[creative writing, story-time, free flow just flowin’]

I made the very Jainish decision to not kill a spider in my living room.

This was a few months ago. She was relatively big, which is why I spotted her in the first place, but she also seemed relatively harmless. A lover, not a fighter. She was a respectful housemate at first. She’d stick to her corner of the room, spending her days neatly weaving a webby home, with a webby sofa, and some webby kitchen-sinks, and all sorts of other webby appliances spiders enjoy having. She lived by my window, prime-time views of my busy street below. Sometimes I’d wonder if she was aware of the human happenings outside, even, amused. Does she also roll her eyes at the postmen who misread ‘fragile’ stickers as ‘you’re at a Greek wedding! QUICK! I’m a plate! SMASH ME!’ stickers? Does she heckle the teenage boy who keeps trying to pick open my mailbox? ‘You’re so close! You can almost smell the electricity bills and council notices!’ Her spidey legs high-fiving themselves over this well-placed witty remark. Wait, does she know who stole my bike tyres? Does she judge me every time another uber delivery driver buzzes my door? Does she, and all eight of her eyes, cast a disappointed glare my way when I walk into the living room with another brown and slightly soggy bag?

Anyway. I’ve let her sublease the corner.

Not for any sentimental, personal, or religious reason, but for biology ones. Yep, biology, science. Real salt of the earth, self-sufficient bio-farming, food-chain kind of stuff. You see, recently, I’ve become quite aware of a fly problem in my small one-bedroom apartment. Melbourne spring has arrived, ahoy! Open up the windows! Let the gentle smell of jasmine, the tender touch of peonies, and the hordes of shit-obsessed flies come in! Buzzing hours of fun for the cats! My two precious, and I mean won’t survive a day in the suburban streets of Melbourne kind of precious, Burmese cats looooove it. Every so often you’ll see them spontaneously combust. They’ll be sauntering down the corridor when suddenly, overcome, they’ll randomly launch into the air kick-flipping, back-slipping, 360 KO-twisting combo move moving. It’s fun for the whole family! But how do I put it? The boys are, well, useless when it comes to their original purpose and evolutionary survival strategies.

Thus, I knew, soft paws aimlessly slapping about won’t put an end to an army of flies’ intent on maggot-making. I had to choose alliance over violence. Spidey friend, it’s you and me. You catch the flies, I pay your rent. We signed a contract and shook on it, me with my two human hands and her with all five spidey bits.

At first, it was great. Call it the honeymoon phase, if you will. Weeks went by, and fly after fly flopped their little fly bodies onto her webby doorstep. Her belly stayed full, and my ego grew. Ego in an ego-eco-friendly-life-hack genius kind of way. Vainglorious, and a little bit smug. I’d stroke my chin, gaze out the window, and ponder if I had just solved the world’s fly problem. Just get a spider! So SIMPLE! So COOL! Why hasn’t earth figured this out yet?

The deal was good. Until, it wasn’t.

One cosy spring afternoon, I noticed my spider’s webby home had welcomed a webby friend. From whence this man doth come, I know not. In fact, I don’t really want to know which oily globulous pit of hell he spawned from.

I suddenly feel a deep kinship with my mother. I’m sure this feeling wasn’t unlike something she experienced when pimply tween me brought home sweaty red-faced tween boys. Then we’d go upstairs, set up a LAN party, and ask her to bring us biscuits. I empathise, and I digress.

This spider special friend was a baddie, I’m sure, but he was also a distraction. Her web weaving slowed, almost stopping entirely. Flies and their young were left to live free and abundant lives, inside my cats food. She’d spend hours musing, journaling, drawing hearts. She’d lean on her front twenty legs, sigh, and wistfully ask a rubber etched with ‘yes’ and ‘no’ on each side whether he loved her.

Fine, I thought. I’ll let it slide.

Until, one fateful day, he wandered a little too far from the corner. I’m sure he made her happy, but I’ve got boundaries. With that, I flicked up a book in a very non-Jain way, and there he stayed – immortalised, pressed against the roof. A flag of death, a reminder to all other weary webby wanderers.

Ps. Before you judge me, just remember, she would’ve eaten him shortly anyway. I just sped up the process and saved him the emotional betrayal.

My spider needed to stay busy. She was not to be distracted by boys. She was a craftswoman, an entrepreneur. Her webby motel needed a glowing NO VACANCY sign. (Or as my German speaking father would say, ‘NO FAKANCY!’) And her lovers body glowed green: ‘NO FAKANCY.‘

*Editors note: oh my god, was that way too dark? LOL. I don’t know what i’m saying*

But too little, too late. She sought her revenge through a million tiny vengeances.

