Monday, July 25, 2016

Spider Microfiction Romance Week 3

by Betty Rocksteady

Kay. You guys are all so cool. I think everyone who participated in this is SUPER COOL. If you haven't participated, you have one more week to get me to think you're cool.

As you probably (maybe?) know, I'm the author of Arachnophile, a story about love and art and death and sex and spiders. So inspired by that, I'm running this little challenge to get lots of cool stories about spider romance. The first two weeks are here and here.

This week was my fave week so far. My favorite of all is the strange little snippet of television history discovered by Leigham Shardlow. We also have a super cool sci fi occult piece by Kevin Strange, a powerful piece by Jon James, a creepy mythological story by SL Koch, and a lovely bizarro story by Chris Meekings. Plus more! Read em all!!! Which was your favorite?

Wanna get in on the last week? The rules are easy and right here.

By Chris Meekings

It was cold and raining when I let her inside.

The spider tapped lightly on the kitchen window as I washed up the marmoset in the cold metal sink. I looked up from the drowning monkey, and saw her small form dangling from spider silk. She tapped again – a tiny sound like the laughter of flowers.

She was small, barely the size of a coin. A black spider, spinning lazily on her thread of silk. Large, fat rain drops fell around her, like canonballs. I leaned forward and stared into her eight arachnid eyes, gazing into a blue-blackness of space voids. Those hollow eyes cried out in pleading – let me in.

I placed my hand against the window. The glass bowed and bulged. A tingling feeling shot up my arm as it passed through the glass. Blue chipolatas exploded on my skin, as I closed my fist around the tiny spider.

I pulled my hand back and opened it, letting her slink onto the kitchen counter. She tipped her bonnet to me, and scuttled off to find a refuge.

She was bigger when she ate the cat.

I lay back on the sofa watching my video of Grace Jones doing aerobics. I was hard at the sight, but trying not to make too much of a fuss about it. I spoon-fed myself from of bowl of Skittles and Whiskey mix, grinning inanely.

The cat purred at my ankles. It was trying to convince me to buy a 2 week timeshare option in the Canary Islands. I hated it when my cat attempted to swindle money from me. I signed the paperwork, mainly to get the free champagne, but also to get the cat to leave me alone. Wait – how much had I just signed over?

The cat folded the paperwork into its waist-coat pocket. It put on its felt fedora and pulled out its violin. It started to play a Hungarian Rhapsody to cover its exit. Swine cat!

The spider leaped from the corner. She was far bigger now. The husks of discarded carapace now made sense. She had been molting – growing.

It one fluid motion she went from a dark shadow to a mass of black, midnight legs wrapped around the struggling feline. I watched in horror as the hard fangs sunk into the cat's neck.

She dragged the carcass back into her corner. I finally remembered I hadn't breathed for at least a minute. My blood felt like ice and my ears picked up heavy static. What monster had I let into my house?

Slowly, she scuttled towards me. Delicately, she extended one leg and placed the contract I had just signed back onto the arm of my chair.

I took the paperwork and nearly gasped at the figure I had signed over. Grace Jones lunged on the television, showing off her rock hard ass.

“Thank you,” I said, and gently took the spider's leg in my hand.

Chris Meekings is a lie to impress the gullible. Don't let him in your house or he will eat all your Jelly Babies.

By SL Koch

After years, Bernard finally pried open his third eye only to see a
spider working between transparent walls outside reality.

Bernard followed, staring intent, boots walked cracked cement, haunted
gaze stole glimpses of chitin curvatures that careened like walking

Desire burned deep, Bernard stroked himself off to his Lord and
spinner. The beast between walls of time showed no notice.

Nine to five cement prisons held only ignorance from which Bernard
awoke. Truth would endanger him, the world would lock him away.
Stumbling city inmates saw no gods outside legislature.

Antiseptic scholars scrubbed city walls clean. Look here! No gods
hidden beneath muck! Filth! Entropic rust! Government regulations
approve no gods!

