{"id":930,"date":"2019-03-08T01:47:56","date_gmt":"2019-03-08T01:47:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/?p=930"},"modified":"2019-03-01T01:55:38","modified_gmt":"2019-03-01T01:55:38","slug":"morning-kill-by-nancy-carpenter","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/2019\/03\/08\/morning-kill-by-nancy-carpenter\/","title":{"rendered":"Morning Kill by Nancy Carpenter"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Nancy takes writing seriously, attending workshops facilitated by published authors such as Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, Bret Anthony Johnston, Diana Wagman, and Dennis Palumbo. In her day job, she is a consultant, writing and editing internal communication for businesses, which has little to do with the her four completed novels, but a lot to do with the discipline of and satisfaction received from writing. <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Morning Kill <\/p>\n\n\n\n

One shot from Raid meant to kill flying insects and the spider rappels along a radial of his web, manufactures another filament (it should be his last), and plummets towards the rosemary hedge like a shimmering bauble from a shattered chandelier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Incensed, he struggles under the weight of chemicals, beads clinging to flaying legs glistening in the backdrop of the sun. I appreciate his efforts as he fights to hold onto the thread, to life, greased as they both are with a compound of Permethrin and d-Trans Allethrin. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

His intake of oxygen, now surely laborious, is wasted on appendages extending and retracting against the still air. I blast him again, watch with respect, imagine the decisions he must make, the synapses of his multiple brains strategically positioned in all those joints, snapping. To continue the silent churning, or to drop further into the asylum of the hedge. Is he allowed to know this option exists, or does he still desire the sanctuary of his web, sparkling and alluring like a thousand diamonds on a Tiffany necklace?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another discharge of toxic ingredients and he grows still. I move in for a closer inspection, my hand solid on the gate, and blow on his sleek body. He rotates, bulb-like, star-like, bulb-like, star-like, his legs limp or stiff, impossible to determine. I deliver a final blast, satisfied, and place the can on the brick walkway where viscous dollops of the lethal ingredients, the size of inconsequential coins from third world countries, have assembled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I go through the house to the garage to retrieve the broom. Approaching the gate with the sun now to my back, the web is invisible and thus was impossible to see when I first passed through. How easy our roles could\u2019ve been reversed, I the victim, the spider the aggressor, had I not earlier turned, looked into the late morning sun that at that angle revealed the web.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He moves again, and I imagine he\u2019s played possum, staring down the offending nozzle of Raid Flying Insect Spray intended for the common gnat, willing himself to not breathe, jubilant once I abandoned the can. He couldn\u2019t know about the broom, and its fatal arching sweep that separates him from his web, pulling him to the brick, the bristles impaling him, dissembling his body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I walk through the garage and house a second time, reach the gate, the sun again the back drop, to admire the web, still intact, twinkling under its noxious shroud before consigning it to the shrubs and indifferent brick, never to allow another spider to take residence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I hide the can of Raid behind the staked \u201cWelcome\u201d sign. Guests will arrive in eight hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


<\/em><\/strong>What the Spider Sees<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

One shot from Raid and I rappel along a radial of my web, expertly\nmanufacture another filament (less flawless this time), and plummet towards the\nrosemary hedge. Coated in toxins, I look like a shimmering bauble from a shattered\nchandelier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I allow myself a brief and fond memory of that web I built after\nscuttling indoors to escape last winter\u2019s rains. I deflowered her newly cleaned\ncrystal prisms floating over a shrewdly curated table setting, and escaped as\nshe screamed in protest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This time, I need to remember not\nto breathe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I struggle under the weight of chemical beads clinging to\nflaying legs. I\u2019m incensed as I make every effort to hold onto the thread and\nmy life, greased as they both are with whatever, exactly, that shit is.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My laborious intake of oxygen is wasted on appendages extending\nand retracting against the still air. This is not good. Yet the synapses of my\nmultiple brains homesteading all my joints are still snapping. I waste no time deliberating\nher motivations or imagining the decisions she must make.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I can\u2019t afford to be shortsighted. To continue the silent\nchurning, or to drop further into the asylum of the hedge, those are my options.\nScrew the sanctuary of my web, sparkling and alluring like a thousand diamonds\non one of her Tiffany necklaces.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I tuck and curl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another discharge of toxic ingredients and I grow still, a\nlesson learned from watching possums. She moves in for a closer inspection, her\nhand solid on the gate. She blows on my sleek body. I rotate, bulb-like, star-like,\nbulb-like, star-like, my legs limp or stiff, impossible for her to determine. Confused,\nshe delivers, hopefully, her final blast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yes, she is satisfied. She places the can on the brick\nwalkway where viscous dollops of the lethal ingredients, the size of bird poo,\nhave assembled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She retreats to the house. A beat or two and she exits the\ngarage with a broom. This is not good. Had she approached the gate with the sun\nto her back, my web would have been invisible, impossible to see when she first\npassed through. How easy our roles might have reversed, I the aggressor, she\nthe victim. What had made her turn earlier, look into the late morning sun that\nat that angle revealed my web?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No time for idle contemplation. I move again, newly incensed\nwith the realization she used Raid Flying Insect Spray intended for common gnats\non me. I could have stared down the offending nozzle, jubilant once she\nabandoned the can.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the broom? I couldn\u2019t have known about the broom, and its\nfatal arching sweep that now separates me from that isolated filament. The\nbristles harbor the potential to impale, to dissemble.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Screw her. I ball up again, tumble about in the thicket of\nbristles, roll into the rosemary until she claims victory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She walks through the garage and house a second time, returns\nto the gate, the sun again the back drop. She pauses to admire my web, still remarkably\nintact, twinkling under its noxious shroud before she consigns it to the shrubs\nand indifferent brick.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She hides the can of Raid behind the staked \u201cWelcome\u201d sign. An\ninvitation for my return.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Nancy takes writing seriously, attending workshops facilitated by published authors such as Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, Bret Anthony Johnston, Diana Wagman, and Dennis Palumbo. In her day job, she is a consultant, writing and editing internal communication for businesses, which has little to do with the her four completed novels, but a lot to do with the … Read More<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-930","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pa867U-f0","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/930","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=930"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/930\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":933,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/930\/revisions\/933"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=930"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=930"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/underwoodpress.com\/ruescribe\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=930"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}