As a rule, Mark was not afraid of spiders. Sure, they made him nervous (and he killed them whenever he could) but some people have a genuine terror of ocotopods that Mark simply did not share.
The spider that he found in the hall closet, one morning, was a stark exception. He had gone to get the bleach, and there it was: at least a foot across, huge and hairy. Later, all he could remember of it were its fangs, or pincers, or whatever you wanted to call the things that stuck out from its mouth. They were at least an inch long, barbed and jagged. They looked wet and if you watched them, you could see them slowly closing and opening.
Mark jerked when he first saw it, then froze, tense. He tried to convince himself that it was a joke, that he was being taped, until it started to come forward in a series of staccato bursts, its movement punctuated by the clicking on the floor. Mark grabbed for the broom and swung it. The spider skipped to the side and started to climb up the broom. Mark jumped back (dropping the broom) then recovered his dignity and backed slowly into the kitchen, reaching for the phone. Then the spider was gone. He looked around the room, poked his head into the hallway while he dialed 911. No spider. He looked up.
On the hall ceiling, the spider crouched and glared down at Mark. The pincers, stilling moving in and out, dripped once onto the rug floor.
Mark backed into the kitchen, again. The spider followed him, skittering back and forth across the kitchen ceiling. Never moving in a predictable direction, but always closer to Mark. Then it paused and moved to the corner.
It began to weave a web. Mark couldn't believe the intricacy and speed with which it worked. The strands were large and the web was bigger than Mark's torso. It was round and perfect and materialized with a mechanical speed.
Mark broke out of his stupor and dialed 911. He was transferred to animal control where a woman explained to him in a condescending tone that he was panicking. There were no spiders of that size in this area. He was probably, she explained with poorly pretended patience, seeing a wolf spider. They were not dangerous and he should not worry.
Mark looked again at the spider. He convinced the woman to send out an Animal Control agent, then climbed out the kitchen window.
When the Animal Control agent arrived, Mark followed him inside. The spider was gone. The agent, not even bothering to hide a snear, repeated the woman's spiel about wolf spiders and then drove away while Mark watched, dazed, from his porch.
He considered getting a hotel for the night, but the back of his mind wouldn't let him accept the blow to his pride. He stood, undecided, on the porch for a full half-hour, before he heard a kind of shriek from inside the house.
When Mark reached the kitchen, the neighbor's cat was lashing inside a second web on the kitchen counter. The spider circled, throwing out more webbing. Mark jumped forward, grabbed the cat, and fled the house. He returned the neighbors cat and went to get a hotel.
He called a real estate agent.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
The Prayer
Long ago, a man decided to remove himself from the world of men in order to dedicate himself wholly to the worship of his God. He traveled to the farthest countries across the widest seas and built himself a cottage atop the highest mountain. Then, he settled himself for prayer.
He had only just settled his mind to worship, when he heard a scratching at his door. At first he was annoyed, thinking that someone had followed him to his mountain refuge, but when he opened the door, he found only a small lynx whose leg had been crushed by a rock.
"Well," the man said to himself, "there is plenty of time for prayer. I will not turn away anyone seeking my help." He carefully tended the lynx, washing the cuts and scrapes and setting the leg. For a whole month he tended to the lynx's every need while its leg healed. Then one day, the cast came off and the lynx ran off down the side of the mountain.
The man sighed happily and settled himself for prayer. He had not been at it for five minutes when he heard a noise at his window. He ignored it for several minutes, but when it continued he strode purposefully to the window and flung it open. There on the sill was a little wren with a broken wing.
"Well," the man said to himself, "there is plenty of time for prayer. I will not turn away anyone seeking my help." Just like the lynx, the man brought the wren inside, cared for its wounds, saw to its health, and set it free.
Day after day, month after month, year after year, the man lived on top of his mountain, but each time he would begin to pray another injured animal would find its way to his door. Each time, he would welcome the animal into his home and into his heart.
The man grew old, as man will, and eventually died. So much of his time had been spent caring for the animals, that in all of his years living on top of the mountain, only a few precious hours had been spent in prayer. Upon dying, the man found himself outside of a great palace. Through the window he could see a figure that was somehow both terrifyingly unknowable and comfortingly familiar.
