Avery Other
(Honorable Mention, 2025 BWR Short Story Award)
The Kind Who Soar and The Kind Who Weave weren’t always so different. Before there were legs for climbing and wings for flying, there were just thoughts for thinking. Therein dichotomy commenced.
We developed eight tiny eyes, well-suited for scrutiny. The other kind couldn’t resist attempting to take everything in, all at once. Their greed earned them two enormous eyes instead. Just like that, two different thoughts evolved into two opposing worldviews. Over many lifetimes, our differences and animosities grew. But The Kind Who Soar went too far when they claimed the skies on incandescent wings, and we never forgave them.
Ever since, we’ve crafted nets for snatching our sworn enemies out of the sky.
#
I always liked that old story. But the consensus on what to do when we caught flyers—
Kill them. Consume them.
It seemed cruel and unusual to me. My opinion wasn’t popular among fellow weavers.
“It’s you who’s unusual, weird girl,” they said.
I left that reputation behind when I molted, migrating over the hedgerow to build my home in a modest peach tree. Its few limbs were low and sparsely populated compared with the bustling coniferous neighborhood nearby. Weavers usually preferred the pines, but peach suited me. I wanted to be left alone, subsisting off peaches rather than prey, with no one around to question my unconventional lifestyle.
But absent architecture could invite prying eyes. So next to my cozy silk and bark house, I wove the expected sticky-strand web. Marking my territory. Keeping up appearances. Masking my strange.
I spent my time in peaceful solitude. Most weavers did more weaving. But my just-for-show trapper’s net with its too-widely-spaced strands required no maintenance because, by design, it never caught anything.
Until it did.
Vibrations in the tether lines alerted me to her presence before I heard her stifled buzz. My instincts begged me to rush in and tress her up, nice and taut. I restrained myself.
She successfully snapped several strands before entangling herself further in the billowing stick of newly loosed lines. Her efforts to strain directly upward worked against her, securing her bondage. Yet she struggled on, bucking and writhing until she was exhausted.
So she restrained herself too, in a way.
The flyer hung there. Helpless. Staring at me with wide, complicated eyes. Aside from her tight little gasping breaths and an occasional twitch, she was finally still. One wing pressed crooked against her body, but the other—oh, what a marvel! It stuck firm in the flat of my accidentally adequate web, splitting sunlight into dozens of tiny rainbows. Colors frolicked everywhere, swinging in sync with the gentle sway of my web and its captive.
My captive.
And what a captivating catch she was.
Part of me yearned to surrender to my base desires and do more than ground her flight. My fangs were wet with venom, primal appetite demanding I taste her. It would be so satisfying to sample the sweetness of her flesh instead of my usual peaches. But no. I resisted.
At last, she recovered her breath.
“M-my name’s Fly, Mistress W-Weaver,” she stammered.
“I’m Spider,” I replied, voice sultry as silk. “Welcome to my home.”
“It’s a lovely home. I was curious when I spotted your house from above. I zipped down for a closer look but didn’t see your web, and . . . well . . .” Fly shuddered.
Was that excitement I sensed?
There was something off, something . . . different about her. It was easier to notice without all the frantic wriggling. I had a lingering suspicion she flew into my shoddy web intentionally. I needed to be careful not to be snared in her trap, if that’s what this was.
“Where’s your weapon?” I demanded.
“My weap—what?” She buzzed, puzzled.
“Your sting. Where is it?” I circled around to inspect Fly’s backside, finding nothing but the smooth, appealing curves of a juicy posterior.
“I don’t have a stinger.” She blushed peach pink and giggled despite the compromising position. “Even if I could sting, I wouldn’t.”
I orbited to face her, every eye focused. Fly had my attention. All of it.
“Explain.”
Fly flinched, then relaxed into the intensity of my stare. And obediently, she continued.
“I’m a pacifist. I’d never harm anyone. Even the other kind.” After a pause, she added, “What about you, Spider? Why haven’t you eaten me? I can tell you want to.”
Fuck, she was so tempting.
Still the epitome of control, I stood by my convictions. “I suppose I’m a pacifist as well,” I said. “I’ve never hurt a flyer. I only eat peaches.”
Her eyes sparkled with interest. “I like peaches too.”
Awkward silence followed.
“I should untie you.” I sighed reluctantly.
“Wait, you’re really not going to eat me?”
“I only eat peaches.”
Fly seemed to deflate as I climbed my anchor ropes to begin untangling her. I was missing something obvious, not seeing the big picture.
I plucked delicately at the strands restraining the queer little bug until I had her front pair of legs free. While I was still distracted with knots, Fly took advantage of her partial freedom. She reached for me, touching before I could react, and tasted my palps with her delicate feet.
“I didn’t say consume,” Fly clarified. “I said eat.”
Oh. Flirting. She was flirting with me.
I backed off several paces to study her. There was a hungry glint in those large, lovely eyes. Fly looked as ravenous as I felt. But this was a different breed of hunger, and it growled inside me too. Like it had all this time, misunderstood. Until it wasn’t.
“I see.”
Fly rubbed her free limbs together mischievously, clearly a woman with a plan that did not involve stingers. This beauty had probably been watching me for some time, saw the big picture, knew what she wanted . . . what I wanted too.
She deserved to be treasured.
“Say it,” I commanded, testing myself—testing both of us. “Beg.”
The words were delicious, and Fly vibrated with excitement.
“Eat me. I want you to,” Fly pleaded. “Don’t untie me yet. But please, please eat me, Spider.”
The old story needed an update—something more evolved: a happy ending.
Greedily, I pounced.
Avery Other is a human person who likes telling stories. She lives in Lincoln, Nebraska, where she works full-time as an unreliable narrator. She is definitely not a plastic lawn flamingo with delusions of grandeur. Her favorite color is pink. Connect with Avery on Bluesky or at averyother.com.