The Yuan was god this week, radios whispered from insidious darkness.

Before cancer silenced her, mother scolded Bernard that but dollars
spun their lives.

Bernard dreamed every day the taste of mandibles. True love knew no
distance. Passion was a force of bounds remained unbroken.

On Bernard’s path home he saw the Lord’s powerful eyes were upon him.

“Why wish such things of me?” the God’s words embedded into Bernard’s
brain with no voice nor sound outside the echoes of mandibles
Bernard sputtered. “Weaver, my love, I dream every day of you. I long
for your divine taste.”

“You name me, this? Weaver?” rough mandibles chittered deep in his
mind. Bernard doubted now, momentarily, was he insane? “I am but
Egregore. Sentient thoughtform. Grown in infested minds, become real,
loved, until my creators died and became only my thoughts.”

Bernard shuddered, lowered to scraped knees. “Please.”

A god towered, massive, monolith, alien, unsettled.

“To stop the eternal dying I weave the world alive.” the Weaver’s
words shook Bernard, who gazed, then, epiphanic past chitinous frame
to other godthings scuttling beyond the doors of time.

“My heart aches to drink the fountain.” Bernard sobbed upright.

“Taste your creator?” His Lord considered. “You accept this price?”

Bernard crawled, driven, clothes removed to climb and writhe
passionately against shell. A spider kneecap now in mouth as he kissed
delicately, tongue bleeding on jagged spikes.

Bernard felt his flesh unravel.

Bones peeking as meat slipped aside. With difficulty Bernard climbed
over pedipalps to taste for brief seconds, before the illusion of
time, long worn, slid away. No human was truly flesh.

Bones clattered loudly below. With no throat to scream, Bernard’s
tongue pressed upon poison soaked mandibles which folded as his body

Stomach and intestines spiraled upon rough stone, splattering visceral
guts followed. A ribcage and skull remained, Bernard watching his
maker with remaining eye. Even bones and organs reverted to what
they’d always been. Ensanguined chunks faded pale, inert, where only
web remained. Silk, once disguised as Bernard, fallen neat.

“I was truly blessed.” Bernard’s separating consciousness smiled. His
silk remains go to newborns, trees, clouds and streams. “Love is the
binding unbroken.”

Holographic silk had once convinced itself to be a man named Bernard,
now it returned, merging, into the holographic illusion of life. The Weaver continued spinning.

SL Koch is secretly a hollowed out walking battlestation piloted and
maintained by a disparate band of inch tall survivors stranded here on
their mission from another planet. Their personal site remains unfinished, and yet, will be even
when “complete”.

By Groot Marbles

Regan Knox knew what she wanted out of her life. She was only 23 and had her way of living all set up. Stay away from her family and where she grew up and she would get her allowance for life. Five thousand a month. Enough for her apartment, car, food, books and whatever else she needed.

Regan you see, was not exactly what you would call normal. From an early age she dressed in all black, and at the age of 13 she died her tendrils of auburn colored hair as black as her clothing. She was far ahead of her peers however, excelling her to graduate before the age of 15 from highschool. But she didn't like the atmosphere of college and instead chose to stay locked away in her room.

There, she studied what had become her biggest and strongest passion. Entomology. The study of insects. Particularly one variety of insect more then any other that she had become what many would term obsessed with, was the arachnid. Arachnids to her were the absolute gleaming star of the world of bugs. Spiders through and through knew exactly what they wanted, and how to get it. Just like her.

This of course did not bode well with her parents or her siblings. All of her family members were frightened by her and on the day of her eighteenth birthday promptly set up a meeting with the families lawyers, drew up the contracts, and booted her from their home. They had the money to do this as her parents were owners of a family business that owned a quarter of all the businesses in their town of Weschill Valley, Illinois.

