The Web

The dirty matted fur of the rat twitched back and forth shaking off the rusty mud of the old drainpipe, as its nose flared open and closed smelling the air for the tiniest scent of a possible meal or drink. Its ears scanned for any sound of life in the gentle breeze blowing through the cracked window. The morning’s dew droplets hung on the thin white threads of the large web. The thirsty rat ran across the large canvas book and stood on an old pile of brittle bones, carefully balancing on its thin hind legs. Up it reached with the front legs grasping in the air like an invisible ladder and nudged the web to free the suspended nectar into its mouth.

The rat’s solid black right eye saw a flash of a blur of red and orange and then felt a pinch on its ear. Before the cascading droplets fell off the web to hit the canvas book covered with bones, the rate froze, like a statue, as the genetically enhanced venom locked all its nerves and muscles. As Medusa’s façade entrapped her adversaries, so did the venom do its bidding. Foaming from its mouth, eyes bulging, the rat fell over into the pile of bones only to have its heart explode as it made contact with the book cover, the creature became another contributor to the already impressive pile of meals. The red and orange spider felt the pressure change in the room as the old creaky door to the attic slowly open Mr. Wright walked in.

Mr. Wright’s wrinkled, leathery, pale bare feet slid slowly yet rhythmically over 100-year-old pine floors. Tracing the wear patterns of the warn-off varnish on his way to the old vintage rolltop desk as if it was an altar in the grand Cathedral, he slowly pulled out the old cowhide chair with the post office rollers of clay scratching yet another groove in the wood floors, as they had thousands of times before.

The old post office chair's armrests were torn away. Yellow foam vomited out to reveal the cold, gray bone of the chair with an ice-cold touch of metal. The leather had been worn away from so many wars of frustration and pounding, as he would battle to find the exact words to express his vision just the right way, fighting for the right word.

The attic writing room smelled of old cloth, mothballs, and cinnamon. Light beams burned through the dusty particle filled air as a laser would burn through a bar of Ivory soap. The hexagram window in the pinnacle, filtered the light with the fogged edges and slivered cracks focusing the morning’s sun directly on the pile of old Christmas ornaments that had been taken down the past year. The angel of the tree lay on her side as the sun beams cast off the glass glitter of her angelic white dress to create a 70s disco effect in the whole attic. The light beams created a prism effect of rainbows and stars lasting only eight minutes each morning, before fading to the warm glow of the 40-watt bulb, that was covered with the geometric woven spider web of a very unusual deadly spider. Orange and red stripes swirled around its abdomen. Directly under the web was a boneyard of past meals consisting of mice, frogs, and cat bones. They were piled on a large canvas book with the title of “Arachnids of South America”.

There he sat, gazing down at his Smith Corona typewriter, which once had a shiny black lacquer finish when he first got it back in 1945. The mechanical keys still functional, but the letters on the keys had been worn off from hundreds of strikes and poundings. He gently grabbed a small, cracked plastic bag next to the machine and proceeded to open it with his swollen, arthritic hands. They did not work as well as they did when he was a young lad of sixty years past. He fumbled with the small plastic container, looking for the tiny slit that always evaded him when he needed it. In a frustrating groan he grabbed the bag and put one corner between his yellow, chipped teeth, ever so carefully not to pull out his denture. He managed to rip the bag open dropping the two black real to real spools onto the ink-stained desktop as he had done 100 times before.

He spat the plastic bag onto the floor and smiled with the confidence of Roman Gladiator. Gently he unrolled the black reels to expose the black and red ribbon soaked with the wine and blood of his trade. He placed the ribbons on their respective silver pins and slid the wet ribbon between the teeth of the cartridge, centering it ever so slightly, as he had done for so many years. Doing this did not require his eyes because he can feel the fork’s center rise slightly above its brothers on both sides. He swept the chrome return bar to reset the typewriters position as if he was a conductor of the symphony performing before a conservative crowd of socialites.

The sharp, earsplitting pang of the return bar had softened over the years. Once it was a sharp E, today it was a flat D. The palatable sound was ever so pleasant to his ears after millions of rings. Enough place of fill an Olympic swimming pool two times over. He stared at the keys watching the light's rainbow caress this the space bar. The light moved from left to right slowly and steady as if it was a common yard snail on a mad dash to the next pile of decaying matter.

His fingers were stiff from the night’s rest, so he laced them together and twisted his hands down and out releasing the gases from their hidden places within the crevices of his knuckles. CRACK! …all in unison one upon another until the silence of the skin stretching is all that could be heard. He expanded his fingers, showing the well-groomed fingers each one a paint brush ready to assault the canvas and create a world unknown to others, but well known to him.

He felt a soft, warm fur brushing his feet, making a figure eight ever so perfectly an ice skater would be jealous. Around and around Mr. Tibbs went with the gentle purr occasionally a soft murmur meow just loud enough to get Mr. Wright’s attention. He reached down with this wooden tree branch fingers to scratch Mr. Tibbs’s velvety soft ears - ending with a soft pat and scoot. Off Mr. Tibbs went for a little while, but not for long.

Mr. Wright grabbed a pure white sheet of paper and fed into the ravenous mouth of the old Smith Corona, clicking the wheel that made the sounds of the dial of a large wall safe. Each click consumed the paper a little more each time until the white edge peeked up from the front like a shy squirrel, or as if Punxsutawney Phil was announcing to everyone that winter is over. Then he corrupted the purity of the canvass with his thumb print smudged at the corner from loading the ink ribbon. He grasped the center of the paper and like a zipper of a sleeping bag, the roller erupted quickly. The paper was condensed into small planet the size golf ball to be tossed in the black wire basket overflowing with paper lava of discarded attempts of thin tree skins, some blessed with ink, others smudged with the prints of thumbs from past ribbon changes.

