Every morning at 5:30 Lucy would rise, dress herself and go outside to meet her father in the milking barn. Her father - who had never once insisted, nor insinuated, that she should help him out about the farm - had long stopped being surprised to see her there each day, standing at the door with her little wooden stool and her little tin bucket. Now he just let her get on with it.
In silence she would pitch up next to a cow and milk it until her bucket was about one third full (for this was as much as her five year old frame could carry). She would then take it to her father and leave it next to him without saying a word and return to the cow to pat it and offer it an officious, congratulatory “Good girl.”
Her milking duties complete, she would then go to the chicken coop, take up a scoopful of feed and scatter it about. Her father would feed them properly later - Lucy had no idea about the quantity of feed that chickens need to stay alive - but she would walk around to check that they were all awake and moving about.
It was an unusual sight to see this young girl dressed in wellington boots and waxed jacket mucking in with the chores like any old farm hand. She conducted herself in such a way that, were it not for her size or her youthful face, there was nothing at all to suggest that Lucy was in fact a child. She did not stop to pat the ducks as they gathered around her feet. She did not chase the lambs around the field, or laugh, or point, or call to her father to watch as they clumsily tried to find their feet. Neither the pigs, nor the horses, nor the flapping chickens frightened Lucy; she treated them more as if they were odd-looking colleagues than she did animals.
It filled Lucy’s father with a curious pride, seeing his child at work. To him, it was like having an angel help on his rounds and often was the time that he would stop and wallow in the immeasurable joy these mornings brought him.
Lucy similarly loved working. She loved nature, the large green fields, the early mornings and she loved each and every animal on the farm. Yet, of all these beautiful creatures that she was constantly surrounded by, Lucy’s heart belonged to only one. Misty, her cat.
The family had acquired Misty as a kitten the Christmas before last. Lucy - who was, at that time, three - took to the grey little tabby instantly and would cry and work herself up into the most tremendous tantrums if anybody else tried to play with him.
It would sleep in Lucy’s room in a small basket by her bed and, once the cows had been milked and the chickens fed, Lucy would spend the rest of the morning playing with him, until it was time for school. She would go and then when she returned home later in the afternoon, Lucy would drop her bags down in the kitchen and retire to her room once more to play with Misty.
For hours on end Lucy would sit and and do nothing more than simply brush his coat, running her fingers through his soft, fluffy fur. Afternoons and evenings were whiled away dangling bits of cotton in front of Misty’s nose, watching him jump and catch it in his claws. And, no matter how many times she was caught and scolded by her mother for doing so, Lucy continued to raid the pantry for the richest foods she could find - the goose livers, the smoked kippers and the thick, creamy milk - to feed to him.
It was clear to even the dullest of wits, how much Lucy cared for Misty.
One day, Lucy’s mother was cleaning the shower in the master bathroom when she heard a commotion in the kitchen. The sounds of screeching and crashing pots and pans echoed through house and she called down to check that everything was OK. Lucy called back that she was. Her mother asked her what she was doing. Lucy replied that she was cooking. It wasn’t until the smell began to fill the rooms - a smell like thick, burning hair - that she dropped her cleaning ran to the kitchen.
There she found Lucy, standing on her little wooden stool, trying to peel potatoes with a large carving knife. There was a thin but pungent mist through which her mother could see blood. Blood all down Lucy’s front, all over the work surface, spilling into the sink, all over the floor.
Snatching control of her hands, Lucy’s mother picked her up and checked her once over for wounds. Finding nothing more than a few scratches on her arms and wrists, she shrieked,
“Lucy! What happened?”
Calmly, Lucy replied.
“Misty,” she said pointing the gleaming knife towards to the smoking oven. “He’s ready for the table.”
28 October 2008
23 October 2008
How To Not Kill Yourself (in 12 simple steps)
In order to not kill yourself you will need:
1 shotgun
1 wheelchair
1 or more neighbours with whom you are on good terms
1) Put the barrel of the shotgun into your mouth. For the purpose of not killing yourself, you’ll want to be looking at a good quality, mid-price range shotgun. If in doubt, we believe that you can never go wrong with a 12 gauge, smooth barrel that fires regular bird shot.
2) Clamp your teeth down on the barrel - not so hard that it hurts, but just enough so that you think you have it secured into position. It needs to be in far enough so that the muzzle is in past your teeth, but not so far down your throat that it blocks your airway - you don’t want to choke. Your head should still be able to oscillate freely.
3) You should, at this point, be in your wheelchair. Having lost the use of your legs in a driving accident 18 months ago, you should have been in your wheelchair for a good long time now.
4) Gently rest your thumb on the trigger. As you are pointing the gun on yourself you will be unable to use the traditional forefinger to fire the weapon, and so you will need to use your thumb instead, pushing the trigger away from you rather than pulling it in.
