Don’t Marry The Fly

This story is as a result of a prompt with my writer friends. The prompt was Don’t Marry The Fly

Don’t Marry The Fly

It’s that time again. 

‘Go on,’ says the spider, ‘just a little more.  Grab onto that plug of hair, and you’ll soon be up.’  Ugh, phew, ugh, nearly there, squeeze.  Two hairy tentacles appear from the drain, and an echo is heard.  ‘Are you there yet?’  ‘Yeah, I’m in says Shelley.  Come on it’s all white and shiny, no sign of the humans,’ she sings as she glides over the smooth surface, stopping for a drink at the rim. 

Another two hairy legs and Sibelius was up.  Success.  He was in the house, via the plug hole as was his normal entrance.  It seemed to be getting harder to get in this way, not so much to grab onto.  Either the humans who lived here were balding or they’d sold up to someone without hair.  There had been a definite lack of hair.  This was when their suctioned feet came in handy, and of course their webs. But today, they’d hit lucky. A lock of hair is coiled around the grating.  

‘Wait, listen,’ says Sibelius as his soulmate Shelley explores the surroundings.  ‘Someone’s coming, stay still.’  Both spiders stand stock still in the hope that two little black specks won’t be spotted.  Black on white, what chance.  Shelley holds her breath, knowing this and Sibelius freezes on all eight legs. 

False alarm.  No one appears.  ‘Come on let’s hurry, if you value your legs,’ says Shelley and so the two spindly spiders make tracks, up and over the bath.  They move quickly for such small creatures, but then I suppose having eight legs helps.  I mean to walk with eight legs must be four times as quick as walking with two legs.   

The spiders stumble under the Alibaba basket.  ‘Oo it’s nice and dark and gritty here,’ says Shelley.  ‘I could make a lovely home here.’  ‘I don’t think so,’ says Sibelius, it smells of tea.  I have a dislike to tea since I was swilled down the plughole in a slurry of the stuff.  That was last year, and I’ve only just got the smell out of my feelers.’  ‘Well, where do you suggest then?’ 

‘How about exploring a little more,’ and he crept from under the Alibaba basket and headed for the hallway.  ‘Mmm, they’ve decorated this place.  Too much white.  Come on let’s find somewhere darker.’  They creep under the white door into a room with a smooth wooden floor in pale grey, a desk, a chair, a bed all that can be seen.  As they creep further into the room, an owl comes into view.  

‘Quick, exit, exit,’ there’s an owl in there,’ shouts Sibelius.  ‘Yeah, but it’s stuffed,’ Shelley scoffs.  ‘All the more dangerous.  Have you ever been chased around a room by a stuffed owl thwacking human?’  ‘No, just sharp shiny scissor snapping ones,’ says Shelley.  ‘Well, I have and it’s not nice,’ says Sibelius.  Shelley rolls her eyes.           

 Next door there is a pile of pants and socks on the floor, a plate with some crusts, a hot chocolate-stained mug, and headphones.  ‘How about here,’ says Shelley, ‘look under there, dust as thick as the woodlouse leaf pile.’  ‘Come on let’s roll in it,’ says Sibelius.     

‘You’d think we had nothing else to do the way you speak.  No not here it upsets my sense of smell, too much white, argh a sweet lifeless owl, must explore more, let’s roll in dust.’  Shelley hangs her head, as one leg feels her brow.  ‘I’m not getting any younger, I hear ticking.’  ‘That’s the human’s clock.  Come on, let’s go see it.  It has a golden arm with a flattened gold ball on the end, that goes backward and forward.  Makes you sleepy.’ 

There you go again, putting things off.  I’m getting the idea that you’re not really into this,’ says Shelley stamping her feet.  All eight of them.  Sibelius stops laughing and looks across at his mate.  Anger has soared into the room with them, curls at his toes, shakes his tummy.       

‘I could have had a nice home with Billy, but no.  Don’t marry the fly you said.  Marry me, I’ll make you a nice home, you said.  Billy will never settle in one place, you said.’  Shelley crawls under the bed and settles in a big ball of fluff, head in hands, eyes watering.  ‘That was four months ago.  Four months of travelling up and down plug holes.’

Just then Sibelius spots a chest.  It’s an old wooden chest from the days of pirates.  It looks solid sitting there, pushed against the window wall.  He looks around at the clutter, the things lying around the floor.  Plenty shelter for when out on adventures.  ‘How about here?’ he asks Shelley.  ‘Behind this chest.’  His front arms point to the large wooden trunk.  Shelley creeps closer, sniffs around the base.  ‘It does have a nice oaky air around it, I agree,’ says Shelley. 

The two spiders look at each other, remembering the last four months of climbing up drain pipes only to be washed back down them.  That feeling of being without a home, a comfy bed, a shelter over their heads, the feeling of doom, hopelessness, still sharp in their fangs.  A noise broke their thinking.  It was a thumping noise, like a herd of elephants running up the stairs.

Sibelius and Shelley look at each other. 

‘Scarper,’ shouts Sibelius and they scurry under the chest and out of sight.  Here they will hide until another chance comes their way to do what they love doing best.  To explore.