Arachnophobes need not apply

Here is a short story that I got the idea for yesterday and wanted to get out before it left my mind. Arachnophobes need not apply. Just be careful when you next time see a normal, harmless house spider. It may be more than you think.

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Naked he looked at himself in the mirror and posed, sticking his chest out. The gym sessions were getting him there, the ladies would love him. He stuck his tongue out at the reflection, who dared to do the same back, and glanced at the corner of the roof. There was a small hole in the ceiling and the more he stared at it the more he got a feeling that something was watching him. The tiny hole seemed to grow bigger, darkness oozing from it. He stared longer and a small brown spider crept out. It had a white stripe on it, almost like a racing stripe he mused with a chuckle as the spider waved its fore limbs in the air. It was a common house spider; it would not bother him. He walked the few feet to the bath and dipped one toe into the water; though he aimed one toe half his foot got wet. Lowering the rest of the foot he suppressed a shudder as the warm water sent a rush of heat through him. He stood on the foot now submerged under the water and leaned against the wall with one hand and daintily lifted the dry foot off the floor submerging it into the steamy warm water, this time shivering a little at the ecstasy of heat. Standing for a minute he swished one foot through the water, letting it swirl around his ankles. And slowly he lowered himself down into a squat pushing his feet forward, holding onto the side of the bath. He fell back with a splash and a thump as his feet slipped out from under him. Luckily it was a short fall. Spluttering he sat up and blinked the water out of his eyes, he laughed, it seemed that this time the bathtub had won the round. He settled in and stretched his legs towards the end of the bathtub and turned on the tap set in the wall. More hot water gurgled into the bath and he sighed as the warmth rushed through his whole body. It was ecstasy.

He closed his eyes and started humming a song, his head moving side to side with the tune in his head. Up above him the small spider walked across the roof slowly, tasting the air. Then it scurried forward, its eight, jointed legs moving almost soundlessly across the white plasterboard. It reached the cornice and slowly extended one leg carefully testing the bump between the ceiling and cornice. After a minute it climbed over the small bump onto the cornice and hurried down the wall. The man still lazed in his bath, humming to himself. The spider stopped as an ant crawled out of a thin crack in the wall. The hunter crouched, its body utterly still. Ants were crafty prey, and fast on the uptake.
The brown spider thrust out and half of its body jettisoned forward, its two front legs grabbing as its body slammed into the poor ant. The mighty black fangs sank into the hard chitin and injected its poison into the struggling victim. Tonight was important work and it would need the energy. Ten seconds later the ant was nothing more than a husk, which the spider stuffed back into the crack its victim had crawled out of. Four globular spider eyes stared down and watched the man in the bath. As the black depths examined the world below it a slim crack appeared above its two front eyes. If the spider had not been so small the man would have heard an audible crack as slowly a fifth eye opened; unlike the other four this one swirled in a milky white fluid which ran from the eye down the spider’s head and slowly made a viscous path along the clean bathroom wall. The spider twitched, its hairy legs shook as if in anticipation. Its fangs slid in and out slowly and in again. The now five eyes stared out from its bulbous head, the man below the spider half-asleep and completely oblivious to the small brown and racing stripe white spider above him. The spider waited a full minute before moving again but this time its body moved in a creaking fashion. Its legs jerked forward like an epileptic’s hand in seizure as the spider walked down the wall. It reached the end of its climb where the bathtub slotted into the recess against the wall. The spider now moved faster and made its creaky way to the back of the tub where the man’s head lounged against the rim. His eyes were still closed and the humming had stopped. The spider moved slowly towards the rim of the bathtub and scuttled closer to the man’s head. Closer it crept, its hairy body shivering now constantly, small movements that jerked it left and right. But its legs remained deathly still except for its careful march forwards. It reached the rim of the bathtub where the man’s head lay. The small brown forelegs caressed the hair gently like some obscene lover. It drew back its forelegs and its whole body went still, back legs bent to jump. 
And then the man sat up in his bath.

The spider seemed to freeze as if dumbfounded then it swayed to and fro in agitation. Its prey was no longer in front of it, he had moved. If the spider had been human it would have sworn in anger but its black eyes just glared in front of it, the fifth milky widened with a creak. It widened so much that the hairy flesh of the spider pulled away from its edges, showing the red and black underneath. The man was whistling now, a jaunty tune he had heard on the radio. He was missing something… The facecloth, he had missed picking up the facecloth... again. He half turned to get it on the floor next to the low tub. And SMACK! An angry spider flew into his face. Gagging and half screaming in fear, he raised his hands to brush whatever had flown into his face. The spider’s back undulated and moved as four more legs unfolded, four extra legs even longer than its normal ones; four legs all tipped with tiny black points dripping with the same white viscous goo as its extra eye. The points flew straight as the man’s hands neared the spider. Four points punctured the face the spider was standing on. The man screamed, a harsh almost pig like sound.
Then stopped.

His arms fell limply back into the water. The spider hugged closer against the man’s flesh, its eight normal legs splayed out to grip crevices in the man’s skin. Slowly one of the four new limbs flexed in the man’s face and the man’s left arm slowly lifted then went back down. Another limb shifted and the other arm lifted itself; though this one moved towards the spider and stroked its back gently and then fell back down where it thumped against the edge of the bathtub.
The spider shivered in ecstasy much in the same way the man had when he had entered the bath. Slowly the four black-edged legs withdrew, milky white fluid seeping from the bloodless wounds in the man’s slack face and the eight hairy legs drew themselves in. The spider rode the falling body as it slumped backwards into the water, the head bouncing against the rim with a crack. The spider launched itself as the head bounced and landed back on the wall and walked sedately back to its hole.

