What is a cobweb to you? Is it the plague that grows along forgotten memories, that weaves itself across the old toys at the back of your closet? Is it a dusted connection between you and a forgotten figure, or the sticky strings that grab you, trap you, and won't let go? Is it the spider that spent countless hours on a piece to be remembered by none? We all have cobwebs. Your house, your heart, your mind, they can be clean, but cobwebs will always find a way to grow. And each and every strand is a story, waiting to be told.

Absence by Alexander Lam-Gaudet (12)

Dirty and dingy,
are what the catacombs​ whisper.
An alignment of stone,
grout,
and miscellaneous, absurd supports
arching.

With dusk fleeting,
and the quiet of the labyrinth settling,
my heavy, leather bent boots echo back.
It’s not long before the dust flies up, again.
Cobwebs hang discreetly above,
near the dim light of candles,
far and obscure in the distance.

I can’t decide
whether to hug my knees to my chest in the corner,
or stride in the shadows in front of me.

My hand grazes the surface of the floor,
cold concrete beneath my fingers.
A chill rides up my spine
like a vessel of blood streaming,
ever thick and weighing me down.

I am filled with an ache,
a silhouette of people
There’s an absence in longing,
pining for the past,
and expecting the future to be the same

The Cage by ​Averey Nguyen (11)

Nostalgia doesn’t come to you
It escapes
It breaks free
From the shackles your mind
Had placed and locked away
In favour of growth
To trap the old 
To make room for new,
To wash away memories
To pour in some skills
But memories don’t fade
They renew 
Like the blood in our veins, like marrow
Like salt in the sea, water in the ocean
They fade not, but instill itself deep
They cling to our minds
Like barnacles to boat masts
Hearing, seeing our memories come back to life
Weakens the restraints of the fleshy cage
That is our hearts, the solid gates
That is our bones
We feel it creep deep
Slowly exploding warmth into the core
That carries us like the current
That hurts us for what was once
An often occurrence, now a distant memory
That became trapped, longing to be free
​ Longing for the wind to blow
​In its direction once more​

 

Necklaces by Zahra Ali (10)

I was once her most prized possession,
She flaunted me, flattered me, hung me around her neck and polished me,
I was everything, I saw everything,
Every laugh, every cry,
We were together every waking moment of the day.
And when night fell, when the wisps of black whisked around her room,
​I watched over her.
I still do.
But now, when day comes and sunlight hits the corner of every room, It ignores me.
I haven’t felt the light since she picked out a new necklace to flourish.
And so I wait.
I don’t know how long it’s been, but my heart grows weary where my body can’t,
And the cobwebs are beginning to grow.
They trap me to the weathered countertop, keeping me dusted, wilted,
My only use being a perch for something old,
And as I watch her dance in the light dangling a necklace anew,
I wonder if I’ll ever feel the light again,
Or if I’ll be left here, to wilt within cobwebs.

Art by Zahra Ali

Dinner Time by Emma Harris (10)

PictureArt by Emma Harris
 A small ant walks up to my web. 
She looks around, 
Questions her surroundings,
Searching for a way around
The new terrain.
“It’s solid,
Don’t worry,
You can walk on it.”
I call 
From my corner.
I wait
As the ant                                                                  
Walks up to my web. 
She reaches out 
With one of her front legs,
And steps onto the web.
She stumbles forward,
Struggling to continue,
Stuck.
She shifts around,
Unable to escape,
The sticky web.
With my eight legs,
I walk over,
To the bug.
She cries out, 
Asking for help
She’ll never get.
“I’m sorry.”
I whisper,
Looking down.
I feel guilty.
But this is how It needs to be. 
I need to eat.
I wrap my web
Around the ant,
And prepare for her end.
​

Orb Weaver by Abella Vasquez (11)

I could recognize her from a sparing glance. I could remember how her smile shone sweetly through the downpour, how her hands reached to grasp warmth in the chilled air. I could imagine her voice, smooth like a fresh jar of honey, then breaking like a knife through the seal. I could remember the faintest touches, smallest whispers, distant tears, but I never knew her face. 
A blur of collected memories, never truly concluding togetherness. I would linger in fear, afraid her remembrance was not enough to give her joy. 
Once a dewy, glowing spiderweb, fresh and new, her body was now a cobweb, a strand of past security left behind to helplessly drift across the wind. A ruined woman, clinging onto nothing but pillars of love that crack and split from a soft swaying breeze. A desperate hope. 
She’s the rock that hides in your shoe, the startling crack that you hear in the middle of the night. A ghost of the past doesn’t wait until spring to bloom. It’s haunting to feel that breeze on the coldest of fall days, and the more of her face I grow to know, the more I wish I’d never seen it at all.

