Once upon a time there was a paper bag. Regarding size and color it was much like every other paper bag on the block, and was therefore rather plain and wholly undeserving of a story to take place anywhere near it. That being said let us get on to our story, which takes place quite conveniently within said bag.
“Oh my,” I said, looking around in the dim filtered light. “How did I end up here?” I faced the bottom of a paper bag, which lay on its side, completely without rhyme or reason to my life. Turning around I saw the sides of the bag formed walls and a ceiling, encasing me. A pin prick of light in the distance, the opening of the bag, lent itself enough to illuminate the small world. Once the initial shock and intimidation (looking and feeling an awful lot like fright) I noticed to my left, a little ways down, a small shack sitting prettily against one of the walls. I found my feet taking me there.
There wasn’t much of a lawn, but I stood on it while on the porch two rocking chairs held a little old spider couple, the man smoking on a pipe while the mistress passed the time on two crochet needles.
“Hello,” I called out, weakly waving a hand.
The elder man sat forward and readjusted his spectacles, his many black eyes shining through with a dullness which only comes with age. “Well what do we have here?”He nudged his other half who only then looked up. “You’re awful big; how did you fit in here?”
The wife scolded him, hitting his stomach and upside his head with her arms. “Don’t be rude,” she whispered. Turning to me she smiled. “What’s your name?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “Don’t you know?”
“You’re quite impressive,” the man claimed, oblivious of the conversation’s direction.
“I’m afraid I don’t recognize you,” the wife said a bit sadly, as grandmothers usually do. “But I’m sure you know your name, you’ve probably just misplaced it.”
“You flatter me.” I blushed. “But how do I find my way out of here? If I could find my way out, maybe who I am is waiting outside?”
“You go looking, that’s how!” The husband exclaimed, slamming his many fists down on his armchair in a slow sort of way.
“What direction do you suggest I go looking?”
“The opposite of which you came is usually a good bet.” Said the wife, resuming her crocheting. “You should talk to our neighbors, the Flys. They get around so much more than we do.”
The old man folded his many arms and scoffed. “Just because they have wings,” he jerked his thumbs to his left, motioning down the wall into the distance.
Thanking the old pair I continued on along until I came to another small cabin, identical to the first save there were two little flies sitting outside the door in rocking chairs as opposed to two little spiders.