Regan, at the age of 23 knew what she wanted in her life. She decorated her apartment with every imaginable drawing and encasement that would adorn her walls, her bedspread and everywhere else with spiders. She fashioned all of her clothes to mimic spiderwebs or the arachnid anatomy any way she could and spent more money then necessary from retailers all over the world. Regan knew what she wanted out of life.

She lay nude on her bed, pale bone white skin. Thin lips. Accentuated hips. The living embodiment of an adult Wednesday Addams. Complete with braids. She lay there and sighed, bored. She looked from her laptops glow in the corner of her apartment and marveled at the desktop. An image of a Goliath Bird eater. This made her smile, if even for a moment. The only friends she could ever want were always the same. Spiders. In some way, shape or form. Spiders. She had little to no use for other human beings. She just simply could not connect the dots for any reason why she needed to have them in her life outside of giving her the conveniences she enjoyed. She closed her eyes and let out another sigh. She considered masturbating but that was lackluster. Perhaps something to eat she pondered in the darkness behind her eyelids. It was past midnight. No, she had already ate earlier and had spent more then she should have on the mountain of books that had still not been open that took up another corner of her apartment. She had to reserve what she had until the next month which was only a week and a half away. She played with the various thoughts in her mind until she began to feel hairs, bristly as they were on either side of her body. It didn't register to open her eyes until she felt the weight on the bed shift and when she did, her hazel eyes met the most largest arachnid she had ever seen. But no scream left her lips. However a very audible purring did.

Marveling at its immense size and body, she could not for the life of her figure out how it could have possibly gotten into her room without her noticing. There was only a small window and the door. But her mind only seemed to flirt with such thoughts as her thighs seemed to move more smoothly against each other then before the sight of the behometh that stood above her on eight legs. She was getting aroused in no time. A dream come true she thought. She closed her eyes and spread her legs, awaiting the beastial wish of wishes to become reality. Regan knew what she wanted out of life.

The next day a small, childsize cocoon was adorned in the corner of the room. A large trail of blood had made a stream down the front from a large hole near the top. Regan was nowhere to be found. But on her bed moved another large cocoon. Inside were hundreds of hungry mouths. And each and every baby spider knew what it wanted out of its life.

Groot eats alot. Groot loves sleep. Groot doesn't get much sleep. Groot likes to play. Sometimes, Groot groots about being, well. Groot. Groot lives with his fiancé in Illinois Southside suburbs. Groot would like to one day see a book of his come into the light of day. For now, Groot just likes to try not to get blown up.

By Ivan Zoric
He's playing Fade To Black tonight.

I can see his legs moving across the web, strumming, all eight working in unison, making 'Tallica sound like cover band in comparison. He’s using the thicker base threads as bass strings and hopping over to the outer edges for Hammet’s solos. He shreds like a pro. How does he get distortion on that thing? Fucker knows me better than I know myself. I wonder how long he has been watching me, out of his corner, hoping for some sort of a connection. Hoping for a friendship.

The first time I heard him, after feeding him a fly out of boredom, he played You Can Call Me Al. Just like that. Real talent, I tell you. Well, if I could prove it to anyone, that is. He's got this WB frog thing down, of course. The moment I show him off he goes silent, weaving his web, minding his business. Oh, but as soon as the guest leaves he will go into I'm Going Slightly Mad. Just to fuck with me. I can't kill him, nor would I want to. He's the best friend I ever had. My arachnobuddy. He can tell the mood I am in before I even realize it.

When I met Dana he played Lovefool all night long, knowing how much the song annoys me. He’s funny like that. When she swore eternal love to me, he went full Type O Negative and Love You To Death was stuck on repeat for good two weeks. Tonight, as my life is falling apart since she's fucking someone else, he goes for the classic. He sees the bottle, the razor and the determination in my step. I will miss my spider. Fucker knows me better than anyone else.

I’m ready. Gin has numbed my limbs and my brain enough so I will not feel much. I look up, but I do not see him in the corner. The web is still vibrating, but all I hear now is a deep rumble, like a storm in the distance. Well, fuck it. I wanted to say goodbye to the only thing loving me these days, but he left just like everyone else. Surprise, surprise.

