In its center cowered a tiny caricature of ourselves, closer to our ancient spacefaring cousins than to ourselves, but still recognizably relative to both. But it was small, small, a mote that might have been barely a fiftieth of my own young mass. I looked at it crouched there in the center of its disc of web: four leg-pairs.
“It… this animal… is it sentient? It’s older than I am,” I said, whispering, reverent without understanding why. But I was.
A snippet from a work in progress, The Spiders Fly, a short story in which an alien species explores the wasted remains of Earth… and what remains there of its very, very distant ancient cousins.
Mysterious? Of course! There’s only so much to reveal of a short story. I need to be mysterious.