Stories and poems by adults
MYwife discovered a grass spider living in our kitchen.
It had built a dense web in an empty wine caddy sitting on the floor next to a tall cabinet. The spider sat half-in, half-out of a funnel-shaped hole in its web, patiently waiting for the giants that were my wife and myself to go away. Creeping out at night when we slept to forage in the dark and quiet.
My wife demanded that I kill the spider. I refused: the spider was harmless to us, quiet and still in its funnel when we were about, tidy. As housemates go, it was one of the best we could have had.
Still, she insisted that I do something, so I caught the spider in a small paper cup, carried it outside, released it into a corner of two stucco walls. I felt I owned it a place to make a home, given how much of the world we humans have taken for ourselves. It was just trying to make a little home for itself under the feet of the owners of the world.
*** It was not long after that the mountains east of town rumbled and cracked and fell away as two quarter-mile high giants rose on eight massive legs from their eons-long sleep.
One swept most the town away like so much trash, a gigantic jumble of stone and metal and people, into a monstrous pit that it opened in the earth.
The other, while the first was turned away, picked up our neighborhood and set it down by the river on the plains many miles west.
*** The spider was caught up with us, sitting in its new web spun in the corner between two walls. We have learned to live as it does: quiet, hidden, patiently waiting for the giants to go away. Trying to make a little home for ourselves under the feet of the true owners of the world.
Gigi Mills: Laundry With a Long-Legged Dog, 2017, giclée, courtesy GF Contemporary