The figure was concentrating deeply on something, but the man could not understand the words and symbols that the figure wrote. This work, the man knew, was of supreme importance. This work mattered more than anything that had ever been done or would ever be done. Deciding not to bother this great figure from its great work, the man looked around for some other shelter to protect him from the elements.
The figure paused and looked at the man, then strode to the great gate of the palace. "Come in," the figure said "I will not turn away anyone seeking my help."
He had only just settled his mind to worship, when he heard a scratching at his door. At first he was annoyed, thinking that someone had followed him to his mountain refuge, but when he opened the door, he found only a small lynx whose leg had been crushed by a rock.
"Well," the man said to himself, "there is plenty of time for prayer. I will not turn away anyone seeking my help." He carefully tended the lynx, washing the cuts and scrapes and setting the leg. For a whole month he tended to the lynx's every need while its leg healed. Then one day, the cast came off and the lynx ran off down the side of the mountain.
The man sighed happily and settled himself for prayer. He had not been at it for five minutes when he heard a noise at his window. He ignored it for several minutes, but when it continued he strode purposefully to the window and flung it open. There on the sill was a little wren with a broken wing.
"Well," the man said to himself, "there is plenty of time for prayer. I will not turn away anyone seeking my help." Just like the lynx, the man brought the wren inside, cared for its wounds, saw to its health, and set it free.
Day after day, month after month, year after year, the man lived on top of his mountain, but each time he would begin to pray another injured animal would find its way to his door. Each time, he would welcome the animal into his home and into his heart.
The man grew old, as man will, and eventually died. So much of his time had been spent caring for the animals, that in all of his years living on top of the mountain, only a few precious hours had been spent in prayer. Upon dying, the man found himself outside of a great palace. Through the window he could see a figure that was somehow both terrifyingly unknowable and comfortingly familiar.
The figure was concentrating deeply on something, but the man could not understand the words and symbols that the figure wrote. This work, the man knew, was of supreme importance. This work mattered more than anything that had ever been done or would ever be done. Deciding not to bother this great figure from its great work, the man looked around for some other shelter to protect him from the elements.
The figure paused and looked at the man, then strode to the great gate of the palace. "Come in," the figure said "I will not turn away anyone seeking my help."
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Hey
I want to apologize to my loyal readers ;0. I have been at a conference for a few days and got behind on my posting. I have put up several days worth of stories, today.
The child Jesus
I was wondering the other day about the child Jesus.
Imaging growing up as a God, omnipotent and omniscient. The defining characteristic of early childhood is frustration, an inability to control your environment. Most of our psychology seems to emerge from our early inability to exert control.
Without any barrier between wish and fulfillment, the ego and superego would never form. Every whim would be met by an immediate and instinctual gratification.
Imagine the self-control that would be required to live in a world without any barrier to your desires.
Such an experience would not be, in any way, human.
So... I guess it didn't work like that.
Imaging growing up as a God, omnipotent and omniscient. The defining characteristic of early childhood is frustration, an inability to control your environment. Most of our psychology seems to emerge from our early inability to exert control.
Without any barrier between wish and fulfillment, the ego and superego would never form. Every whim would be met by an immediate and instinctual gratification.
Imagine the self-control that would be required to live in a world without any barrier to your desires.
Such an experience would not be, in any way, human.
So... I guess it didn't work like that.
Uninhibited
Jim had spent his entire life learning to deal with his size. Other people could afford to bump into tables or other people, but Jim had 300 lbs of momentum and knocked people flat if he didn't notice them. He never relaxed in a crowded room and could barely shop in stores with cramped aisles.
The crowd pressed around him. He caught glimpses of her from time time, but could not find a path through the crowd. He bumped into someone in his frustration and turned to help them to their feet. He stopped. He started forward, shoving his way through the crowd. It was easy. Much easier than he thought. There were cries of outrage in his wake, but no one really wanted to interfere with him after they saw the look in his eyes.
He started to move faster. Slamming into people, watching them fly out of his way. He heard a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a scream of fury and never registered that this horrifying sound was coming from his own throat. He began to run now, as the crowd began to part before him. More afraid of this raging barbarian then the terrors behind.