5) Your friend had been driving. He had lied to you about how much he had had to drink that night and you, having had quite the skinful yourself, were in no position to pass or make judgment. You just wanted to get home.
6) You fell asleep in the car and so don’t remember the crash. In fact, when you woke up three days later in the ICU the last thing you can remember is being at a party. You were at a party, you were talking, and drinking, and having a good time and now you can’t move your legs.
7) It is imperative that you DO NOT attempt to saw off any portion of the barrel at any time. It may occur to you, as you struggle with Step 4, that it would be much easier to gain greater purchase on the trigger if you customised the weapon somehow, say by sawing the barrel length. There are a number of reason why a person may decide to do this - to increase the weapon’s manoeuvrability, to ease storage capabilities or to widen the scatter effect of the shot - but for your purposes, for the purpose of not killing yourself, this will only cause a hinderance. In fact, if you are to have any hope of surviving this, you are going to need the barrel to be as long as it possibly can.
If, during the execution of these instructions, this or any similar thought dawns on you then you must cast it from your mind immediately.
8) If it’s any consolation your friend, the driver, died. So often you hear of these stories of intoxicated idiots taking a seat behind the wheel of their car, or van, or truck and causing these epic, pyrotechnic crashes only to emerge from the smouldering wreckage largely unscathed. They, the drivers, end up with nothing worse than a broken collarbone, some token custodial sentence and a lifelong driving ban, while scores of innocent passengers and pedestrians are irreparably maimed and killed. A doctor driving home from a late-night emergency call gets smashed into by a driver so blind drunk he can’t tell the difference between red and green. A distraught eight year old looking for her lost dog in the fields at the back of her house ends up knocked down by somw unexpected bonnet bursting through a hedge because the driver in charge of the car swerved violently off the road to avoid a binbag.
And then these people, they step from their totalled vehicles, survey the damage that they have caused and then they take out their phones and they call the emergency services - not because they’re noble but because they’re that fucking drunk.
These people, they’ll tell you that it’s just as bad as being dead, that it’s worse having to survive and to live with the guilt that comes from paralysing your friend, but there must also be a part of them, however small, that feels invincible, that feels strong and lucky to be alive.
9) Is your thumb in position? In your seated state you’re probably finding this part quite difficult. What you’ll probably need to do at this stage is to twist the trunk of your body (clockwise if you’re using your right thumb; counter-clockwise if you’re using your left). In doing so you should find that your leading shoulder will drop down, significantly extending your reach. For added comfort, you will find that turning your head to whichever side feels natural (again depending on whether you are right or left-handed) will relieve any unnecessary muscular tension.
You should notice that when your thumb finally does make some solid contact with the trigger that the barrel of the shotgun is still pointing straight up towards the ceiling while the top of your skull is now pointing towards one of the room’s four walls.
10) Imagine if he’d survived. There’s not long left, so just think about it quickly. Imagine if he’d survived. What would you have done?
11) Take a deep breath.
12) With whatever force you have in this uncomfortable and unnatural position, thrust you thumb down against the trigger. The shotgun fire should rip through the enamel and flesh of your cheek, missing any of the vital areas of your head, neck and spine. The force of it will knock you back in your chair and leave you unconscious.
Do not worry about calling an ambulance. The noise should alert a neighbours who will, no doubt, call one for you.
1 shotgun
1 wheelchair
1 or more neighbours with whom you are on good terms
1) Put the barrel of the shotgun into your mouth. For the purpose of not killing yourself, you’ll want to be looking at a good quality, mid-price range shotgun. If in doubt, we believe that you can never go wrong with a 12 gauge, smooth barrel that fires regular bird shot.
2) Clamp your teeth down on the barrel - not so hard that it hurts, but just enough so that you think you have it secured into position. It needs to be in far enough so that the muzzle is in past your teeth, but not so far down your throat that it blocks your airway - you don’t want to choke. Your head should still be able to oscillate freely.
3) You should, at this point, be in your wheelchair. Having lost the use of your legs in a driving accident 18 months ago, you should have been in your wheelchair for a good long time now.
4) Gently rest your thumb on the trigger. As you are pointing the gun on yourself you will be unable to use the traditional forefinger to fire the weapon, and so you will need to use your thumb instead, pushing the trigger away from you rather than pulling it in.
5) Your friend had been driving. He had lied to you about how much he had had to drink that night and you, having had quite the skinful yourself, were in no position to pass or make judgment. You just wanted to get home.
6) You fell asleep in the car and so don’t remember the crash. In fact, when you woke up three days later in the ICU the last thing you can remember is being at a party. You were at a party, you were talking, and drinking, and having a good time and now you can’t move your legs.