                              Art by Sara Rivera Encalada


Untitled by Bianca Carlucci (10)

Haunted house, picket fence
Cobwebs gather along dimmed ceilings 
​The contentious talk of a one horse town, you're a ghost and I'm still reeling.
Lying in overgrown grass, brash whispers deem I've lost all sense.
But your words have woven webs into my mind, so mine are no defense.
The cobwebs have been torn down, the paint off the fence is peeling.
Now all I have is my haunted house in a town too small for you.

Art by Sara Rivadeneira Encalada

The Cobweb Thread by Aiyah Hashi (10)

 I found your coat still hanging in the hall,      
Its sleeves collapsed, yet shaped as if you stood,      
A faded thing, forgotten by us all,      
Still holding in its threads the ghost of good.      
A cobweb clung beneath the collar seam,
So thin, so light, yet strangely hard to break,      
It shimmered like the edge of some lost dream,      
A sliver strand time dared not yet forsake.
Your scent was there of pine and winter smoke      
And something soft came rushing through my chest.      
Though years have passed and all your words broke, 
​This coat still holds the weight of your last rest.      
The cobweb tied me gently to your grace,      
A thread that time and dust could not erase.

​The Ghost of You by Lily Beeson (10)

​A connection stretched far through the past
The thought of a time we let slip past
Time will tell when I finally forget 
But dear, I’m not six feet underground yet
I no longer mourn, nor cry, nor weep
Still, I don't regret the ghosts I keep
Because when ‘sparks’ plays, I get deja vu
​Cobwebs still tangle our minds, me and you

Art by Lily Beeson

  

Wonder Workers by Aaishah Khan (10)

I might just have perished long ago
Trampled on, swept away, left withering in helplessness.
In these nights of torment I live on, for I have reason to live,
A place once bustled now abandoned, an abode for solely you and I
Trapped in a scene from many’s dreams  
Four walls fitted to fantasy, agonized by darkness, neglection, and terror.
Sentenced to a lifetime gone in a glimpse,
two prisoners capable of escape. Railroads reside within,
victims disguising in passenger coaks.
Tracks not tracked to unfetter, but connect one conductor to the other.
Like all cuboids alike, this one too sports six flat faces
Desperation indeed so blinding in irrational crystal cases.
So I will spend every eternity forever and ever more,
reaching for you as you near me.
And every moon that elapses, I will wield all I have to anchor my silk path to yours.
​My threads are blown away and will be onwards.
Hope will not be lost! For love ignites my eight legs beyond the wicked icicles of both world’s wonders.

         Art by Nourah Amano

​

                               Art by Charlotte Coleman


The Old Box by Charlotte Coleman (10)

The old box under your bed,
Collecting dust and cobwebs
It holds things from the past
To make you think it will always last,
A card from your grandpa when he was still alive,
And the necklace your first boyfriend gave you on Valentine’s
Will forever be held in the old box,
Wo that the memories are never lost.
Maybe one day you’ll open it back up ,
Re-looking at the things close to your heart,
The ones you just couldn’t seem to part,
And remember why you put them there in the start.
But for now they’ll stay in the old box under your bed,
​Collecting dust and cobwebs.

​Sculptor's Angel by Nazeefa Alomgir (12)

An angel cemented in marble, carved and etched to perfection.
She stood alone on frigid stone ground, sculpted by her own reflection.
He, who paralleled her in every way, stopped to admire her every day
He brought her bouquets of roses, handwritten poems, and garnished her in ivory jewels and silver ornaments
Until one day, it stopped.
Her body became home to dust as silken cobwebs laced around her, suffocating the rigid edges of her once-adorned skin.
Abandoned by the one who created her.
She was alone once more.