I grab the razor, eyeing my wrists. They say you’re supposed to cut along not across, if you want to make sure it’s done right. The rug will be ruined, but she bought it anyway. Bitch can burn it for all I care.

The rumble gets louder, almost as it is coming from two different sources now. Out of a corner of my eye, I notice movement across the ceiling.

My friend is back, but this time not alone. There is a huge ass spider next to him. A Sydney funnel-web, no less.

Before I could even utter a word, the riff hits. Last Caress.

I drop the razor, as I realize what he has done for me.

Fucker loves me more than anyone else.

Ivan Zoric lives in Portland, OR after successfully navigating  through treacherous waters of childhood in Serbia. He spends his days dreaming about owls, Corner Worlds and immortality.

by Kevin Strange

I'm not a spider. I'm a Psyder. At least, that's what I call myself.

She left her window cracked. My non-corporeal form slides easily through the opening. I am not flesh, not anymore. I am extra dimensional.

I scuttle into the darkness, the pointed tips of my slender legs gently tapping against the wall as I ascend to the ceiling. The sound echoes through three dimensional space, appearing more as a feeling than a sound.

In life, I was Adrian Green. Serial stalker. Rapist. Killer. So say the papers and the courts. I thought of myself as a watcher. An exterminator. I observed humanity from an objective distance. Cleaned up the weak parts of society. The stuff the rest of the world doesn't want to look at. Doesn't want deal with. People of no consequence. Hookers. Junkies. Hopeless women. Useless women.

I got caught and I got fried.

Or gassed, or poisoned. I don't know how they claim they killed me because they didn't really kill me.
They sold me.

Some lab. Government run. Top secret.

Whatever they thought was going to happen when they shot me up with that vial of quantum goo... well. It didn't end well for them.

Shit hurt like you wouldn't believe. My body melted into a puddle of snot. But I didn't die.

No. I was truly alive. Free to go anywhere. See anything, unobstructed for the first time. With my new formless form, I could become anything I wanted.

So I became a Psyder.

I feed on fear.

I live where it is most potent. Hospitals. War zones. Ghettos.

I'm in a trailer park now. Miserable white trash, too poor to ever escape. I'm bathed in despair. Swim in suffering.

The broken fear me the most. They can see me. See the glow of my arachnid eyes through quantum space. They taste the sweetest as I sink my psychic fangs into their emotional centers. Suck their life energy. Drain their vitality.

They're all terrified of the huge glowing spider in the dark.

Except one.

I've been watching her. Watching her sneak out the back of the trailer when her aging parents are wrecked from drugs and drink.

Watch as she does things to stray cats and squirrels . Watch the grin on her face when they squirm and die. She keeps their carcasses in little hidden drawers. That wicked smile is what I like the most about her. Why I watch her.

Why I must eat her.

She does not scare like the others. Doesn't feel how they feel. She's not afraid of me.

Not yet.

I stop above her bed. My eight eyes glow crimson in the dark. She's there. On the bed. I know she can see me.

Her tits are out. Her hand is in between her legs working in and out of her holes.

My mandibles twitch with anticipation. My thorax throbs.

She's mumbling.


There are books splayed across her bed. I lay a line of metaphysical thread into the ceiling and descend, slowly, to get a better look.

There are symbols in the books. Next to her nude, writhing form, a bowl filled with... blood? A
wound in her hand is wrapped with fresh bandages.

I get closer. She's drawn the books' symbols onto her bed sheets.

She cries out. Faster and faster she plunges fingers in and out, back and forth, sweat running
between her tits.

I grow a human hand and a human cock from my volatile form. Begin to stroke it in rhythm to her breathing.

Just like old times.

It's then that I notice a larger circle drawn in some sort of salt and spices on the floor around her.
She rolls off the bed and outside the circle. She's screaming words now.