With the poetic discourse of a skilled warrior, he assaulted white battlefield with smacks of metal sorts carving the actions and thoughts of his main character for all to see. He wrote with passion and fervor spilling imagery while suppressing anarchy of grammar and punctuation. He wrote:

“As I awoke to the distinct cries of the mature franklins calling for their mates outside my window, effortlessly drowning out the low drumming hum of the carpenter bees drilling into the sun burnt wooden shingles of the cottage, I can smell the faint aroma of the overly sweet papaya that was being probed by the black myna birds for its nectar and precious black seeds. I felt the sunrise light beams flashing back and forth as they if they were a slow strobe light dancing between the palm tree’s blades. Salty air from the ocean over two miles away still crisp from the waves foam and the sandy beach rode on the back of the wings of butterflies and wasps.

The absence of what I used to call silence has evaded me today. My ears search for the distance screams of tires accented with gunfire followed by the wailing cry of the sirens in the not so far distance. This was the silence I was used to; the cherished city music of the notes of commerce and life moving at the pace of a hummingbird’s wings in mid hoover. I thought to myself, what a difference forty hours makes to transform a person from chaos and turmoil to calm and tranquility. As I reflect on the past 47 years of providing for my family raising my three children. I thought to myself, where has time gone? The grains of sand raced through the gauntlet’s corset pouring into the vast salty pyramid. Crashing and rolling as if there’s no tomorrow, squeezing the future into a small window of time. My body still swollen from the stress of the city’s economics making me look as if I was the National Geographic’s cover photo of the Arctic Puffin.

Mr. Tibbs froze. A deep wet snarl then he hissed and arched his back into a stone-cold killer’s stance. Mr. Tibbs did not move a whisker.

Mr. Wright felt the fear and stop typing. He glanced over to the dark northern corner of the room where the only other chair in the attic had been strategically placed. Sitting in it he could make out the profile of a man holding a pistol. It was a silver handle nine-millimeter Beretta, standard issue of the Colombian assassin group call Morti-El Mundo.

“May I help you?” said Mr. Wright, in a soft steady tone.

The dark figure did not respond just leaned forward adjusting his seat as an old spring popped though the seat cushion and pricked his left backside causing him to shift abruptly to avoid another prick. The chair squeaked and groaned from the weight of the visitor.

Mr. Wright then said “Bueno dias, Senior Castillo. It has been a long time. Almost fifteen years, if my memory suite me right.”

In a distinguished Spanish accent, the dark figure replied “Sixteen Anos, four months, and thirteen dais to be exact! I promised you, I would find you and kill you and your family!

“Yes, you did. That is a fact! I never doubted that you would pay me a visit, someday. What took you so long, old friend? Asked Mr Wright.

“After I buried my father, my brother, my son, I vowed to hunt you down and kill you like to pig you are.”

said the assassin.

“Have you been waiting here long old friend.” Ask Mr. Wright

Si, almost two hours now. I saw your wife leaving this morning off to church in her black dress with her bible in her hand. I assure you; I’ll take care of her. As I promised, when she returns.

“You have come a long way from Columbia. You do know it was not personal? I was on assignment.”

“Si, this is not an assignment! It is personal. I have dreamt of this day for very long, long, time. I wanted to look into your eyes, as I take your life as you took my family’s lives.”

“Well, it is time, I guess.” Said Mr. Wright

“Time is running out, Mr. Wright. Goodbye!”

“On the contrary, my old friend. It is your time that is expired. The moment you sat in that chair the tiny spring pierced your backside was in fact a small needle loaded with the venom of my little friend a native of your country- The Medusa spider. It has been at least eleven minutes now. The genetically enhanced venom should have taken away your ability to move.”

The assassin’s eyes darted between the spider’s web and the pile of bones. He then realized he cannot move his finger that was on the trigger the gun. He cannot move his hand, arm, or legs. He felt the hot rush come over his head. He felt his tongue swell up and fill his mouth before exploding into a shower of flesh and muscle. Still coherent he stared at Mr. Wright who was sitting back in his desk chair loading another piece of paper into his Smith Corona as his vision turn dark red. With a painful pop everything went black.

Mr. Wright typed slowly the following words.

Hello, my wife I will always love and protect you in life as well as in death. I will miss you. I’ll be waiting.

Love Mr. Wright.

The attic door opened once again with the soft creek and a black lace glove caressed the brass knob, the other glove clutching a black bible with an envelope with gold metallic ink upon it.

Her wet white handkerchief drifted to the floor and landed on the track of the worn off varnish track floor. Mr. Tibbs sat on the Smith Corona with his paws tucked to keep them warm as the sun was rising. Mrs. Wright walked over to the desk and pull the white paper from the roller with a harmony of clicks. She gasped. Over the top of the paper in the corner she saw the corpse sitting in a puddle of red shiny blood. As the sunbeams trace the corpse’s black hair line, she saw what looked like a large red and orange hair barrette in the shape of a spider looking back at her

She dropped the Bible and the card hit the floor and opened, written in it was:

With our deepest condolences on your loss of your husband our thoughts and prayers are with you in your time of bereavement. You will always be with you in spirit.

The funeral was exceptional this morning.

End