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Fox C. Crowe
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January 2005
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Fox C. Crowe [userpic]
Les Araignées.

It rained, and there were spiders crawling on his face.

Between the windows of darkness, where the sliver of light refracted and shone like death over his eye, a phantom thread descended and he screamed.

He lived beneath the world, where the conrete was cold and the spiders nested. The walls were yellow and cracked, and the floor was gray and unconvincing. He slept in a ragged bed with holes, and there were boxes of things from life that he never opened and there was the television which was still on but showing static.

Underneath the planet where the souls were brisk and unfriendly and his body shivered, the television lulled him to sleep, but there were still spiders. He knew that outside was the desert, and it was hot and baron there. He preferred lying inside the earth, beneath the world, and being caught half-way in a sleepwalk dance, never preferring to know where the nightmare had its climax.

The spiders were a light brownish color; eight spindly legs and pincers where teeth should have been. They were grotesque and bulbous and their intentions could only have been profane. They looked almost slippery in the slice of light over his eye. He was frozen with fear, and much too paralyzed to brush them off his face.

What if they crawled underneath him and devoured him, whole? Or took up living beneath his pillow and multiplied? There were too many variables to consider and he did not feel informed enough to make a well-conceived decision, so they crawled on his face, still, and chills shot up his spine like bullets in the night.