The House that Forgot us by Lily Beeson (continued)
I’ve been here before, but it’s not the same. These walls that once danced with life and family are dreary and spiritless. A place I called home can no longer be called anything but inhospitable, the smell of expiration stronger at every opening. I move slowly, taking in all of what’s left.
The walls are dusty, cobwebs plastered between the corners and the ceiling, the only sign of life this place has had in a decade. The couches are ripped, springs sticking out at every angle, stuffing piled onto the floor. My mom used to sit there, the golden sunlight dancing on her face, as she read her books of romance and mystery. The rocking chair, old and knocked over, was the only place my father would sit while watching the game, popcorn flying out of his mouth as he screamed at the tv. I smile bittersweetly, remembering how upset my mom would get when she had to vacuum the carpet afterward.
I turn away once I realize that the tears will get to me, and see our faux Christmas tree, green plastic branches wilted, as if they know what happened years ago. Some of the plastic lightbulbs have broken apart, their once jolly colours on the floor. If I could go back, to see this tree and the merry it brought me, I wouldn't think twice.
When I go upstairs, nothing surprises me. The old family portrait on the walls’ canvas has fallen, our faces to the ground. My heart sinks, though I expected nothing less. The second I go through the doorframe that was once my parents room, my heart drowns. The clothes that hadn't been folded before it happened have holes in them by moths. I turn around and look at the ground, squeezing my eyes.
There was one final thing I wanted to do before I left for good. My eyes water as I slowly step through the doorframe of my old bedroom. My vision flutters around the room, and though I know it was my place, I barely recognize it. Every small thing that made it mine feels wrong, otherworldly. The posters, the desk, so innocent, so forgiving.
I search for any sign of me through the bookshelves, the crafts and the clothes, but all I find is someone who isn't. I know that I changed over time, but I could have never guessed that this house, a place that held so many times of joy, sadness and inspiration, is not my family's. This dustfilled, cobweb infested home no longer reflects who I am, and just barely who I was.
The walls are dusty, cobwebs plastered between the corners and the ceiling, the only sign of life this place has had in a decade. The couches are ripped, springs sticking out at every angle, stuffing piled onto the floor. My mom used to sit there, the golden sunlight dancing on her face, as she read her books of romance and mystery. The rocking chair, old and knocked over, was the only place my father would sit while watching the game, popcorn flying out of his mouth as he screamed at the tv. I smile bittersweetly, remembering how upset my mom would get when she had to vacuum the carpet afterward.
I turn away once I realize that the tears will get to me, and see our faux Christmas tree, green plastic branches wilted, as if they know what happened years ago. Some of the plastic lightbulbs have broken apart, their once jolly colours on the floor. If I could go back, to see this tree and the merry it brought me, I wouldn't think twice.
When I go upstairs, nothing surprises me. The old family portrait on the walls’ canvas has fallen, our faces to the ground. My heart sinks, though I expected nothing less. The second I go through the doorframe that was once my parents room, my heart drowns. The clothes that hadn't been folded before it happened have holes in them by moths. I turn around and look at the ground, squeezing my eyes.
There was one final thing I wanted to do before I left for good. My eyes water as I slowly step through the doorframe of my old bedroom. My vision flutters around the room, and though I know it was my place, I barely recognize it. Every small thing that made it mine feels wrong, otherworldly. The posters, the desk, so innocent, so forgiving.
I search for any sign of me through the bookshelves, the crafts and the clothes, but all I find is someone who isn't. I know that I changed over time, but I could have never guessed that this house, a place that held so many times of joy, sadness and inspiration, is not my family's. This dustfilled, cobweb infested home no longer reflects who I am, and just barely who I was.
Everything is Made of Spiders by Jiya Nanner (continued)
In my nightmares, everything is made of spiders. Thousands of tiny spiders, crawling all over each other.