Perhaps, not entirely alone.
Every evening after dusk, as the sun’s warmth faded, a lone crow perched upon her still shoulder
His beak carried findings from afar, each gathered just for her
A single rose plucked from the nearby bushes, shimmering gems and stolen trinkets, and a frayed ribbon wrapped around her exposed marble skin.
He had returned to his angel, and is now forever under her wing.

The house that forgot us by Lily Beeson (10)

I’ve been here before, but it’s not the same. These walls that once danced with life and family are dreary and spiritless. A place I called home can no longer be called anything but inhospitable, the smell of expiration stronger at every opening. I move slowly, taking in all of what’s left. 
The walls are dusty, cobwebs plastered between the corners and the ceiling, the only sign of life this place has had in a decade. The couches are ripped, springs sticking out at every angle, stuffing piled onto the floor. My mom used to sit there, the golden sunlight dancing on her face, as she read her books of romance and mystery. The rocking chair, old and knocked over, was the only place my father would sit while watching the game, popcorn flying out of his mouth as he screamed at the tv. I smile bittersweetly, remembering how upset my mom would get when she had to vacuum the carpet afterward. 
​I turn away once I realize that the tears will get to me, and see our faux Christmas tree, green plastic branches wilted, as if they know what happened years ago. Some of the plastic lightbulbs have broken apart, their once jolly colours on the floor. If I could go back, to see this tree and the merry it brought me, I wouldn't think twice.
 

Art by Lily Beeson


​Lies and Much by Aaishah Khan (10)

Picture
Lies.
Betrayal.
Dispute.
Resentment.
Ruckus.
Chaos.
Mayhem.
Commotion.
Bickering.
Volume.
Rage.
Passion.
Fury.
Shatters.
Tears.
Wails.
Blood.                                                                                 Art by Nourah Amano
Hesitation
Aggression.
Passion.
Hatred.
Denial.
Dissension.
​Deluminate.
Indeed, Hideous is the cobweb I lay upon, How dare it witness such. Never will  my ears forget, nor my legs how I held on. Never shall I return and mourn these two for I have seen too much.

Bones by Evelyn Rebinczak (10)

Tall, dark house. Lonely moon, hidden from the stars behind the branch of a tree. The street, littered with cars. Footprints frozen over and fading into nothingness, shadows, and lost souls.
Leading up to the broken front door is a trail of stepping stones, molded into the ground after years and decades of wear.
To the stars and to the road, the cars, to the children running through the streets with their hands intertwined, you have forgotten me, but I haven’t forgotten you.
Tall, tired, dark house. Bones creaking, skin peeling. Haunted monster for moonlit ghost stories, creaking trees, long fingers. Corpses rotting in the back field, buried underneath sunlight and moonlight and shooting stars. But what’s dead never really stays dead.
Blood-red door, worn out knob. Mirror stains, coffee rings, a little bit of magic in every word and every last dance. I once knew laughter and I once knew love, when the fires were lit and the bins of toys were pulled out. The plastic happiness was oh-so real and so were you.
And so I shut my eyes, close my curtains, but I can still see everything. Cement hand prints, late evening dance parties, and I think I’ll always remember it all.

Art by Zahra Ali


Cicada Sunset by Kayla Nixon (12)

                         Art by Sara Rivadeneira Encalada


​Untitled by Bianca Carlucci (10)

If it weren’t for the bugs I’m not sure what I’d do
They don’t say much, but when you’re angry neither do you
Because when I’m left high and dry and you don’t call
It’s the spiders who are there with me through it all
Patient and resolute, she spins her silk, stronger than steel
Tireless she works, out of instinct I presume
Instinct of connection or survival I do not know, but her conviction is real.

Art by Jiya Nanner


Everything is Made of Spiders by Jiya Nanner (11)

In my nightmares, everything is made of spiders. Thousands of tiny spiders, crawling all over each other.
I’m not afraid of them, they just make me uncomfortable. You can’t blame me. Eight eyes! Eight legs! There’s just something about them, you know? The way they scuttle around, the way they curl up and play dead, the fact that I can’t see their faces but I know they’re watching me, the way they can stay motionless for hours and then suddenly come back to life… you get the point. They can jump! Or lower themselves from above. It might sound like I’m afraid, but I’m not. I just don’t like spiders. When I see one out of the corner of my eye, it feels like my heart drops into my stomach. That’s an uncomfortable feeling, not a scary one. I made up a rule a while ago. When they’re on their turf, that’s fine. But when they’re on mine, then I can intervene. But they keep testing my boundaries. First, I decide they shouldn’t be in my house. Then, after they decide they like my basement, I let them. 