Darkness in fact did flow from that hole, a living darkness and the spider daintily made its way back into that dark hole. Its young would feast well.

If it had been human an evil smile would have crawled across its face, it was not human. But the equivalence of a smile flashed through its mind as the fifth eye closed with a snap. 

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Remember to keep writing, like Neil Gaiman says "Create good art." 

Oh so English

This is something I was sent by a friend who is a big fan of Steven Fry and the show QI. For anyone who does not know Steven Fry is a British comedian / actor / writer / show host and many other things besides; and QI is a show where interesting facts, and often outright lies, are told in a game show style format. Do yourself a favour and watch QI if you can.

Otherwise here is what I was sent. It is a very English rant (be warned about language use) but it does serve to underscore the use of language and just how powerful English can be when used to such an extent. Steven Fry is a very eloquent speaker.

I do realise that this does not really have anything to do with the writing process but it does have something to do with the English language, even if it is "uncouth" (I know that is an old word that will leave many shaking their heads in bemusement.)

Keep at it and trust your imagination, it knows what it is doing out there.

Top Hats

I want to share two ideas that have percolated in my brain for the last few days or so. No nothing that bad, it is not a recipe for things seen in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (Whenever I hear the word doom nowadays I hear Cespenar [Anyone remember that imp?] going “Dooom. Heh. Hindo’s Doooooooom.” – just me?) … So there will be no monkey brain soup or hot Indian curry recipes. But they are concepts that I want to use and take further.


The first idea I got was the idea of Dead Man’s Iron. It started with the idea that often in older tales of fey creatures or faeries, like elves, iron could hurt them. So I had the idea to take it one step further. Why just plain old regular iron? I am sure creatures such as elves and fairies would have encountered iron in one form or another and since it exists in a natural ore state it would not really be so poisonous. And I doubt the sudden smelting process turns it into the Awesome Death Stick of Death! And Stuff! … I might need to work on this title.

I got the idea for Dead Man’s Iron.

The idea came about when I asked myself “How do you try and kill an Elven King? “ Yes you can walk up to him and stab him with any pointy object but that is rather bland. “Here lies the great and powerful Elf King, killed by a pointy stick.” But if it read more “Here lies the Elf King, killed by Dead Man’s Iron, his heart pierced by dead hands.” It does sound a little better the second time around.

 

So I can hear you gnashing your teeth and saying “What is this stuff already?” well Dead Man’s Iron is an iron implement that has been buried with someone that was murdered and buried on un-consecrated ground. This grave has to lie for one hundred years before the iron item can be dug up and used as Dead Man’s Iron. Basically the residual energy of the departed poisons the iron and over the century of its internment it becomes an item of woe and bitter grief. It is this grief and cold energy that now infuses the blade that attacks the core of fey creatures associated with nature and life. So in essence the dead person kills whoever gets stabbed by the weight of their death. “… His heart pierced by dead hands.” is a little apt in this instance.
 

The other idea I got was that of a carnival. Yes one with lights and spinning rides and arguing parents and lovers strolling arm in arm. But at the same time it is not run by some mysterious gypsy or benevolent ringmaster with a too tall top hat.

But one run by dark creatures. So instead of valorous dwarves holding the line against invading orcs, you have red caps, otherwise known as powries or dunters in old Scottish and English tales. These dwarves wear red berets that they must constantly stain the in the blood of their victims to survive. Or dark elves, masters of dark fey magic, not ones skipping in the sun kissed meadows but ones that will light a smoke in a dark alley and pickpocket the two gnomes walking past. Yet it is not an evil place. It is inhabited by lost people, those who have given up on life and run away. Often they find their way to the carnival; it has dark fey living in it, because it means a safe home; and also people who just want to get away from life. So the dark carnival beckons them and brings many of these people together. Do not get me wrong, piss the inhabitants off and you might find the dwarfish ticket sales-man is a bloody red cap. The funny small man you laughed at is now shanking your kidneys, which just happens to be the perfect height for him to look at.
 

So yes, a carnival that is still very traditional with jugglers and entertainers and magic; and a touch of the circus with animals and high-wire artists and clowns. But do not now think that the clown with the elven ears will be nice and kind when you try and steal form the orphan girl who is selling candied apples.


A word of caution though, such places might exist. So if you ever do go to a carnival do not make the denizens angry…

Fingers for Sale

Too many other commitments have kept me away from here; a situation I plan to remedy. But be that as it may my sordid other life is not exactly the topic in discussion here.

So with that I want to share one or two items with people out there.

1) This is Amanda Palmer's lovely and passionate TED Talk (If you have not heard it yet now is your chance.) She talks about the idea of asking and mentions her uber-successful Kickstarter she ran for her solo album. Yes this is the same Amanda Palmer married to Neil Gaiman, everybody’s favourite all black wearing author. J And yes that is a flower in her hand.

2) This is a really cool post by Brent Weeks (author of the Night  Angel Trilogy) about the art of writing and gives a few tips on the basics, I say a few tips but it goes over 600 well worth reading words:
http://www.brentweeks.com/extras/writing-advice/1-general-writing-advice/

He gives good guidelines and ideas. So check him out and check out the Night Angel Trilogy, it is also well worth the read (are you still sitting there? Go! Go get it!)

Otherwise keep it real and do not forget to put pen to paper or fingers to keyboards (no not actual fingers you find lying around - your own, still attached to your hand) and keep writing.

Oh and if you are using random fingers lying around, find an Igor to sew them back on or keep them for later. Or sell them, maybe some despot somewhere is looking for fingers for his International Finger Collection to win at the next Evil Leaders/Masterminds Conference in July this year... You never know...