Write by the Cards: Day Thirteen
A Glimmer of Hope
If you’re new to The Rebel MFA Way, welcome! This is my daily work for my Write by the Cards: 30 Day Challenge that I’m hosting. Learn more here. Scroll down to the end to see my behind-the-scenes commentary and source material.
In the aftermath, the character saw a glimmer of hope in the form of {draw a card}.
The rejection email came at 3:27 p.m., but it wasn’t the worst thing to happen to Nyasha that day.
No, that came later, when she stumbled home through the rain, her bag weighed down with her useless laptop and a signed copy of Callum Hayes’ latest bestseller—because why not pour salt on her wounds? The city felt alive that night, the streets glistening with puddles, the shadows between lampposts deeper than usual.
Nyasha cut through the park to save time. The air smelled of wet earth and rotting leaves, and she tugged her coat tighter as the wind sliced through her.
It was quieter here, the city’s hum muffled by the press of trees on either side. She walked quickly, her boots squelching against the muddy path. The occasional branch snagged at her hair, and she swatted them away, her irritation growing with every step.
She felt it before she saw it: a strange, sticky sensation on her hand.
“Ugh,” she said, stopping to inspect it. Threads of silver clung to her coat, glistening faintly in the dim light. She tried to brush them off, but they stuck to her fingers, stretching like melted sugar. Her skin prickled, a wave of unease sweeping over her.
That’s when she felt it: a sharp, hot sting on the back of her neck.
She slapped at the spot reflexively, her fingers coming away wet and sticky. Her vision blurred, the park spinning around her. In the faint glow of the streetlights, she caught a glimpse of the spider—its body glistening black, legs long and impossibly delicate. It paused as if watching her, its body gleaming faintly in the dark before it scuttled up the tree and disappeared.
Nyasha staggered, her pulse hammering in her ears. “Just a spider bite,” she muttered. “Don’t be dramatic.”
But the heat from the sting spread quickly, radiating down her spine like wildfire. Her legs buckled, and she collapsed onto the damp grass, her body convulsing as a searing heat spread from through all of her limbs. The world tilted violently, the trees swaying like shadows caught in a gale.
The last thing she remembered was the sensation of being wrapped in silk, the threads pulling tight around her like a cocoon.
•••
Nyasha woke in her apartment, the faint sound of rain tapping against her window. Her body was drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around her like a cocoon. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat reverberating in her ears like distant drums.
For a long moment, she stayed there, staring at the cracked ceiling, her mind swimming with half-formed memories. How had she gotten home? Her last clear thought was the park—the spider, the bite—but everything after that was a blur of heat and motion.
Her neck throbbed. She reached up, fingers brushing against the sting. The skin was tender, the bite mark warm to the touch. She winced and stumbled out of bed, her legs shaky beneath her.
The bathroom mirror offered no comfort. Her face looked the same—or almost the same. Her skin seemed to glow faintly in the harsh overhead light, her dark eyes catching and holding her own gaze. She leaned closer, studying her reflection.
The mark on her neck caught her attention: a tiny black spiral etched into her skin, delicate and intricate, like the beginning of a web.
She shivered and turned away, but her reflection lingered in her mind, like an image burned into her retinas. There had been something in her eyes—something new.
A faint glimmer in the corner of the bathroom caught her attention. She turned back, squinting. There, stretching between the sink and the towel rack, was a web. It hadn’t been there before.
She reached for it, and the threads clung to her fingers, sending a jolt up her arm. The sensation was electric, a rush of power surging through her veins.
And then she heard it: a voice, soft and sibilant, whispering in the back of her mind.
You are Anansi. The stories are yours.
Nyasha gasped, stumbling backward, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. She stared at the shimmering threads, her pulse pounding in her ears.
The voice whispered again, and this time, it wasn’t just a suggestion. It was a command.
•••
Nyasha stared at her reflection in the café window, a steaming mug of tea cradled in her hands. The world outside seemed different—brighter, more vivid. She could see individual raindrops sliding down the glass, each one glinting like a bead of light.
It had been two days since the bite, and she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something inside her had changed.
The signs were small at first. The way the cashier at the corner store had smiled at her a second too long. The way her neighbor, the one who usually muttered a half-hearted “hello,” had suddenly stopped to ask if she needed help carrying her groceries. She’d dismissed it as coincidence.
But last night, she’d caught herself staring at the faint web in the corner of her bathroom, watching how it shimmered and shifted in the dim light. When she touched it, the same jolt of energy had shot up her arm, leaving her fingers tingling.