​

Art by Neila Boly


Holding On by Emma Harris (10)

If you go up into my attic, behind the dusty boxes full of Christmas decorations and old baby clothes, you’ll find plastic bins blanketed in spiderwebs. Those bins hold collections of seemingly random objects. Old jewelry sitting in velvet cases, discarded photos, and used notebooks. All miscellaneous items with similar stories, nearly forgotten, never to be returned to their rightful owners. But they were kept close, in case anyone ever needed the old photos for family trees in school, or a stunning silver necklace for their Halloween costume, or just a keepsake to feel closer to family you’ve never really known. One might think of it as despairing to keep these things, a distant reminder of what you’ll never know again, but I see it differently. As a way to keep these people, and their memories close. You might, in the moment, forget about these items and their stories, but when you remember that you have this container filled with dusty notebooks, you remember the people who wrote in them, and so you read them again, and discover even more about their lives. You dust the spider webs off the memories.
You keep their belongings, and by extension their souls, nearby.

Threads Between Things by Aiyah Hashi (10)

There are patterns we never mean to weave,
Strands left behind in conversations,
In glances that last a moment too long.
A cobweb forms quietly,
In the corners of our lives not decay,
But evidence that something once passed through.
Every connection hums with what we don’t say.
It stretches, bends and sometimes breaks
Under the weight of silence.
Still, the web remains,
Invisible until the light finds it,
A reminder that even what’s delicate
Can hold us together.

Art by Nourah Amano

Itsy Bitsy by Zahra Ali (10)

Weave it, weave, over and under and over and under and over and over and over and over again. Did they ever see me?

It’s lonely up here, in my corner. I’m not alone, of course, I’ve got the flies, the mosquitoes, and every unfortunate being that’s had the misfortune of being trapped here with me. I’m not alone, but I’ve never felt so lonely. It’s a peculiar feeling, really, to know that after everything you weren’t worth anything. After every drop of sweat and every scream, cry, urge to be better. It was never enough.
 …

“Did you seriously lose the ball again? No, don’t whine, go get it! And tear down that hideous web while you’re at it.”

And there went hours and hours, minutes into seconds into hours, days, weeks, months, time, time spent, my time, taken down with a flick of their finger and a grunt of disgust as they carelessly tore my life apart. 
And I start again. 
And my stomach screams at me, my head swims. I eat the small wisps of the web, hoping I’ll have enough to make it until tomorrow. Every night they tear them down, I go to sleep with hunger in my stomach knowing there’ll be no webs to catch my food tonight. And every day my legs grow weaker and my back sores as I know my time is running out.

Art by Zahra Ali

 

Picture by Moon Advincula


​Boarding by Moon Advincula (10)

The outer walls of the building held thick vines, the dark red colour of the bricks almost swallowed whole. The walk to class wasn’t long, but the days in which fog covered the vicinity ahead felt much longer. I had to wear earbuds everyday and listen to music that hurt my ears, because if I didn’t I would always hear a distant whistle, constantly distant as if it moved the same speed as me. 
The light that shone through the stained glass windows was far from comforting, only lighting up outlines of figures across the hall. The only comfort was in passing periods, when the halls were bustling with people I didn’t know. I never truly felt at peace sitting alone in that school, because I didn’t feel as though I ever was. There was always an extra echo of a footstep, a small implication of a walk that isn’t yours in an empty hallway. There was always a single loud floorboard, suddenly breaking the silence that fills the space around you. Leaving after school always felt like I was betraying a silent entity, one that took form as a grand school building. 