7) It is imperative that you DO NOT attempt to saw off any portion of the barrel at any time. It may occur to you, as you struggle with Step 4, that it would be much easier to gain greater purchase on the trigger if you customised the weapon somehow, say by sawing the barrel length. There are a number of reason why a person may decide to do this - to increase the weapon’s manoeuvrability, to ease storage capabilities or to widen the scatter effect of the shot - but for your purposes, for the purpose of not killing yourself, this will only cause a hinderance. In fact, if you are to have any hope of surviving this, you are going to need the barrel to be as long as it possibly can.
If, during the execution of these instructions, this or any similar thought dawns on you then you must cast it from your mind immediately.
8) If it’s any consolation your friend, the driver, died. So often you hear of these stories of intoxicated idiots taking a seat behind the wheel of their car, or van, or truck and causing these epic, pyrotechnic crashes only to emerge from the smouldering wreckage largely unscathed. They, the drivers, end up with nothing worse than a broken collarbone, some token custodial sentence and a lifelong driving ban, while scores of innocent passengers and pedestrians are irreparably maimed and killed. A doctor driving home from a late-night emergency call gets smashed into by a driver so blind drunk he can’t tell the difference between red and green. A distraught eight year old looking for her lost dog in the fields at the back of her house ends up knocked down by somw unexpected bonnet bursting through a hedge because the driver in charge of the car swerved violently off the road to avoid a binbag.
And then these people, they step from their totalled vehicles, survey the damage that they have caused and then they take out their phones and they call the emergency services - not because they’re noble but because they’re that fucking drunk.
These people, they’ll tell you that it’s just as bad as being dead, that it’s worse having to survive and to live with the guilt that comes from paralysing your friend, but there must also be a part of them, however small, that feels invincible, that feels strong and lucky to be alive.
9) Is your thumb in position? In your seated state you’re probably finding this part quite difficult. What you’ll probably need to do at this stage is to twist the trunk of your body (clockwise if you’re using your right thumb; counter-clockwise if you’re using your left). In doing so you should find that your leading shoulder will drop down, significantly extending your reach. For added comfort, you will find that turning your head to whichever side feels natural (again depending on whether you are right or left-handed) will relieve any unnecessary muscular tension.
You should notice that when your thumb finally does make some solid contact with the trigger that the barrel of the shotgun is still pointing straight up towards the ceiling while the top of your skull is now pointing towards one of the room’s four walls.
10) Imagine if he’d survived. There’s not long left, so just think about it quickly. Imagine if he’d survived. What would you have done?
11) Take a deep breath.
12) With whatever force you have in this uncomfortable and unnatural position, thrust you thumb down against the trigger. The shotgun fire should rip through the enamel and flesh of your cheek, missing any of the vital areas of your head, neck and spine. The force of it will knock you back in your chair and leave you unconscious.
Do not worry about calling an ambulance. The noise should alert a neighbours who will, no doubt, call one for you.
9 October 2008
Charlie
A wee homage tae Irvine Welsh - radge wee scunner that he is
See, now whit wis ah sayin? Made me lose mah fuckin thread, ya fuckin eejit.
Oh aye, that wis it. The dug.
So Maw wis feelin aw lanely n’that efter Faither died, n ah wisnae livin at hame so she’d ay be on the phone tae me, gripin oan n oan n’that near enough constant, ken? Dinnae get me wrang, ah fuckin love mah Mither an ah’ll fuckin flatten the man wha caws me a poof fir sayin so, but she wis jist greetin on doon tha phone day efter day, so I sez to her, “Ma, why d’ye no goan get yirsel a wee dug tae keep ye company? Take yir mind affay things.”
N she says aye, it wid be jist the fuckin ticket tae huv anither heartbeat roond the hoose, so she goes tae the pound or the kennel or wheriver the fuck ye go tae find a dug - ah dinnae fuckin know - n she finds this wee flea bag, a westie or some shite cawed Charlie. Fuck me, yis should huv seen the puir wee fucker. Owners afore Maw wid fuckin thrash the thing tae within an inchay its puff so it’s aw that this wee mite can dae just tae sit still. Most ay the time it wid shake like a fuckin paint mixer, pishin n shitein fuckin ivrywhere.
But Maw loves the wee cunt, n that’s whit’s important, so whit d’ye dae?
Turns oot - nae fuckin surprise - that the thing wisnae built tae last. It wis a weak-hearted wee soul n it popped its clogs oan her a month or so efter she gets it. Still, cuz of its history n’that, she wants tay gie it a proper send off, ken? Gie it in death whit it couldnae huv in life, n’aw that shite.
So she goes n buys this ceremonial urn thing tae pit its fuckin greasy auld ashes into efter she gets it fuckin flamed at the crem, n get this. The fuckin thing - this urn - is fuckin inscribed wi the wee cunt’s name. Fuckin inscribed! Y’ever hear a thing like it? Inscribed fir fuck’s sake!
