Hey, writer-type folks. AND PEOPLE WHO JUST WANT TO PLAY BUT DON'T IDENTIFY AS 'WRITERS' - all are welcome here! Every Friday, we do a fun free-write. For fun. And Freedom!
Write whatever you want in the 'comments' section on this blog post. Play as many times as you like. #breaktheblog! You have two minutes (give or take a few seconds ... no pressure!). Have fun. The more people who play, the more fun it is. So, tell a friend. Then send 'em here to read your 'two' and encourage them to play.
The spider lived in the corner of the room. I had no problem with the spider – in fact, I considered us mates. I named him Charlie. We weren’t close, to be honest. It’s hard to develop a relationship with a spider. We were companions, really. We were like the guy you see every day on your commute. You give him the little chin lift. What’s up. I talked to Charlie, but it was the verbal equivalent.
Of a chin lift.
“Hey Charlie. Any flies today?”
That kind of thing.
Most people who came to my apartment didn’t notice or didn’t care. But some people cared a lot. Some told me I had to kill Charlie. I would usually politely ask them to leave. I wasn’t about to kill Charlie. He never did anything to me except protect the apartment from roving insects and give me someone to talk to. He never even left his corner.
Good old Charlie.
Even my cat tolerated Charlie. He loved killing spiders and flies and chasing anything that moved. Charlie didn’t move much, but I think the cat also knew that Charlie was protected. It was like he had joined the family. And I definitely mean that in a Mafia kind of way. We looked out for each other.
Me. Cat. Charlie.
I remember thinking he wouldn’t be there long. Spiders don’t have real long life expectancies. But he persisted. He was a strong spider. Strong in spirit. He wasn’t going anywhere. And I started worrying about what would happen to Charlie when I moved back to the city. I was about ready to attempt re-entry after San Francisco had chewed me up and spit me down to East Palo Alto.
It wasn’t so bad. I had a good cat, a good spider, and I had plans. Those plans involved reading every book John D. MacDonald ever wrote and spending a lot of time with my typewriter, my cat curled around my legs. Charlie watching patiently from the corner.
I did move eventually. And, before I left, I put Charlie outside. In a place I thought he’d like. I like to think he’s there still.