I’m not afraid of them, they just make me uncomfortable. You can’t blame me. Eight eyes! Eight legs! There’s just something about them, you know? The way they scuttle around, the way they curl up and play dead, the fact that I can’t see their faces but I know they’re watching me, the way they can stay motionless for hours and then suddenly come back to life… you get the point. They can jump! Or lower themselves from above. It might sound like I’m afraid, but I’m not. I just don’t like spiders. When I see one out of the corner of my eye, it feels like my heart drops into my stomach. That’s an uncomfortable feeling, not a scary one.
I made up a rule a while ago. When they’re on their turf, that’s fine. But when they’re on mine, then I can intervene. But they keep testing my boundaries. First, I decide they shouldn’t be in my house. Then, after they decide they like my basement, I let them. The basement is all fluorescent lights and unfinished ceiling, exposing the guts of the house. It’s hard lines and cold floors and cobwebs. A fitting place for spiders. I tell myself they can’t be in my bedroom or bathroom, though. And then– you know what? I tell myself as long as they’re in the corners, and I don’t have to see them, they can stay. Then? I find one in my bed. Nowhere is safe anymore.
You wanna know something else? Spiders don’t crunch like insects do, they squish. Have you ever squished a spider? Have you killed? Have you watched their spindly, twitching legs curl up and still? Did you know spiders are basically hydraulically powered by their own blood? Well, it’s not really blood as we know it, it’s called hemolymph, but that’s not the point. What kind of creature is hydraulically powered?
Yes, I know they’re more afraid of me than I am of them, and I know that they’re not dangerous (at least the kind around me), and I know that my feardiscomfort is unreasonable. Still, every time I see one, I certainly feel something. Maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s discomfort, or disgust. They lay eggs. They could touch me. Both of these things are horrifying.
I have killed. I choose if I would rather let it do its relatively harmless thing, or if I want it gone so badly I would kill. Of course, I’d take them outside if I could, but sometimes they’re just in a hard spot to get, and it’s simply more convenient to take a life. You know what? Fine. Fine! Maybe I’m afraid, but I don’t hate them. I don’t enjoy killing them. Most of the time it’s not even me that kills them, as to lessen the effect on me. If it was, would I be able to remove the stain of guilt?
In my nightmares, everything is made of spiders. Thousands of tiny spiders, crawling all over each other, crawling all over me. In my waking life, I have hemolymph on my hands.
I’m not afraid of them, they just make me uncomfortable. You can’t blame me. Eight eyes! Eight legs! There’s just something about them, you know? The way they scuttle around, the way they curl up and play dead, the fact that I can’t see their faces but I know they’re watching me, the way they can stay motionless for hours and then suddenly come back to life… you get the point. They can jump! Or lower themselves from above. It might sound like I’m afraid, but I’m not. I just don’t like spiders. When I see one out of the corner of my eye, it feels like my heart drops into my stomach. That’s an uncomfortable feeling, not a scary one.
I made up a rule a while ago. When they’re on their turf, that’s fine. But when they’re on mine, then I can intervene. But they keep testing my boundaries. First, I decide they shouldn’t be in my house. Then, after they decide they like my basement, I let them. The basement is all fluorescent lights and unfinished ceiling, exposing the guts of the house. It’s hard lines and cold floors and cobwebs. A fitting place for spiders. I tell myself they can’t be in my bedroom or bathroom, though. And then– you know what? I tell myself as long as they’re in the corners, and I don’t have to see them, they can stay. Then? I find one in my bed. Nowhere is safe anymore.
You wanna know something else? Spiders don’t crunch like insects do, they squish. Have you ever squished a spider? Have you killed? Have you watched their spindly, twitching legs curl up and still? Did you know spiders are basically hydraulically powered by their own blood? Well, it’s not really blood as we know it, it’s called hemolymph, but that’s not the point. What kind of creature is hydraulically powered?
Yes, I know they’re more afraid of me than I am of them, and I know that they’re not dangerous (at least the kind around me), and I know that my feardiscomfort is unreasonable. Still, every time I see one, I certainly feel something. Maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s discomfort, or disgust. They lay eggs. They could touch me. Both of these things are horrifying.