The dug gets burned, Maw collects the ashes n then aw the pictures ay us get fuckin sidelined aff ay the mantlepiece tae make way fir this fuckin inscribed urn - n thair it sits, fuckin priday place in tha livin room, fir aw tae see.
Anyway, ah wis roond thair the ither day n some fuckin wee brats come a-knockin fir oor Jamie. Ah telt thum he wisnae in n these wee dossers start lookin at thair fuckin sneakers, like ah wis a disapprovin faither. Ah asked if ah could help thum at aw, n then wanay the aulder wans mumbles “He wis supposed tae be sortin us oot wi a wee bitay gear, ken?” So I seys tae the wee radges, “Come awa in lads. Ah’ve goat just the stuff fir yis.”
Ah walk thum through intae the livin room an ye should huv heard the gasps when they saw wee Charlie’s urn. This scrawny lad, fuckin’ face like the pavement ootside the Rat N Fuckin Parrot oan a Satday night, peeps up n seys “Fuck me! Is that the stash?”
Ah says, “Fuckin right it is. How much can ah pit yis aw doon fir?”
Anither wan, the fuckin treasurer, seys “Wir wantin twenty quid’s worth”
Ah roll mah eyes, gettin into mah part, ken, n sey “Goat a fuckin calculator on ye then, prick? Ah sell by weight, no by net fuckin price.” Glaikit wee fucker’s huvin trouble wi it, so ah explain tae him “Ye dinnae ask a greengrocer for twenty quid’s worthay tatties, ye ask him for a poond an a half. But seein as yer green tae the gemme I’ll tell ye what. Twenty quid works oot about fower grams.”
So ah goan fetch a sandwich bag ootay the kitchen drawer n start spoonin the ashes oot intay it.
Wanay thum - some wee bawheid - starts tryin tae be fuckin Scarface n’that seyin “Thon disnae look much like cocaine tae me” so ah fuckin steps ower tae the wee shite n sey “Whit are ye? Fuckin elevin? Twelve? C’moan pal, dinnae waste mah time. This is what gear looks like afore it gets bleached, ken? Ah cannae be ersed wi’ daein aw that shite masel - ah’ve goat owerheads tae consider - but if yis want tae go elsewhere n pay extra to get yersels some snow white Hollywood gear, by aw means boys, yir more than welcome. But fower grams for a fuckin purple? You willnae get a better price than that wi’oot packin a fuckin pistol, believe you me pal”
“Awright, awright,” he’s goin. “Nae need tae be like that. Ah wis only sayin.”
Aye, fuckin right ye wis only saying, ya radge wee bastard. Ah pit a knot in the bag n chuck it at the treasurer seyin, “Right, noo awa wi yis afore yir ma sees yir no in yir cots,” n the wee fuckers scarper.
Whit did I dae wi the cash? Ah’m gettin tae that part! Fuck’s sake, haud oan!
Then, see, ah’m oan the sofa, this twenty burnin a hole in mah poakit, feelin a wee bit bad fir sellin Ma’s dug’s remains tae kids n’that n ah’m startin tae feel that mebbe mah karma’ll be a bit ootay kilter so I decide tae caw on mah mate Duncan.
Dunc’s burd has this golden lab that went n goat itself knocked up by some fuckin randy auld mutt n had jist recently pished a loaday puppies ontay his kitchen flair. He’s been pullin his hair oot tryin tay offload them ontay some puir fucker ever since they saw the dug’s belly swell - in fact, Dunc wis aw up fir sackin it up n slingin it intay the river, but his missis widnae huv it.
So ah goes ower n thair’s this wee yin sitting therr that aw the ithers keep oan bitin n’that, really fuckin layin intay it, so ah pick it up by the scruffay its neck, bung Dunc a tenner fir his troubles n take it hame fir Maw.
Yir fuckin right it wis a nice thing tae dae, but that’s jist me thru n thru - aw fuckin heart.
Whit did she caw it?
She didnae caw it anythin. Ah named him.
Whit d’ye reckon I cawed it?
Ah cawed it Charlie as weel.
Ah’m no fuckin stupit.
See, now whit wis ah sayin? Made me lose mah fuckin thread, ya fuckin eejit.
Oh aye, that wis it. The dug.
So Maw wis feelin aw lanely n’that efter Faither died, n ah wisnae livin at hame so she’d ay be on the phone tae me, gripin oan n oan n’that near enough constant, ken? Dinnae get me wrang, ah fuckin love mah Mither an ah’ll fuckin flatten the man wha caws me a poof fir sayin so, but she wis jist greetin on doon tha phone day efter day, so I sez to her, “Ma, why d’ye no goan get yirsel a wee dug tae keep ye company? Take yir mind affay things.”
