Portrait of Words: Spinny RIP (a short story)

Spinny Spider

RIP

14th March 2001 – 27 October 2009

"There it is!" said Irma, pointing out the bus window.

Her sister Ida leaned to look. "What, near the opera house?"

Irma snorted. "It is the opera house. The Arts Council sold it years ago when they lost their government funding , where have you been?"

Ida wasn't impressed. "I still can't believe we've come eighty miles for this, and spent over a hundred dollars between us on bus fare. If the boy wants a damn spider, Irma, I have a house full of them. He can take as many as he wants, believe me."

"It can't be just any spider. It has to be an Orb Weaver like Spinny was, rest his tiny soul. Poor Gordon, you should have seen him the day Spinny died, his eyes all red from crying, and he's been miserable all week. I can't stand it any more. Here's our stop now—push the bell."

Ida pushed it, and stood up ready to get off. "It's probably not a dead spider he's crying about you know. He's just upset because it was his grandfather's, and he promised to look after it. But spiders don't live forever, do they? What is the boy now, forty years old? You'd think he could just get over it."

They thanked the bus driver as they stepped down, then walked to the the opera house, where a new sign welcomed them to the "Big City Arachnomania Emporium". Signs pointed them toward display areas, live exhibits, research labs, and finally, shops. Irma led the way.

"Oh look, Ida," she said, pointing to a window with mannekins wearing clothes made from spider-spun fabric. "Isn't that fascinating?"

Ida looked ready to puke.

"He'd have more fun with a dog. What about a nice Papillon? He could take it for walks in the park, maybe meet someone nice," she said, "you know, so he could move out finally. What is he now, fifty?"

Irma didn't hear; she'd found what she was looking for.

"Look, isn't this cute? They're selling egg sacs from gumball machines, in little plastic balls! Two for a dollar, not bad! Let me just find the Orb Weavers, and we'll be all set."

"Irma," Ida said, frowning, "Did you read this sign? It says that each sac is guaranteed to hatch at least fifty spiders. That's a hundred spiders you'll have..."

"Perfect!" Irma was already turning the handle of a machine farther down the line. "Then Gordon will be so busy raising his new babies he won't have time to be sad anymore. Ready? Let's go---I can't wait to see his face!"

"Hey, Gord."

"Hey, Ray. Off work today?"

"Yeah. Mind if I join you?"

"Heck no, here, grab a beer."

"Thanks. What happened to your eye?"

Gordon sighed. "That damn spider of Grandpa's."

Ray cracked open his can and sat down. "That thing gives me the creeps. It's not out here with you is it?"

"Nope. Son of a bitch bit me on the eye last week, so I did what I shoulda done the day the old man died, and flushed its ass down the toilet. Didja catch the game Saturday?"

---

That's a story for this Tuesday's edition of Portrait of Words. Here's more about it, from their website:

"Welcome to our bi-monthly writing challenge known as a "Portrait of Words".

In a nut shell here's how it works. Every other week we will give you a set of photographs to use as inspiration for your story. Look at each of the pictures and interpret them, then create a story based on what you see and feel. It's really that simple."


And it's fun! Stop in there today to read more stories inspired by these photos, and if you'd like to play along, visit tomorrow to find photos for the next challenge.


Meanwhile, does anyone know (without googling it, Thom!) the significance of Spinny's birthday?