She was in sight now, being dragged forward dazed and bloody by her three captors. They had half turned at the commotion behind them when he hit them. Two of them were thrown to the floor as he barreled into them, and she fell with them. The third, he grabbed by his shoulders and threw into the wall. The man's cry was cut short as his back snapped and contoured around a dumpster. The two men on the floor, he dispatched one at a time, their heads popping like cherries under the heel of his boot.
He felt good, powerful. For the first time in his life, he felt uninhibited. The crowd still streamed away from the destruction, but they left a semicircle around him and the raw violence that he now found himself capable of producing.
The crowd pressed around him. He caught glimpses of her from time time, but could not find a path through the crowd. He bumped into someone in his frustration and turned to help them to their feet. He stopped. He started forward, shoving his way through the crowd. It was easy. Much easier than he thought. There were cries of outrage in his wake, but no one really wanted to interfere with him after they saw the look in his eyes.
He started to move faster. Slamming into people, watching them fly out of his way. He heard a sound that was somewhere between a growl and a scream of fury and never registered that this horrifying sound was coming from his own throat. He began to run now, as the crowd began to part before him. More afraid of this raging barbarian then the terrors behind.
She was in sight now, being dragged forward dazed and bloody by her three captors. They had half turned at the commotion behind them when he hit them. Two of them were thrown to the floor as he barreled into them, and she fell with them. The third, he grabbed by his shoulders and threw into the wall. The man's cry was cut short as his back snapped and contoured around a dumpster. The two men on the floor, he dispatched one at a time, their heads popping like cherries under the heel of his boot.
He felt good, powerful. For the first time in his life, he felt uninhibited. The crowd still streamed away from the destruction, but they left a semicircle around him and the raw violence that he now found himself capable of producing.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The Forging of the Sword
Beginning a sword was not a small task for Verigan. A lesser smith could turn out a dozen swords every day, every one of them identical, but for Verigan a sword was something more. When you came away from Verigan, your sword was an extension of your self. Even the fabled smith-mages of Atlantis had not understood that a GreatSword could not simply be quickened with a piece of its user’s soul. This creates a bond between sword and warrior to be sure, but for the bond to be perfect, the form of the sword had to be an extension of the man.
The Atlantean smiths had never even imagined the artistry that Verigan instilled in the least of his creations. And this could hardly be the least of his creations.
This sword had to be remembered for a thousand years. This sword had to be a legend, as the man who would wield it already was.
A hundred sketches and designs were created and discarded before Verigan found one that felt right. Then it had to be refined and perfected over a dozen more revisions before Verigan pushed his way from his desk and stepped up to his forge.
The fires roared, as if to welcome him.
The Atlantean smiths had never even imagined the artistry that Verigan instilled in the least of his creations. And this could hardly be the least of his creations.
This sword had to be remembered for a thousand years. This sword had to be a legend, as the man who would wield it already was.
A hundred sketches and designs were created and discarded before Verigan found one that felt right. Then it had to be refined and perfected over a dozen more revisions before Verigan pushed his way from his desk and stepped up to his forge.
The fires roared, as if to welcome him.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Nuriel
The beasts were all around Nuriel now and they began to inch closer. Their claws were sharp and their eyes were red and their teeth were yellow. At first they hovered at the edge of the clearing, darting in and out of sight, but as time passed they grew bolder. Nuriel shuddered at their grotesquery.
When they began to get so close that she could almost feel their hot breath on her skin, Nuriel began to sing. At first her song wavered, as though in fear, then suddenly grew stronger. The beasts hesitated. Nuriel’s song burst forth like a sunrise. It rang out triumphant and strong and the beasts howled their terror. Then it changed and thundered of justice and a righteous fury and the beasts fell back as though struck by a mighty blow.
When the sun rose, Nuriel fixed herself breakfast, packed her bags, and went on her way.
When they began to get so close that she could almost feel their hot breath on her skin, Nuriel began to sing. At first her song wavered, as though in fear, then suddenly grew stronger. The beasts hesitated. Nuriel’s song burst forth like a sunrise. It rang out triumphant and strong and the beasts howled their terror. Then it changed and thundered of justice and a righteous fury and the beasts fell back as though struck by a mighty blow.
When the sun rose, Nuriel fixed herself breakfast, packed her bags, and went on her way.
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