I have killed. I choose if I would rather let it do its relatively harmless thing, or if I want it gone so badly I would kill. Of course, I’d take them outside if I could, but sometimes they’re just in a hard spot to get, and it’s simply more convenient to take a life. You know what? Fine. Fine! Maybe I’m afraid, but I don’t hate them. I don’t enjoy killing them. Most of the time it’s not even me that kills them, as to lessen the effect on me. If it was, would I be able to remove the stain of guilt?
In my nightmares, everything is made of spiders. Thousands of tiny spiders, crawling all over each other, crawling all over me. In my waking life, I have hemolymph on my hands.
Itsy Bitsy by Zahra Ali (continued)
Weave it, weave, over and under and over and under and over and over and over and over again. Did they ever see me?
It’s lonely up here, in my corner. I’m not alone, of course, I’ve got the flies, the mosquitoes, and every unfortunate being that’s had the misfortune of being trapped here with me. I’m not alone, but I’ve never felt so lonely. It’s a peculiar feeling, really, to know that after everything you weren’t worth anything. After every drop of sweat and every scream, cry, urge to be better. It was never enough.
…
“Did you seriously lose the ball again? No, don’t whine, go get it! And tear down that hideous web while you’re at it.”
And there went hours and hours, minutes into seconds into hours, days, weeks, months, time, time spent, my time, taken down with a flick of their finger and a grunt of disgust as they carelessly tore my life apart.
And I start again.
And my stomach screams at me, my head swims. I eat the small wisps of the web, hoping I’ll have enough to make it until tomorrow. Every night they tear them down, I go to sleep with hunger in my stomach knowing there’ll be no webs to catch my food tonight. And every day my legs grow weaker and my back sores as I know my time is running out.
“That spider is freaking me out. Can’t you kill it, please? It hurts to look at.”
“Ew, there’s something sticky on my hand. There’s cobwebs everywhere!”
“Oh my god, ew ew ew oh ew I think I just touched it, why can’t you kill it?”
Am I really that much of a burden? Is my way of life offensive to them in some form? Does it comfort them to know that merely a year of their life is everything I could dream of having? Does the thought of me make their skin prickle and their stomachs turn?
I’m almost gone.
Every night I sleep a piece of my soul reaches to the sky and tries to pull me upwards. To heaven. To forever. But I don’t go. Because I think tomorrow might be the day they’ll see me for what I am. Every ounce I pour into that wilted web. When my cobwebs dust over and my scent fades from the world, will anyone even notice I was ever there?
Will you?
It’s lonely up here, in my corner. I’m not alone, of course, I’ve got the flies, the mosquitoes, and every unfortunate being that’s had the misfortune of being trapped here with me. I’m not alone, but I’ve never felt so lonely. It’s a peculiar feeling, really, to know that after everything you weren’t worth anything. After every drop of sweat and every scream, cry, urge to be better. It was never enough.
…
“Did you seriously lose the ball again? No, don’t whine, go get it! And tear down that hideous web while you’re at it.”
And there went hours and hours, minutes into seconds into hours, days, weeks, months, time, time spent, my time, taken down with a flick of their finger and a grunt of disgust as they carelessly tore my life apart.
And I start again.
And my stomach screams at me, my head swims. I eat the small wisps of the web, hoping I’ll have enough to make it until tomorrow. Every night they tear them down, I go to sleep with hunger in my stomach knowing there’ll be no webs to catch my food tonight. And every day my legs grow weaker and my back sores as I know my time is running out.
“That spider is freaking me out. Can’t you kill it, please? It hurts to look at.”
“Ew, there’s something sticky on my hand. There’s cobwebs everywhere!”
“Oh my god, ew ew ew oh ew I think I just touched it, why can’t you kill it?”
Am I really that much of a burden? Is my way of life offensive to them in some form? Does it comfort them to know that merely a year of their life is everything I could dream of having? Does the thought of me make their skin prickle and their stomachs turn?
