Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Spider.

A single word started the panic.
Spider.
The utterance of the word and the flick of a finger in the direction of the ceiling was enough to tell me that an eight-legged intruder was watching, waiting, and that action had to be taken.

Though I was shaken from the mere realisation of the beast's presence, I clambered up the stairs to retrieve my bristle-ended weapon - the sweeping brush. I picked it up carefully, as though its overwhelming spider-repelling powers might mistake me for a web-spinner. I gripped it firmly, and slowly, carefully, made my way back down the stairs. Each step became a mile, and beads of cold sweat began to form on my brow.

I poked the door of the kitchen open with the end of the brush, to discover that a single thread was hanging from the ceiling, a little heavy with dust. It was odd, it had clearly hung for a few days, at the very least, but had escaped my notice until that moment. I moved forward, counting my steps in my head, as though doing otherwise would cause the spider to go into a frenzy.

I reached my target. The arachnid's six eyes burned into me, as though it knew what I was about to do. I braced myself, grabbed the handle of the brush and swept at the monster, missing at first, but hitting with the second blow. Then, I realised that something wasn't quite right. The spider was no longer on the ceiling, but had not fallen to the floor either.
He could only have held to the end of my weapon. I knew that the brush was useless now, I threw it across the room, screeching a war cry and seeking higher ground.

I know not where he has gone, but I did not see him emerge from the end of the brush. As I type, I am taking refuge kneeling on a kitchen chair, reacting sharply to the smallest movement or ticklish sensation. I may have lost this battle, but the war is far from over.

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