In a small slanted room, in the big house of a little old woman there was a secret. A secret no one knew about but her. On an unsteady table by a lumpy mattress that lay on the ground was a flowerpot. It was clay, a rusted orange color with a rough surface, having painted on flowers around the base. A crack ran from the top, down to the very bottom of this pot, but it never did it break in two.

Inside were lumps of worn out soil, no longer black and rich. Deep within this soil a masterpiece was at work. Hair-thin roots pushed and wiggled its way within this mess, growing at a break-neck speed. Everyday the pruned old woman would shuffle her way into the crowded, stuffy room and peer into the flowerpot. Then her face would contort into an annoyed look. She would mutter under her breath a curse word from her mother country in the thick accent that drowned her speech. Then she would shuffle herself back into her reading room, where she concealed herself day in and day out.

This happened everyday, no matter the circumstances. But one day, a day long awaited, she came into the room to find the most enchanting thing. From the pot had sprouted a plant, an elegant emerald plant that reached towards the ceiling. She gasped with what wind she had left in her wrinkled body, throwing a withered hand over her mouth. As quick as her body allowed she went straight to her reading room, with bookshelves towering overhead and a fire crackling in the fireplace.

She tore open a drawer to her desk, reaching in and grabbing a vial about as big as her tiny pinky finger. Within was a clear liquid, only a few drops. Upon returning to the gorgeous plant, she saw that vines had sprouted from the stem, spilling over and grasping the lumpy mattress tight. In haste she pulled the cap from the vial and poured the elixir into the dead soil. As she did so the little pot burst into thousands of shards and flew through the air. The little woman was sent flying back, until she hit the wall with a great thud.

Through blurred eyes she saw the plant manifesting, its roots growing thick and bursting through the foundation of the house and into the dirt below. It began to bloom great buds of light pink. On the underside of the petals were little red dots arranged in two rows of four. The buds opened slowly, revealing thousands of black widow spiders, scurrying out and wrapping the plant in a thin film of silky web. Than as soon as all the commotion started happening, it stopped. The spiders sat idle, grasping to the side of the stem. Slowly, unsure, the old woman pulled herself up. "Venom of the black widow and the outcome of man's most natural mistakes, it worked." She grinned wickedly, extending a finger and allowing a spider crawl on her hand and up her arm.

She picked a pale pink bloom and starred into the petals only a moment, "The nectar of life…" She whispered, and put the flower to her lips and drank the sticky sweet liquid. Her eyes flashed with a hue of crimson as the flower fell from her hands and serenaded to the ground. The thousands of spiders crawled to her and up her limbs, covering her in silk, a kind of cocoon. Then she fell to the ground, incased in a web where her metamorphosis would take place.
 

I turned to my friend who sat next to me in the near empty theatre, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth, "Who has enough time to sit around and think this stuff up?" I half laughed. He chewed slowly, thinking intently for a moment, "A writer I suppose."