N she says aye, it wid be jist the fuckin ticket tae huv anither heartbeat roond the hoose, so she goes tae the pound or the kennel or wheriver the fuck ye go tae find a dug - ah dinnae fuckin know - n she finds this wee flea bag, a westie or some shite cawed Charlie. Fuck me, yis should huv seen the puir wee fucker. Owners afore Maw wid fuckin thrash the thing tae within an inchay its puff so it’s aw that this wee mite can dae just tae sit still. Most ay the time it wid shake like a fuckin paint mixer, pishin n shitein fuckin ivrywhere.
But Maw loves the wee cunt, n that’s whit’s important, so whit d’ye dae?
Turns oot - nae fuckin surprise - that the thing wisnae built tae last. It wis a weak-hearted wee soul n it popped its clogs oan her a month or so efter she gets it. Still, cuz of its history n’that, she wants tay gie it a proper send off, ken? Gie it in death whit it couldnae huv in life, n’aw that shite.
So she goes n buys this ceremonial urn thing tae pit its fuckin greasy auld ashes into efter she gets it fuckin flamed at the crem, n get this. The fuckin thing - this urn - is fuckin inscribed wi the wee cunt’s name. Fuckin inscribed! Y’ever hear a thing like it? Inscribed fir fuck’s sake!
The dug gets burned, Maw collects the ashes n then aw the pictures ay us get fuckin sidelined aff ay the mantlepiece tae make way fir this fuckin inscribed urn - n thair it sits, fuckin priday place in tha livin room, fir aw tae see.
Anyway, ah wis roond thair the ither day n some fuckin wee brats come a-knockin fir oor Jamie. Ah telt thum he wisnae in n these wee dossers start lookin at thair fuckin sneakers, like ah wis a disapprovin faither. Ah asked if ah could help thum at aw, n then wanay the aulder wans mumbles “He wis supposed tae be sortin us oot wi a wee bitay gear, ken?” So I seys tae the wee radges, “Come awa in lads. Ah’ve goat just the stuff fir yis.”
Ah walk thum through intae the livin room an ye should huv heard the gasps when they saw wee Charlie’s urn. This scrawny lad, fuckin’ face like the pavement ootside the Rat N Fuckin Parrot oan a Satday night, peeps up n seys “Fuck me! Is that the stash?”
Ah says, “Fuckin right it is. How much can ah pit yis aw doon fir?”
Anither wan, the fuckin treasurer, seys “Wir wantin twenty quid’s worth”
Ah roll mah eyes, gettin into mah part, ken, n sey “Goat a fuckin calculator on ye then, prick? Ah sell by weight, no by net fuckin price.” Glaikit wee fucker’s huvin trouble wi it, so ah explain tae him “Ye dinnae ask a greengrocer for twenty quid’s worthay tatties, ye ask him for a poond an a half. But seein as yer green tae the gemme I’ll tell ye what. Twenty quid works oot about fower grams.”
So ah goan fetch a sandwich bag ootay the kitchen drawer n start spoonin the ashes oot intay it.
Wanay thum - some wee bawheid - starts tryin tae be fuckin Scarface n’that seyin “Thon disnae look much like cocaine tae me” so ah fuckin steps ower tae the wee shite n sey “Whit are ye? Fuckin elevin? Twelve? C’moan pal, dinnae waste mah time. This is what gear looks like afore it gets bleached, ken? Ah cannae be ersed wi’ daein aw that shite masel - ah’ve goat owerheads tae consider - but if yis want tae go elsewhere n pay extra to get yersels some snow white Hollywood gear, by aw means boys, yir more than welcome. But fower grams for a fuckin purple? You willnae get a better price than that wi’oot packin a fuckin pistol, believe you me pal”
“Awright, awright,” he’s goin. “Nae need tae be like that. Ah wis only sayin.”
Aye, fuckin right ye wis only saying, ya radge wee bastard. Ah pit a knot in the bag n chuck it at the treasurer seyin, “Right, noo awa wi yis afore yir ma sees yir no in yir cots,” n the wee fuckers scarper.
Whit did I dae wi the cash? Ah’m gettin tae that part! Fuck’s sake, haud oan!
Then, see, ah’m oan the sofa, this twenty burnin a hole in mah poakit, feelin a wee bit bad fir sellin Ma’s dug’s remains tae kids n’that n ah’m startin tae feel that mebbe mah karma’ll be a bit ootay kilter so I decide tae caw on mah mate Duncan.
Dunc’s burd has this golden lab that went n goat itself knocked up by some fuckin randy auld mutt n had jist recently pished a loaday puppies ontay his kitchen flair. He’s been pullin his hair oot tryin tay offload them ontay some puir fucker ever since they saw the dug’s belly swell - in fact, Dunc wis aw up fir sackin it up n slingin it intay the river, but his missis widnae huv it.
