I wrote this story a few years ago, long before I became the master storyteller I am now. Hope you enjoy.

THE SPIDER’S FLY

Bug thought about killing the spider. But, he did not. Instead, Bug picked the spider up. Oh, the spider, how it squirmed and twisted, like a fly caught in a web, between Bug’s fingers. And, thinking himself very clever, he decided to tattoo the spider—to give it something, to remember him by.

With a fine point pen, Bug tattooed the spider.

The procedure must have been quite painful.

The spider squirmed and twisted even more, in a dance of torture (it seemed), or perhaps it danced in sadist delight.

Bug stained the spider’s back with ink—ink that soon formed a picture. Bug let the spider go. With a freshly ink carved fly on its back—the spider ran and  hid under  the couch.

Bug also fled to the safety of the couch—not under it, though. No for Bug, he sat on top. On top of old, as well as new filth, that had taken over the couch’s outer shell. In the trash, Bug had found the couch, one-day. He had dragged the couch home with him. Since that one day, the couch had served Bug, as a comfortable, if not dirty, throne.

Bug, now, sat on his throne. For Bug had been drawn to the only source of light in the room. His line of work, also the end result of that particular occupation, had left Bug with a particular aversion to light. Yet, he was drawn to the only source of light in the room—the light of the television.

A moth to a flame—like the moth, Bug too would have gladly embraced the light—until it killed him—burning him up in a blaze of brightly colored illumination. If he did not have to go…to work, that is. To work, he must go, right at this moment.

To work Bug now flew—to an occupation that suited Bug’s peculiar tastes. Bug compared his job to that of selling ice cream to delighted children. He even had a truck from which he sold his goods from. Only Bug did not sell ice cream. Junk food of another type was his trade.

Bug sold candy.

And the children who bought were not delighted—but desperate. Desperate to get a fix from the special candy Bug sold. The desperate children could not wait for seconds, thirds, or fourths. They wanted all the candy Bug could sell. And when their candy had been consumed, the children were quite delighted—as happy as little ants—at least until the effects of the candy had passed. When the effects subsided, it left the children wanting more. Calling out in a chorus of whimpers: that only children knew how to produce. A symphony of sad songs, sung over and over again…

Always begging and pleading for more candy.

And to Bug’s joy, he would sometimes hear his favorite cry, “The candy that smells like burning rope.”

Bug called that candy the Roach, because it sort of creeps around inside of your system… and it was Bug’s favorite. Bug felt a bond with anyone who shared his cravings.

Bug loved his work. The children always seemed to have money. Money they had saved perhaps for a new bicycle, or video game. To Bug’s mind they had invested wisely with him—instead of spending their cash on such foolish material possessions. Bicycles rust after all, and video games rot the brain.

While selling his candy, Bug had thought himself very clever—for he had thought up a grand scheme. He would sell his candy at twice the price. In that way, as such, he could pocket the extra. Then he could spend it to feed his own sweet tooth.

He was fond of the Roach, especially.

As the dark crept into the sky—now his work was done. There would be no more children today. Children have a particular aversion to the dark. Rushing home to families that no longer understood them—families who wondered what had happened to their darling little angels.

Now Bug had to crawl back to his darkened nest. To sleep, or feed, depending on what he was partial to.

He returned to his lonely nest, to find it now occupied, by a man called Wasp.

Bug knew Fly.

Wasp was Bug’s lord and master. Fly was the one who controlled the candy supply. In the multi-compacted eyes that Fly possessed—two plus two more, for Wasp wore glasses—Bug could see that Wasp was not delighted in the slightest.

For Wasp knew of Bug’s clever grand scheme. And, Wasp thought it, not so clever, and not so grand. Wasp, by use of a weapon that fired lead if the trigger was pulled, made Bug lie down on his own filthy throne.

Wasp tied Bug down to the couch…

With the assistance of some gasoline and a match he set the room ablaze. Then Wasp took his leave—leaving Bug to die alone of burns that would never heal.

As the fire greedily consumed its special candy—gasoline—and as Bug began to char, and turn to ash—Bug saw a spider. The spider flew across Bug’s chest on its way to freedom. The spider flew, you see, because it had an ink stained fly drawn upon its back.