Little Friends

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A queer little story about a woman and her eight-legged friends, all dancing on their thin threads of (in)sanity.

This story is meant as a little appetizer before the final chapter of The Devil on G String is released - just a short, dark taster by itself, something I suddenly had the inspiration to write up. If you enjoyed this story, do check out my other works, most notably the series I mentioned :)

Submitted: November 21, 2012

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Submitted: November 21, 2012

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Little Friends

 

Sweeping, sweeping, sweeping.

 

Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning.

 

Life went on as usual.

 

Mrs. M paused at a corner of the storeroom, and spied with her little eye, a spider, in the process of catching a fly.

 

She hated the little creatures somewhat – and yet she had a simultaneous awe and admiration for the eight-legged fiends. She liked how they weaved their webs ever so patiently, not flinching or slowing down for anything in the world, a single minded determination that she hoped to emulate one day. Then they would rest in a corner – a job well done, after all, and Mrs. M was no stranger to hard work, so she could sympathise with them – and wait till their prey came and sealed their fate on the sticky strands of destiny.

 

Mrs. M liked to watch the little buggers, her friends, slowly wander over their gossamer strands, watch them waltz over gracefully before mummifying their hapless victims alive (and here she would always give a little gasp, although she did like their methods, she had never been too pleased by the idea of being suffocated alive, imagine how it would feel like, the poor darlings). Then came the most fascinating part – she would crouch down, grab a stool perhaps, and look on with the most curious fixation as the spider in question began to devour her prey.

 

It was a long process – but Mrs. M was a very patient woman, and she had all the time in the world to indulge herself.

 

Finally, after her spidery friends (she felt as though the spiders were allowing her to watch their many feasts, it was a kind of sacred invitation, the kind of bond between unlikely friends – and Mrs. M was just absolutely flattered with the attention they gave her, such nice dears) were done, they would crawl back to their corners of the web and engage in a long awaited snooze, just like how she used to slump back to her bed after lunchtime and sleep the afternoon away.

 

But then the spell would break, the realisation that she would see the same spider do the same thing all over again would come crashing down upon her head, and Mrs. M would be sad, she had so dearly loved the little critters.

 

Soon came the hatred – how dare the spiders intrude on her private property, trapping flies and moths and bees and creepy crawlies on her territory, hunting on her grounds! It was so infuriating – if the spiders had perhaps done a little dance along their webs and kindly asked her if they could stay for a week or two, and would their dear hostess be oh so kind to grant them permission, she would have gladly granted their request.

 

But no, all of the tiny little devils had to sneakily spin their webs and lay their traps without that slightest bit of courtesy – and that just wouldn’t do.

 

She would start with the edges of the web first. Mrs. M would watch with the same fascinated fixation as the flames ran along the silky strands and adorned them beautifully. The orange flares flickering marvellously, as they spread out wonderfully along the entire web, an entire umber pattern of the most pleasing shades and hues  - pretty, pretty, pretty.

 

Then the little embers would run along till they met the furry little arachnid that had been her friend for a very, very short time. Mrs. M would frown with displeasure as she watched her old friends squirm in agony, cover her ears as their little screams and squeaks reached her eyes, and finally, even shed a little tear when they were wholly dead, their burnt husks shrivelled to a blackened crisp as they lay motionless on the web.

 

Mrs M. would watch her magnificent creation for a little longer, before extinguishing her handiwork with a small cup of water. Then she would take her broomstick and begin cleaning up the soggy burnt mess, tutting and shaking her head (now there was even water on the floor, how rude could they get) as she went about her work.

 

Mrs. M paused at a corner of the storeroom, and spied with her little eye, a spider, in the process of catching a fly.

 

Grab a stool, maybe a drink.

 

Then the matches, and the water.

 

Oh, and don’t forget the broomstick and the pan.

 

Sweeping, sweeping, sweeping.

 

Cleaning, cleaning, cleaning.

 

Life went on as usual.

 


© Copyright 2018 Leo Cantus. All rights reserved.

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