So ah goes ower n thair’s this wee yin sitting therr that aw the ithers keep oan bitin n’that, really fuckin layin intay it, so ah pick it up by the scruffay its neck, bung Dunc a tenner fir his troubles n take it hame fir Maw.
Yir fuckin right it wis a nice thing tae dae, but that’s jist me thru n thru - aw fuckin heart.
Whit did she caw it?
She didnae caw it anythin. Ah named him.
Whit d’ye reckon I cawed it?
Ah cawed it Charlie as weel.
Ah’m no fuckin stupit.
5 October 2008
The Eternal Struggle
In a bathroom somewhere, a man sees a spider.
It is fairly sizeable for a domestic spider - its body about the size of fingernail - and, though this man is not particularly afraid of spiders, for the duration of his business there he does not take his eyes from it.
It sits upon a web that it has built for itself in the corner of the windowsill. The web is like a child's drawing - a fairytale snowflake with concentric octagons working their way in towards their creator, the spider.
And there it sits, the king of all it surveys.
Upon closer inspection, this man notices that underneath the spider, underneath the web, there is a similarly sizeable housefly, fluttering its wings. There is something in the way it flutters its wings that suggests to this man that the fly is nervous. That it knows something is afoot. That peril lies ahead.
This man, he watches on as the spider starts to rub one of its back legs up and down, like it is slowly working out an itch. Despite not knowing the first thing about arachnid hunting rituals, somehow he knows that this is not a good sign. He sees the spider preparing to pounce and the poor snared fly, with all of its huge, glimmering eyes, staring at the hungry jaws of doom.
A pang of sympathy strikes this man. Ordinarily he would not have thought of himself as the kind of person who would ever find himself concerned about the welfare of a common housefly, much less the kind of person who would actively go out of his way to try to save the life of one, but now here he was, hatching a plan to do just that.
The spider stops moving its leg, stops moving all together. It sits on its web, as still as can be, and looks down at this shivering fly. How cruel, the man thinks, for the spider to taunt the fly in such a manner. It's no wonder that people hate spiders if this is how they choose to conduct themselves.
This man, he knows what to do.
He will twist the handle of the window, apply gentle pressure to the pane and pop the whole thing open. The threads of the web, they will snap and they will fall. The fly, far from being trapped, will now have whole wide world to escape to and the spider - the proud, smug spider - will fall to the ground and be left with nothing.
No prey, no home, no hope.
That will teach it.
This man, his hand is on the handle and he is all but a wrist's twist away from putting his plan into action but suddenly he is struck by a thought.
How exactly had this fly got itself into such a precarious position?
Surely it's not possible that it could have flown in between the sticky strands of gossamer without catching a wing or a leg? Because if it had managed to execute such a flawless display of aeronautical ability and successfully navigate its way through the web then it stands to reason that the fly should be able get itself back out again.
And even if it couldn't, was that any reason to save the sorry little pest now? Wasn’t it the fly’s own stupid fault that it had got itself into a scrape it couldn't get out of? It was like those morons you read about who try to scale Everest in trainers and bumbags, who end up forcing emergency rescue teams to risk their lives in mortally treacherous conditions to come and save their worthless hides.
Or worse, and probably more likely, was that the fly had been standing in that position all the while that the web was formed around it, and it was either too stupid or too lazy to move when it saw the spider starting construction.
Really, how fast can a spider move?
And don't think for a second that this man will fall for the old 'kindness of strangers' gag either. Granted, spiders aren't the most active of hunters and flies don't live long enough to ever become wise, but even so. If the fly has the audacity to try to play it naïve, say that it had no idea that the spider was out to harm it, that it thought the spider was putting a roof over its head, then this man will kill it himself.
His thoughts turn to the spider, sitting upon the house that it has built for itself with its own blood, sweat and tears - or whatever juices that spiders excrete in place of blood, sweat and tears - and was now ready to enjoy the nice, square meal that it so rightly deserves after a hard day of honest toil.
Besides, flies are what spiders eat. Who is he to stop a spider from catching his daily feed? This man would certainly have something to say if somebody tore his house to the ground simply because of his dietary requirements.
And maybe there's a family. Maybe this spider is the mother or the father of a nest of little baby spiders. He thinks of all these tiny crawlers, the thousands and thousands of little eyes between them all blinking hungrily, all waiting for their hunter-gatherer parent to come home and feed them. The waiting turns to impatience, which turns to hunger, to anger, to desperation, to weakness and then, finally, to death.
Still, the fly, shivering and scared, looks so haunted and helpless. It’s been stupid and careless. Is that any reason to let it die?
Look at it. It knows it's been stupid. It know it’s been stupid and it’s sorry. It'll change its ways. It promises. It’s been stupid and selfish and it doesn’t want to live like this any more.