I feel strange. My full form comes into view. I become solid. I drop to the bed and bare my fangs.

She is not afraid.

The window. She left it open on purpose.

She throws the bowl at me. I am covered in her blood.

It grows hot. Hotter by the second. I fling myself at her, all mouths and claws, exaggerating my spider form.

I slam into some invisible barrier. I cannot cross the salt. I rage against the transparent wall.

She smiles. “Got you, fucker.”

The pain is great. My body feels like its burning. Searing. Melting.

Kevin Strange doesn't really jack off to spiders. He writes books at, which is kind of like the artistic equivalent of jacking off to spiders. Or not that at all, actually.

Discovered by Leigham Shardlow

Dr. Widow; Love MD
Episode two: Romancing the Operating Theatre
Scene 27

The scene opens on a sick man dying in a hospital bed.

Sick Man: My organs feel like they're liquidating.

Dr. Widow MD storms on screen.

*The Audience goes wild*

Dr. Widow: I'm the Doctor here, I'll make the diagnosis if you don't mind, Baby doll.

Man: I'm dying.

Dr. Widow: Nonsense I'm here now, you'll be fine in my skilled eight hands, Cherry pie.

Man: Eight what?

Nurse Tuger gracefully walks onto set fixing her hair.

*The Audience Oohs and Ahhs*

Nurse Tuger: Those stupid stylists didn't show up today.

Dr. Widow: (whispering) Cameras are rolling, Bunny Snuggles.

Nurse Tuger: Oh shit, I mean. Doctor Widow this man is in poor health, ever since my vacation to volcano island I've seen nothing but sick people. I long for a strong Doctor to save me from all the filth and death.

Man: Death?

Dr. Widow: I can't talk now sexy nurse person, this mans organs are about to liquify, fetch me my
equipment, Honey muffin.

Nurse Tuger Sits runs off camera and returns a second later with a cart full of medical equipment and a screen that periodically goes "boing"

Dr. Widow: Sponge, Sexy momma.

She hands the sponge.

Dr. Widow: Medicinal alcohol, Kissy fur.

She hands it over a large bottle with a skull and crossbones printed on it and he drinks from it.

Nurse Tuger: *Whispers* You can't drink that, you'll spoil your lunch.

Dr. Widow: Dammit woman I don't have time for your mewling. Hand me the straws, Beautiful dreamer.

She hands him the straws. 

Man: Straws?

Dr. Widow stabs the straws into the mans neck and begins to suck on them.

Sick Man: He's drinking my organs, someone stop him please.

*The Audience starts screaming*

Nurse Tuger: Oh yeah baby, suck him dry.

Dr. Widow: Damn that shit's tight, Nipple Clamp Pussy Licker.

Nurse Tuger takes a straw and feeds with him.

Sick Man: *Gurgles and then dies*

*The sound of the Audience trying to escape and their screams become louder*

Dr. Widow: I love you Baby.

Nurse Tuger: I love you too.

Huge long hairy arms sprout from their backs and they start making out.

A makeshift Molotov cocktail explodes on set covering the kissing lovers in fire.

Nurse Tuger: I burn but our children shall be free.

The sick man's head explodes and thousands of tiny spiders pour from within, they attack the audience.

#Camera zooms in on Dr. Widow#

Dr. Widow: *To Camera* Tune in next time for more chills, thrills and romantic adventures with me Doctor Widow, Love MD.

He collapses, smoke and flames still rising from spider like body

Cheesy music plays, house lights dim, cut to black.

#Sound of Audience screaming eventually dies out and the crackling fire continues for hours#

Leigham has neither starred nor directed any spider massacres for the small screen. If anyone says that he has he'll sue them and drink their organs.

By Jon James

“Are you awake?” I heard, not through normal ears, but all over my legs and head and back.

I tried opening my eyes, but they were already open. What I could see through them was dim and blurry, little more than the sensation of light or darkness. I felt a compulsion to the darkness.