And then there was the voice.
You are Anansi. The stories are yours.
The words echoed in her head, soft but insistent. She had tried to ignore them, but the feeling—the hunger—was harder to dismiss. It wasn’t just in her mind; it was in her body, a thrumming under her skin, pulling her toward something she couldn’t quite name.
Today, she had come to the café to test it.
She sipped her tea, scanning the room. The place was crowded, a blur of faces and voices, but one person stood out immediately: a woman in the corner, bent over a notebook.
Nyasha frowned. She hadn’t even seen the woman’s face, but something about her felt... familiar. The air around her seemed to hum faintly, like the vibration of a web after something has landed in its threads.
Nyasha set her mug down, her palms sweating.
What’s happening to me?
She watched as the woman scribbled furiously, her pen moving in sharp, erratic strokes. Her shoulders were tense, her brows furrowed in concentration. There was something raw about her, something that made Nyasha’s pulse quicken.
Before she realized what she was doing, Nyasha was standing in front of the table.
•••
“Mind if I sit?” she asked, her voice softer than she’d intended.
The woman looked up, startled, and Nyasha finally saw her face: angular and striking, with tired eyes that seemed too old for her otherwise youthful features. The woman hesitated, but then her expression softened. “Sure,” she said, her voice quiet. “I’m Blair.”
Nyasha sat down slowly, her hands clasped in her lap. For a moment, she said nothing, unsure of what had drawn her here. Then she noticed the notebook.
“What are you writing?” Nyasha asked, nodding toward it.
Blair hesitated, her fingers curling protectively around the edges of the page. “It’s nothing, really. Just... ideas.”
Nyasha’s chest tightened. She could feel it now—the hum growing stronger, resonating between them. The threads were there, invisible but tangible, vibrating faintly in the air.
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Come on. Everyone’s living their own myth. What’s yours?”
Blair’s face paled, her fingers tightening on the notebook. For a moment, she didn’t respond. Then, reluctantly, she said, “It’s about Persephone. About feeling trapped in one world but longing for another.”
As Blair spoke, Nyasha felt the threads tighten. She could see them now: shimmering strands stretching between them, pulsating with light. They radiated outward from Blair, wrapping around her like a cocoon, their glow dimming with each word she spoke.
Blair’s voice faltered, her breathing shallow. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she said, her eyes wide.
Nyasha reached out, her fingers brushing Blair’s wrist. The connection sent a spark through both of them, and Blair gasped, her body going rigid.
“Because it’s your story,” Nyasha said, her voice low and hypnotic. “And I’m here to take it.”
Blair’s eyes glazed over as the web tightened, the strands pulsing with energy. Nyasha felt it now, a rush of power surging through her, filling her veins with heat and light. She reached for the threads, her fingers moving instinctively, plucking them one by one.
Blair let out a soft gasp, her body going limp as the light in her eyes dimmed.
•••
Nyasha sat back, her chest heaving, the taste of Blair’s story lingering on her tongue like honey. The web around her shimmered faintly, the strands glowing brighter now, more vibrant. She could feel it—her own web, expanding, connecting to something larger.
She glanced down at Blair, who was slumped over the table, her notebook still clutched in her hand. She wasn’t dead—not exactly—but the spark that had animated her moments ago was gone.
Nyasha stood, her legs shaky beneath her. She felt alive in a way she never had before, her senses sharper, her body thrumming with energy.
As she left the café, the world seemed brighter, clearer. She could see the threads now, faint but unmistakable, stretching out from every person she passed.
Everyone was living their own myth. And Nyasha was going to take them all.
Behind-the-Scenes Commentary
Well, this was the day I fell off the writing wagon. I was actually super excited when I pulled this card in the morning and intended to work on it during my usual writing hours, but…that didn’t happen. In fact, I was struck with such a profound grief and sadness that I didn’t write at all for three or four days.
Then I picked up one of my new mythology books and looked for the story of Anansi, and that was it. I was off to the races. Anansi is such a unique mythological archetype and the stories involving the trickster spider are aplenty. I found many that showcased the cunning trickster but it was the story of his “winning all the stories in the world” that captivated me. And because, well, I was feeling some complicated emotions, I thought, huh, what would happen if this took place in modern day and Anansi become a disillusioned writer who realized she could steal the stories from other writers in a very unique way.
I ran out of time on this one, but there is something interesting here… something I might return to in the future.
Source Material
Adorabyssal Oracle by Pixel Occult
Myths & Legends edited by Jake Jackson