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The Spider

There's a spider. Not a very big one, but a spider nonetheless, and it knows it's being watched. Its legs are arched ready to flee, and yet it is as still as if it does not live at all. Spiders know things about life that they can not tell. Staring intensely at them, as is the way of the arachnophobe, does not bring the answers, only greater fear. This spider understands these things and would smirk if it could.

It chances a sidestep left, towards a ridge, perhaps part of the pattern, perhaps air trapped between the autographed plaster and the paper itself. It can not bring enough darkness to conceal, and the spider realises that all it has achieved is to bring greater attention to itself. Its legs crouch tight to the small hairy mass of body, it hopes it can jump, and again takes sanctuary in the knowledge that it is safe, for the observer is truly paralysed.

Now it extends those legs over the ridge and makes a run for it, the whole length of the wall, but not in one effort. It pauses from time to time to look for hiding places closer than the corner of the room. It is an immense space, draped with greenery, where many foes lurk, knowing what they know. But this wall is an expanse, naked and permanently luminated by various sources: the overhead light (another enemy hides there); the evening sunlight screening through the window opposite (a source of nourishment); the street lamp outside (this is the best light).

The observer chances a peek away, expectant of the rest of this imagined eight-legged army, scratching at arms agitated by nothing. It is a folly to demolish homes. It is a folly.

The corner of this room is dusty, almost grey compared to the rest of the walls and its greyness hangs on the limbs, never waiting to be cleaned compulsively away. The specks would make for good camouflage but they itch so, and must be removed immediately. Today there is no news, which is always a relief, as it is becoming less tense now I am concealed.