Really. It won't take anything for granted ever again. It'll be a better parent; a more considerate lover. It'll help out more in the community. Give it a chance to turn itself around. In a year his name will be revered in any circle you can care to think of, just you see if it isn't.
Come on. It's not as if it has ever asked for anything from you before. Just this one favour. Please.
Please.
His business concluded, this man buttons himself up.
He has made up his mind.
He opens the mirrored bathroom cabinet and retrieves a can of his wife's hairspray.
Clasping the thumb and forefinger of his left hand tight against his nostrils, and using his right hand to aim the can at the web he squeezes a firm forefinger down hard on the nozzle.
As this chemical storm rains down upon them, both the spider and the fly panic and make unwise reactionary movements.
The spider loses its footing and starts to scrabble on the wires of its web, frantically trying to stay upright as the gale force aerosol blasts past it. The spray burns cold against its body and pushes it flat against the net.
The fly shakes and shivers in violent fits and spasms; its wings flapping, its feet firmly in place.
Neither try to run but, as the hairspray starts to set, slowing their jolts and their thrashes, they keep trying to move until, gradually, they fall still. Stuck fast.
This man, he keeps squirting the spray on them until his finger starts to hurt. Drifts of substance have formed up against the sill which bubble and flatten and fade to leave a varnished sheen on the window’s surface. In their wake they leave the two creatures, both cased in body casts
He wonders if they are both still alive.
They are.
They are looking around and down at their limbs, and wondering why they are so suddenly paralyzed. Coated like candied apples, their eyes still seeing, their hearts still beating. They are bugs in amber trapped before their time. They are still very much there.
And they will still be there long after they have died. Long after their insides have turned to dust and have been blown away; when all that remains are the hollow husks of their bodies, dried and bleached by the sun. They will still be there, locked in this position.
The spider, sitting on his web, king of all he surveys.
The fly, cowering beneath, awaiting the inevitable.
It is fairly sizeable for a domestic spider - its body about the size of fingernail - and, though this man is not particularly afraid of spiders, for the duration of his business there he does not take his eyes from it.
It sits upon a web that it has built for itself in the corner of the windowsill. The web is like a child's drawing - a fairytale snowflake with concentric octagons working their way in towards their creator, the spider.
And there it sits, the king of all it surveys.
Upon closer inspection, this man notices that underneath the spider, underneath the web, there is a similarly sizeable housefly, fluttering its wings. There is something in the way it flutters its wings that suggests to this man that the fly is nervous. That it knows something is afoot. That peril lies ahead.
This man, he watches on as the spider starts to rub one of its back legs up and down, like it is slowly working out an itch. Despite not knowing the first thing about arachnid hunting rituals, somehow he knows that this is not a good sign. He sees the spider preparing to pounce and the poor snared fly, with all of its huge, glimmering eyes, staring at the hungry jaws of doom.
A pang of sympathy strikes this man. Ordinarily he would not have thought of himself as the kind of person who would ever find himself concerned about the welfare of a common housefly, much less the kind of person who would actively go out of his way to try to save the life of one, but now here he was, hatching a plan to do just that.
The spider stops moving its leg, stops moving all together. It sits on its web, as still as can be, and looks down at this shivering fly. How cruel, the man thinks, for the spider to taunt the fly in such a manner. It's no wonder that people hate spiders if this is how they choose to conduct themselves.
This man, he knows what to do.
He will twist the handle of the window, apply gentle pressure to the pane and pop the whole thing open. The threads of the web, they will snap and they will fall. The fly, far from being trapped, will now have whole wide world to escape to and the spider - the proud, smug spider - will fall to the ground and be left with nothing.
No prey, no home, no hope.
That will teach it.
This man, his hand is on the handle and he is all but a wrist's twist away from putting his plan into action but suddenly he is struck by a thought.
How exactly had this fly got itself into such a precarious position?
Surely it's not possible that it could have flown in between the sticky strands of gossamer without catching a wing or a leg? Because if it had managed to execute such a flawless display of aeronautical ability and successfully navigate its way through the web then it stands to reason that the fly should be able get itself back out again.
And even if it couldn't, was that any reason to save the sorry little pest now? Wasn’t it the fly’s own stupid fault that it had got itself into a scrape it couldn't get out of? It was like those morons you read about who try to scale Everest in trainers and bumbags, who end up forcing emergency rescue teams to risk their lives in mortally treacherous conditions to come and save their worthless hides.
Or worse, and probably more likely, was that the fly had been standing in that position all the while that the web was formed around it, and it was either too stupid or too lazy to move when it saw the spider starting construction.
Really, how fast can a spider move?
And don't think for a second that this man will fall for the old 'kindness of strangers' gag either. Granted, spiders aren't the most active of hunters and flies don't live long enough to ever become wise, but even so. If the fly has the audacity to try to play it naïve, say that it had no idea that the spider was out to harm it, that it thought the spider was putting a roof over its head, then this man will kill it himself.