2 Year Anniversary of my Boring Job  by Millie Farley (12) 

I work late evening into night, 
weeding through webs, 
spiders at the hub.
Small flies bounce off 
my arms and neck.
I heave unknown masses 
over my shoulder 
and into dumpsters.
Black bags like 
dumplings in a bowl. 
My footsteps soft 
padding and dragging 
over dirty carpet, 
wandering through room after room, 
broom trailing 
behind me. I avoid the elevator box, 
take the stairs.

I peel 
my black gloves off 
from the insides. 
I eat inside 
the concrete enclosure 
that is our break room.
Pipes curve 
against the walls,

                           Picture by Millie Farley

Art by Evelyn Rebinczak


Star by Evelyn Rebinczak (10)

A star with a million ways to light up the sky 
bright child, promising future 
I knew who I wanted to be, and you did too
dusty old home,
family, hot chocolate and unwrapped presents
“I’m going to be remembered” I say
yellowed pages of "I want to be a writer” and “I want to be an artist”
and I want to tell the world all the things I could never tell you 
sea full of dreams and crashing waves of waiting 
midnight writing,
aching hand
pencil smudges and a blank paper
torn out heart and no evidence to the crime 
I know you were counting on me and, well, I was counting on me too
so I’ll say sorry to you, for snuffing out the spark
dusty old bookshelf, 
relatives, lost stories, and the cobwebs that connect them
clean me off, ask me who I am,
and I’ll forget who I ever was
I’m afraid of getting older and
afraid of losing time to do what I said I'll always do
so I’ll say sorry to me, when the candles blow out
and I have no more wishes for the star,
shooting across the sky
The star with a million ways to blink itself out.

Picture by Charlotte Coleman


The Silky Strings Pulling Her Back Up by Charlotte Coleman (10)

Everything she built up from the ground,
All comes suddenly tumbling down. 
The years of love, 
The years of hurt,
The years of tears,
The years of work,
Gets brutally ripped down as if the way she got there meant nothing, 
It was all supposed to lead to something. 
Not something fragile,
Like the silky string holding her whole life together. 
Leading to her heart,
And making her believe that there’s something better, 
like a spiders web being torn down,
It feels like all the happiness in her heart falls back to the ground.
Would she ever be able to build it back up,
When’s she’s just about to give up?
The silky string still in her heart might help her realize, 
Maybe she was supposed to fall.
Beautiful things might not get created on the first try,
But maybe the passion will still be attached to the heart like a tie.
She’ll rebuild her web of soul and creativity and realize
The years of love, 
The years of hurt,
The years of tears,
The years of work,
Will make something that she’ll love, 
And finally realize her worth.

​
​
​

Trees by Madeleine Snow (10)

Why does the world unravel itself?
It made the knots, it should know not to touch them
But it does
Just when I feel stable
Safe 
Happy
It picks at the net that I’ve made to catch me
It undoes the treads, fine as spiders’ silk
That I have woven together
As a last-ditch effort to hold myself up
To hold myself together
Sometimes, though, the world goes straight for the trees
The trees that I am strung between
The true things that hold me up
The things I took for granted
These trees are immense
Redwood, and oak
These trees that are older than me, 
Older than time
That, as humans, we can’t touch
But the world doesn’t care about us
In fact,
It comes in swinging twice as hard just to spite us
And it smiles, as I sway
On the torn spider silk of my life,
And it will laugh
When I 
Inevitably 
Fall 

Picture by Moon Advincula

Our House by Moon Advincula (10)

And for a second it was like we all lived together again
Separated from our own mature lives
They weren’t sleeping in a cold guest room anymore
It had become a big orange alcove, one that we all used to share
The couch didn’t fit all of us
And I had forgotten whose footsteps were whose
They two left because of her division, something that I can’t fix
And I’m too scared to go to sleep, because I’m afraid I'll be wasting my limited time. 

​

Thank you so much to everyone who submitted to the first edition of spotlight for the 2025-2026 year, as well as all the artists for their amazing pieces! Special thanks to Mr. Blauer and Mr. Serroul, as well as all the other lit teachers for helping us get this far! We hope you enjoyed reading!

 Cobwebs Team:  Zahra Ali, Aaishah Khan, Evelyn Rebinczak, Aiyah Hashi, Emma Harris, Lily Beeson,
Moon Advincula, Bianca Carlucci & Charlotte Coleman

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