I have become aware of some tickles, scurries, and shadows. A quick dash of something darting across my pink (or as the seller said, no, darling, not pink, almond, darling) couch. I don’t have to see the conjuring to know how this plays out. I don’t see them, but I know it’s a trillion baby spiders calling my name from the wardrobe. I’ve felt something on my toes. I’ve flinched, lifted pillows, smacked blankets – nothing. Their presence is subtle, like a lingering smell a couple of minutes after the original creator of said smell ‘had’ to leave the room under mysterious circumstances. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

I’ve thought about calling in the hot shots of this whole bug scene, the Mr. Pest Controls. Mr. Pest Control Sr., and all of his sons and cousins who’ve taken over the family business.

I’ve imagined them rocking up to my 1960’s brick unit complex, stepping out of their machine green, unnecessarily military grade vans, clad in premium I’m-here-to-fuck-spiders gear, holding spider-smesh sticks. I imagine them with their emergency service ladders planted against my aged building, heroically scaling up the wobbly frames all the way to the top floor.

*Editors note: My building has two floors.*

Their gas-masks tighten, they fumigate the area, thousands of spiders flood through the windows, bursting through every crack and crevice. My ceiling bends and bellows, giving way to even MORE baby spiders! HOLY SHIT! It’s the end times! It’s Area 51! Call your loved ones!

Buuuut, there’s a very real possibility that Mr. Pest Control and Co will come to my house and find nothing. As I previously mentioned, the baby spiders presence is like being gaslight, it’s enough to make you crazy but also make you wonder if you’re the problem.

It’s like an apparition lying dormant until you’re slumped on the couch, finally at home, vulnerable, pleasantly naked, indulging in some well-earned Indian Matchmaking (source: Netflix), and then: ready, steady, SCURRY.

This is probably how it would actually go if I called Mr. Pest Control and Co.

EXT. A NORMAL HOUSE – DAY

A machine green military grade van with yellow branding spelling ‘PEST CONTROL SERVICES’ is parked outside. Mr. Pest Control SR and Co. enter the building, and very normally at an average pace walk up the stairs toward the second floor.

ROGSY
Thank god you’re here. There are random spiders that keep appearing. I manage to kill a few, then I don’t see them for a while, but they come back!

Mr. Pest Control and Co. survey the area slowly, with very little concern, heart, or will. Mr. Pest Control’s youngest son yawns, checks his phone, and swipes right on a girl from Hinge.

MR. PEST CONTROL SR
Don’t see nothing.

ROGSY
I swear, they come and go. They are here though.

MR. PEST CONTROL SR
(With a southern drawl)
And you say you’re a lady?

ROGSY
(Startled)
Oh, um. As in, am I a woman?

Mr. Pest Control SR nods, chewing a piece of hay. His youngest son shows the eldest brother his phone. They high-five. A cousin walks past the screen, lighting up a cigarette.

ROGSY
(Hesitantly)
How is this relevan-

MR. PEST CONTROL SR
(Cutting off Rogsy)
Ah yes. That makes sense.

ROGSY
Excuse me?

Mr. Pest Control SR leans on Rogsys’ table. One hand on his hip, and smiles. Pleased with himself.

MR. PEST CONTROL SR
This be a common thing, round these parts. Hysteria, them lady type. Y’see, women are irrationally scared of spiders. It’s gods decision to make em’ that way. Part of them biological D N A. Dream ‘em up when they just ain’t here.

The cousin walks back into frame, leans over to the sons looking at the hinge profile. Commotion begins.

COUSIN
(Yells, aghast)
Pamela?!

Okay. I don’t know what just happened. Nor do I know why Mr. Pest Control and Co started off as a western ‘burb family business, only to transforming into a redneck, and then back to uh- Pamela? But alas, this is the picture I conjure for you.

Anyway. I can acknowledge that got weird.

In short. I’m unsure what to do, and frankly, I’m a little nervous about lifting the couch. I am, as Mr. Pest Control Sr. would say, a woman afflicted by the Afraid. What cash-deals has my spider friend been doing outside of our contract? How many babies has she got living here? Is she mad at me? It’s a question for now, but an answer for another day.

I live with the consequences of my actions. My home teeming again with flies. My lesson here is:

Don’t do it. Just smack that spider, and close your windows. There’s a reason we invented bug spray.

And, right on cue, just saw one ready, steady, scurry.  

And my cats, once again, useless.