Mike Sutton's Blog: For prose apply within. - Posts Tagged "fear"

It had a deathwish. Must of. Else it wouldn't have come back.

All told the spider was about the size of one of my fingernails, one of those jumping spiders with the freakishly long forelegs. Capable of launching itself forward, several times its own body-length when prey is found. Not big, but huge for a jumping spider here-abouts. Hell, pretty big for any spider here abouts.

Not a bad boy like a tarantula, one of those big hairy jobs the size of small dogs that roam the countryside from Arizona to the southernmost tip of the Amazon rain-forest. The kind of nightmare-arachnid that aunts the recesses of our mind. With those long legs that move so steadily and carefully.

Only two or three poisonous spiders make their home within the borders of the United States, and most of those keep well out of the northern climes where I tend to make my own home (not a coincidence that).

I was reclining, and reading a book, as I often do. When there it was, strolling merrily across my chest. Sightseeing. And this is the spot of spaghetti sauce that won't ever come out. And on your right is a rather noticeable hole. He seemed to be having a grand old time.

Until I noticed him.

Right then and there, I invented a new word. A masterful weaving of vowels, jumbling them all together in a crumpled bit of string while skipping by the consonants. The word, or maybe phrase, doesn't translate well into English and is difficult to define in any language. The word exists, completely without context, standing on its own, like the name of an Elder God. Only to be summoned again when the moons of Jupiter align, or something primitive and hair appears on one's person rather suddenly.

My hand acted on its own accord, and the spider went flying, landing about two feet away as I arched my back as if in either the throws of ecstasy or agony, as my ass tried to escape into orbit.

He, or she, or maybe it, just stared at me for several long moments, observing my reaction, measuring my soul and placing it on the scales of balance to see how I stacked up to the rest of humanity. That was before I found something to sweep it away. Further away.

Spiders are helpful creatures. They feed on insects, which can also be helpful, thus making spiders slightly less I'm a little confused in that respect, but unless they're the brown hairy variety I tend to let them go on about their business. For those that fall within the latter category, I keep a copy of the novel “The Baker's Boy” on hand to strike them down on first glimpse, wielding the block of wood pulp like Mjollnir the Hammer of Thor.

They might be a common house spider, or the dreaded Brown Recluse. I'll never know, because sorting crushed carcases out in genus and class is rather a difficult task. I know this because I've employed Arachnids Bane profitably on several occasions prior, most notably when one of those swift footed brownies came running down my wall, while I was reading oddly enough, and then just stopped. I squealed and abandoned the field, only to return with my secret weapon.

Arrogant bastard didn't move. As Captain Obvious, I feel that it is my duty to point out that it is the last mistake is always the one that gets you in the end. A pity I was too late for Hairy McWolfspider.

BLAM! The little grubber disappeared into the nether-realm, which I found out later, much to my great surprise, was actually my rust colored shag carpet. Does that make me some sort of speciesiest? Was this the spider equivalent of Rosa Parks? Standing up against a million years of human oppression, where our species dared to tell them where they could walk! A one arachnid protest against our insane homicidal rages and countless centuries of pointless genocide! Spider-Power!

So I let the little guy live. Why not? Go eat bugs my friend. And don't walk across my person. We're cool. I'll be sitting here, doing my thing, and you go off and be a spider and what-ever.

That was it and all. I went back to reading my book.

That wasn't all.

I don't know what flickers through the neuron paths of a spider. Certainly they aren't the brightest bulbs on the tree, though they seem to outshine Biblical Literalists by a few dozen watts. There can't be much going on behind the eyes. Just saying, they don't seem to be overly introspective creatures who live the examined life.

They seem to just live on a whim.

All of a sudden, upon the pages of the sixth volume of Jordan, there was a large gray spider leaping about like a five year old on speed. Have you seen a Daffy Duck cartoon? It was a lot like that. The little bastard even had the 'woohoos' down pat. Was it a celebration? I don't know. I was too busy throwing my book to stand by and watch.

This time I was articulate in my mother language. And without running on forever. I limited myself to a word. Fuck. It's a wonderful all purpose device that encompasses both the good and bad in life. Here you're getting laid, there the girl's biker boyfriend is knocking your teeth in. The word is wonderfully context based, switching meanings to fill in those awkward chinks in one's vocabulary.

There was no sign of the trespasser when I picked up the door-stopper of a novel. Until I tapped it on the floor to loosen any debris, and out it popped, dropping to the carpet.

He actually had the audacity to sit and stare at me. Like he was taunting me. Two – four – six – eight – gotta stop the arachnid hate!

“That's right bitch, I just came back.” He might have said as I set my book aside. “You scream like a little girl. Who's your daddy? You punk. Yeah.” I flicked him across the room.

For several long minutes I thought about letting him go. Certainly there wouldn't be a third encounter. Unimaginable. But then, there shouldn't have been a second meeting. The little bastard was messing with me.

He landed in a corner, and was still there when I returned and invited him into my literary circle by giving him my impression of the Baker's Boy.

Ow, my face