His thoughts turn to the spider, sitting upon the house that it has built for itself with its own blood, sweat and tears - or whatever juices that spiders excrete in place of blood, sweat and tears - and was now ready to enjoy the nice, square meal that it so rightly deserves after a hard day of honest toil.
Besides, flies are what spiders eat. Who is he to stop a spider from catching his daily feed? This man would certainly have something to say if somebody tore his house to the ground simply because of his dietary requirements.
And maybe there's a family. Maybe this spider is the mother or the father of a nest of little baby spiders. He thinks of all these tiny crawlers, the thousands and thousands of little eyes between them all blinking hungrily, all waiting for their hunter-gatherer parent to come home and feed them. The waiting turns to impatience, which turns to hunger, to anger, to desperation, to weakness and then, finally, to death.
Still, the fly, shivering and scared, looks so haunted and helpless. It’s been stupid and careless. Is that any reason to let it die?
Look at it. It knows it's been stupid. It know it’s been stupid and it’s sorry. It'll change its ways. It promises. It’s been stupid and selfish and it doesn’t want to live like this any more.
Really. It won't take anything for granted ever again. It'll be a better parent; a more considerate lover. It'll help out more in the community. Give it a chance to turn itself around. In a year his name will be revered in any circle you can care to think of, just you see if it isn't.
Come on. It's not as if it has ever asked for anything from you before. Just this one favour. Please.
Please.
His business concluded, this man buttons himself up.
He has made up his mind.
He opens the mirrored bathroom cabinet and retrieves a can of his wife's hairspray.
Clasping the thumb and forefinger of his left hand tight against his nostrils, and using his right hand to aim the can at the web he squeezes a firm forefinger down hard on the nozzle.
As this chemical storm rains down upon them, both the spider and the fly panic and make unwise reactionary movements.
The spider loses its footing and starts to scrabble on the wires of its web, frantically trying to stay upright as the gale force aerosol blasts past it. The spray burns cold against its body and pushes it flat against the net.
The fly shakes and shivers in violent fits and spasms; its wings flapping, its feet firmly in place.
Neither try to run but, as the hairspray starts to set, slowing their jolts and their thrashes, they keep trying to move until, gradually, they fall still. Stuck fast.
This man, he keeps squirting the spray on them until his finger starts to hurt. Drifts of substance have formed up against the sill which bubble and flatten and fade to leave a varnished sheen on the window’s surface. In their wake they leave the two creatures, both cased in body casts
He wonders if they are both still alive.
They are.
They are looking around and down at their limbs, and wondering why they are so suddenly paralyzed. Coated like candied apples, their eyes still seeing, their hearts still beating. They are bugs in amber trapped before their time. They are still very much there.
And they will still be there long after they have died. Long after their insides have turned to dust and have been blown away; when all that remains are the hollow husks of their bodies, dried and bleached by the sun. They will still be there, locked in this position.
The spider, sitting on his web, king of all he surveys.
The fly, cowering beneath, awaiting the inevitable.
2 October 2008
From The Seat Of Your Car
You can hardly believe what you’re watching. It’s as if your windscreen was a television set.
As you sit at this junction, your indicator still clicking as you wait to pull out safely, a messy crowd of paramedics and bystanders forms in front of you - all huddled around a twisted heap of bicycle.
You sat and watched it all: the bus clipping her front wheel; the humiliating struggle she had put up with her handlebars, like she was trying to control an errant pneumatic drill; the good Samaritan who tried to help move her to safety but accidentally snapped her frail wrist putting her in the recovery position.
And you know how ridiculous this sounds but you could swear that as they wheel the old lady, broken and barely conscious, into the back of the ambulance, she has weakly lifted her head to turn to face you directly and, with her wet, grey eyes, she is saying to you:
I know that it was not you who knocked me down, but you sure as hell did not pick me back up again.
It’s in that moment that you realise what you have done, and what you have failed to do, is something altogether worse.
As you sit at this junction, your indicator still clicking as you wait to pull out safely, a messy crowd of paramedics and bystanders forms in front of you - all huddled around a twisted heap of bicycle.
You sat and watched it all: the bus clipping her front wheel; the humiliating struggle she had put up with her handlebars, like she was trying to control an errant pneumatic drill; the good Samaritan who tried to help move her to safety but accidentally snapped her frail wrist putting her in the recovery position.
And you know how ridiculous this sounds but you could swear that as they wheel the old lady, broken and barely conscious, into the back of the ambulance, she has weakly lifted her head to turn to face you directly and, with her wet, grey eyes, she is saying to you:
I know that it was not you who knocked me down, but you sure as hell did not pick me back up again.
It’s in that moment that you realise what you have done, and what you have failed to do, is something altogether worse.
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