My mind was a whirlpool, overwhelmed by unfamiliar sensations and cravings, but as I slowly accustomed to them, my memories began to float into the forefront.

I was 8bit, or at least that’s what I was known by in recent memories. Whatever birth name I may have had was too atrophied to overcome the vortex. There was something under there somewhere, something I instinctively swam away from when it started to rise.

I lifted a leg, long and slender. Then the rest in turn, all eight of them. I moved my mouthparts around. I flexed my spinnerets. I felt…dangerous. That caused me to remember.

I had been raped. I was fat, and ugly, and I drank a lot at the bar and basically begged men to take me home. But that night, I drank even more after my best friend -- no, my ex-best friend, Betty, went home with this Aussie guy I had been flirting with. I tried to walk home but I passed out in the doorway of some boutique on the way.

I remembered waking up to being moved. I remembered saying “No” as loudly as I could through vomit encrusted lips. I remembered feeling ripped open as multiple things entered me, through my mouth, through my vagina, through my anus. I remembered skin and pain and shame until I passed out again.

I climbed down off the surgery table gracefully, the doctor watching me. I reached a leg out to him.

He flinched momentarily. Seeing him afraid made me feel good.

I touched his cheek in gratitude, and headed out into the night, in the bad part of town where his surgery center was able to go unnoticed among the drugs and the crime.

The morning after my rape, I had awakened to a cop nudging me. He told me to get home before he ticketed me for indecency.

I tried to tell him that I had been raped. He just looked at my naked body, and the puke-covered dress

I had used as a pillow and said he doubted that.

I had pulled on the soiled dress and went home. I stopped leaving the house at all. I never talked to Betty again. I ordered groceries delivered to my door. I wrote shitty SEO articles to pay the internet bills. I spent the rest of my time on the web, making friends who would never see my ugly body.

Until one of them told me about the procedure.

I flexed my chelicerae, tapping my long fangs together. I could feel the venom glands swelling in anticipation. That was all behind me now. I was a totally different kind of girl now.

Jon James dwells in Lansing, Michigan, where he hopes to one day write something his mom can read. Today is not that day. Better luck next time, mom. For more of his weird shit, check out his podcast at

by Samuel L.F.

Ai's eight-legged form towered over his worshipers. To them, his massive arachnid body was that of a god. He stood coated in blood from a battle with a neighboring tribe. His small army of men celebrated. They'd captured one prisoner, slung over the spider's back; the rest were dead.

Ai dropped the man to the ground, whose hands were bound with silver thread. He lifted one sleek, black leg and brushed it against the man's thigh. They had different cultures and languages, but Ai could communicate in a different way—the oldest they had.

He made slow love with the human. Put each of his prisoner's limbs to full use before tearing it from his body. With his set of fangs he marked the man's flesh, claimed it as his own. Once he finished he skinned him.

By sunrise the affair was over. The people feasted, crying Ai repeatedly as they laid their meal's bones to rest.

Samuel L.F. is a horror writer from Forestburgh, NY. His short story appeared in the July 2015 issue of the Blood Moon Rising Magazine.

by Lee A. Forman

Thin strands of silvery white envelop me in silky embrace. My body wrapped, hung, and waiting…

She creeps from above, eight legs clawing their way down the web. My abdomen tingles, knowing

I’ll soon be liquefied and sucked inside. How wonderful a thought to be within my sweetheart.

Her venomous bite like a sweet first kiss, I longed for it since the moment I was stuck in the world she created.

Just a common moth, what love was there for me but in her body? I could sustain her, keep her alive, be her delicious salvation from hunger. What better way to serve such a dear creature?

She comes ever closer. My wings try to flutter in excitement.

Her fangs inject me with digestive enzymes. All fades as my insides liquefy and she begins to drink.

Lee Forman is a fiction writer from the Hudson Valley, NY. For more information go to

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