The Spider

A young girl trembles as she gazes down the side street. The poorly lit alley offers many hiding places, that, in the day, would intrigue her, but in the night, sends half-formed fears through her mind. She knows she shouldn’t, that it would be better to go around by streetlamp and be late than to pass this way. But she’s dared it before, and besides the thrill of the shadows, and the shriek she lets go when a small creature runs across her path, she’s come through unharmed. So, with a deep breath, extra adrenaline, and a subconscious sense of security, she takes the first step of a path that will lead her home. Each deep shadow gave her a shiver, and she scrutinized each corner and bump as she fearfully tiptoed past. Behind her, from a dark she’d passed, a form grew and slithered up to her. A scuff, a turn, a glint of light off the syringe, a half smothered scream, and the young girl tripped over and fell. She tried to crabwalk backward, to get some distance for her to stand, but her arms weren’t as strong as she’d hoped. He watched her, noted the beginnings of the sluggishness that would eventually overcome her and went back to his hole to set his used needle down. As he approached her, she tried to call out, “help,” her throat already restricting. Smiling, he knelt down, and watched her. She continued to try to crawl away, but her muscle control was deteriorating quickly. After a few minutes, he moved nearer, grasping one of her arms to keep her from moving further. She gasped as he pushed her hair away from her face and quietly shushed her. “Don’t be afraid. In a few minutes, you won’t be able to feel anything. Shh, let it take over, shh.” Eventually, all she could sluggishly move were her eyes, which stayed wide, showing the panic she was otherwise unable to express. Then gently, lovingly, he cocooned her in a warm blanket, and carried her back into his lair.

The Pen

The pen calls me, and I,
its humble servant, answer.
It commands, I obey.
It leads, I follow.
It bleeds on the page,
and it is my duty to ensure
that its life is not wasted.
When it is finished with me,
the pen begs me with its
final breath to sign my
name on the work.
I am unworthy.
I was only the instrument used.