it should say "Bob."
This place is awfully confusing. Bare white walls. Eerie silence. Dust motes dancing on rays of sunlight from... where? There are no windows. Apparently someone has imported a full orchestra of crickets as well. In one corner, there appears to be the wispy remnants of a spiderweb. Likely the spider has grown too sedentary to repair his web, what with all the crickets. Imagine him, sitting in that dark invisible place that spiders go when hiding from view. He sits on a throne of cricket parts, playing no less than four of the world's smallest violins. (One for each pair of legs, mind you, since two spider legs are obviously needed per cricketolin.) Is that a concerto?
The smile falls off the Writer's face. Bobbing has ceased. As he stares at you with piercing blue eyes, an intense apprehension grips your insides. What are you doing here? Fortunately, he breaks the uncomfortable silence.
Okay, so it's not much yet. We're working on it, promise! I'd offer to pull up a chair, but we haven't even gotten those yet. Perhaps it's just as well that you come back later, say around June? Lovely month, June. We're going to try to at least have chairs by then.
Please be patient with us. There's this big, fat spider stuck to his chair in the dark, back areas that you can't see. He told us he needs to spin all his webs back there first before coming out in the light. Now, we just need to get him whipped into shape before turning him loose in here. Until then, the crickets rule the light.
Many Apologies. But have no fear, for the spider cometh! Just, probably not until June.