I’m almost gone.
Every night I sleep a piece of my soul reaches to the sky and tries to pull me upwards. To heaven. To forever. But I don’t go. Because I think tomorrow might be the day they’ll see me for what I am. Every ounce I pour into that wilted web. When my cobwebs dust over and my scent fades from the world, will anyone even notice I was ever there?
Will you?
2 Year Anniversary of my Boring Job by Millie Farley (continued)
I work late evening into night,
weeding through webs,
spiders at the hub.
Small flies bounce off
my arms and neck.
I heave unknown masses
over my shoulder
and into dumpsters.
Black bags like
dumplings in a bowl.
My footsteps soft
padding and dragging
over dirty carpet,
wandering through room after room,
broom trailing
behind me. I avoid the elevator box,
take the stairs.
I peel
my black gloves off
from the insides.
I eat inside
the concrete enclosure
that is our break room.
Pipes curve
against the walls,
the TV plays either ads or sports games.
There’s a rack of construction shoes
up to the ceiling.
Pepsi bottle fizzing
at the rim when opened,
gets on my jeans,
ads still playing.
I count the minutes
left of my break.
The locker numbers go from
1 to 300
and I can't remember
how far along I am.
200? 215? 245?
I swing them open
one at a time.
Pulling black latex gloves back on,
adjusting each finger separately.
I pass glass panels that send
my walking reflection
back to me.
I pass low-ceiling rooms
situated under stairways,
hallways to manager's offices,
chemical pumps and
a tap with a water basin
underneath,
cigarette buds disintegrating
over the drain.
I climb the stairs,
open the door,
I’m hit with warm wind.
My jeans are covered
in white web. I’ve walked
through all the stands
and there’s no more spider webs left
to walk through.
Tangled silk strangles
the head of my broom.
Small flies
get caught in my bangs.
I sweep through the rows,
into the night.
Field lights blaze
their electrical beam
from the stadium corners.
Moths are illuminated in the rays,
they are
small flying dots
from this distance.
They are
electrons circling unsystematically
around the nucleus
from this distance.
The radio tucked at my belt:
‘Staff working on South Side, your shift’s over.’
Oh.
Goodnight
I guess.
weeding through webs,
spiders at the hub.
Small flies bounce off
my arms and neck.
I heave unknown masses
over my shoulder
and into dumpsters.
Black bags like
dumplings in a bowl.
My footsteps soft
padding and dragging
over dirty carpet,
wandering through room after room,
broom trailing
behind me. I avoid the elevator box,
take the stairs.
I peel
my black gloves off
from the insides.
I eat inside
the concrete enclosure
that is our break room.
Pipes curve
against the walls,
the TV plays either ads or sports games.
There’s a rack of construction shoes
up to the ceiling.
Pepsi bottle fizzing
at the rim when opened,
gets on my jeans,
ads still playing.
I count the minutes
left of my break.
The locker numbers go from
1 to 300
and I can't remember
how far along I am.
200? 215? 245?
I swing them open
one at a time.
Pulling black latex gloves back on,
adjusting each finger separately.
I pass glass panels that send
my walking reflection
back to me.
I pass low-ceiling rooms
situated under stairways,
hallways to manager's offices,
chemical pumps and
a tap with a water basin
underneath,
cigarette buds disintegrating
over the drain.
I climb the stairs,
open the door,
I’m hit with warm wind.
My jeans are covered
in white web. I’ve walked
through all the stands
and there’s no more spider webs left
to walk through.
Tangled silk strangles
the head of my broom.
Small flies
get caught in my bangs.
I sweep through the rows,
into the night.
Field lights blaze
their electrical beam
from the stadium corners.
Moths are illuminated in the rays,
they are
small flying dots
from this distance.
They are
electrons circling unsystematically
around the nucleus
from this distance.
The radio tucked at my belt:
‘Staff working on South Side, your shift’s over.’
Oh.
Goodnight
I guess.