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

Monday, July 18, 2016

Spider Romance Microfiction Week Two!

by Betty Rocksteady

Welcome to week two of my spider romance microfiction extravaganza!! I'm the author of this year's NBAS title Arachnophile, which tells a surreal and horrific tale between the love of man and spider. Inspired by that, I have been inviting people to submit their own spider romance tales!

Guys, you made my job super hard this week. These stories are all fantastic and I'm so excited to share them with everyone. And if after you read them you're inspired, you're in luck, because there are TWO MORE WEEKS of spider weirdness coming at you. The (real easy) rules are here, and I'd love to get more tales from authors who have already been playing too! 

So this week, Kevin Strange battled you all out for first place and he gets an ebook of the NBAS title of his choice. His story PREGNANT happened to hit on a couple of my fave things - weirdo pregnancy and the horrific and bizarre. Last week's winner STARTING OUT was a straight up romance, so this is a cool change of pace. 

What else have I got for ya? Well, there's ten stories altogether here and there's something for every taste, from Tiffany Morris' coming of age story, to Leigham Shardlow's hilarious sea spider story, to Goathead Buckley's.... I'm not even quite sure what that is to be honest, but its great. I think you'll like them all. 

Here they are in the order I received them! Which one is your fave?

by Sam Richard

I can’t help but watch her undress. Each night, after a few glasses of wine or a couple of beers – depending on if she’s depressed or lonely or upbeat or merely coping with the weight of the day – she wanders to our bedroom to sink into the velvet black of sleep. Anticipating her tiredness, I try to make my way towards the bed a bit before her, so I can find the perfect viewing platform; the headboard has been a favorite lately. Unless she’s in a mood and drinks the whole bottle of wine, or he is here, she drips of elegance and sensuality as she unbuttons her form-fitting blouse. Though watching her incredible ass escape the confines of their denim prison is ever my favorite. Not sure if she swings my way, but tonight is special, not long after the bra is snapped off, I will make my move.

I’ve not always had this confidence. Before my love moved in, I was living alone with the piece of shit. For one, he never cleaned. He also spent all day sitting on his couch, alternating between sleep, jerking off, and watching mind-numbing daytime television; and he barely showered. I had tried my best to make it work, as one is forced to when sharing space with someone else. But he grossed me out, made me angry, and I’m just not into men, so there was no fringe benefit of the situation. But she appeared and changed everything, despite my trepidation.

I think I was still rebounding from my previous lover, as well, who was a nerdy brunette who created a library out of the living room. Her smells were divine and her aura calming and radiant, I couldn’t help but fall for her. I was just getting my ritual in place – I was still quite a young lady in those days – but the night finally came where it felt right.

We had played our game of cat and mouse, our back and forth of eyes, legs, shoes, and books. Our lust came to a crescendo, and I knew I couldn’t hold back any longer. I lay waiting in her bed, near her feet, hoping to build our passion with teasing touches upon her feet and legs. She crawled into bed and we played our game. I teased and prodded and caressed and bit, and we passed out, wrapped in a web of satisfaction. But two days later, the men came and took her, they tore her cold skin from me, from our place of passion.

Admittedly, I was still a bit heartbroken after that loss, not sure if I was completely ready to move forward with my new love. But then she beckoned me forth from my tower, lording over me with the presence of a Goddess; I couldn’t help but stare at her wonderful breasts, pleading them to come closer. From nowhere, rippling, white fabric obscured my view and soon I succumbed to the dark, awash in a swirling sea.

“Hey Tom, I got that huge fucking spider!”

Sam Richard is the co-editor of Blood for You: A Lit Tribute to GG Allin and Hybrid Moments: A Lit Tribute to The Misfits, and has written for various publications including: Splatterpunk Zine, Profane Existence, CvltNation, and The Pulse. He is currently, and slowly, working on several transgressive and vile projects that will eventually see the light of day, and is personally available on a plethora of social media platforms.

from Goathead Buckley

Dear Betty Rocksteady,

 I cannot say how perturbed I am that you have chosen to host a contest concerned with an ailment that has afflicted me since I ran hallucinogenic mold with the Black Saucermen to the refugees of New Martian Jesus City during the '23 rebellion. I write ailment in error, for what I suffer from is more of an infatuation with a certain area of my mind to the detriment of the others. You see, I was caught thrice-crosswise betwixt a powerful mind control ray, an orgone grenade, and a poisoned dart. A dart poisoned, in fact, with the venom of a large, pyramid dwelling arachnid named Mrrphuk.

 I am on Earth once again, as you may suspect, but this fact of physical location means nothing. I cannot sleep lest I see Mrrphuk crawl from the sideways spaces in my dreams, dripping with a thick ichor. Whether or not this liquid is her sexual perspiration or the very venom that causes my dreams I do try every night to discern. Alas, I am unable in these dreams to manifest the will to reach out my hand or, dare I say, my tongue to touch and taste the excretion of my thousand-eyed darling. I yearn until my cock grows claws to rip itself free of my dream-form and crawl forward, throbbing and bleeding upon the ground like a bisected, willful laboratory worm.

 I apologize for the gruesome image. I wish it were only in dreams that visions such as these came spilling from my brain. Lately, however, I cannot greet the sun without a hundred species of arachnids leaving carefully wrapped prizes at my feet. Mostly they leave candy hearts with phrases such as: “I Luv You”, “Be Mine”, and “Come Back to Mars and Fuck My 8 Legs Off”. The call resounds deeper everyday in my soul.

 I have begun to assemble a ship capable of transporting me back to Mars. I cannot tell you the details of this ship because I build it mainly in dreams and the physics are those of the mad. I can tell you this, however: when I enter that doorway shaped as a neon spider pussy and take control of the Orgone Exchange Modulator, you will not have to call the air force with panic in your voice to report strange lights in the sky. They will already know. Everyone will know and that is why I have built the ship to last only one single voyage. I will not return to Earth. I will not be ostracized for my wicked ways. I will not die a spider-fucking weirdo. I will die when Mrrphuk is inseminated with my seed and she tenderly releases my head from my body in order to feed them that will be my legacy.


Goathead Buckley

Goathead Buckley maintains, a book habit, and his glee at the rising of the oppressor sun from the shores of the mighty Scum.

by Tiffany Morris

I closed my locker and tried not to stare as she skittered gracefully down the hallway. It had been eight days since our (admittedly, kind of awkward) kiss outside of Jeff's party. One day for each of Arachnara's eight bright, shining eyes that ignored me as she passed me on the way to Calculus.

“Hey, there's gonna be a party tonight,” Jeff said as he approached.

“Nice! Where?”


“Do you think Arachnara will go?”

Jeff rolled his eyes. “Probably.”

“Awesome,” I said. “That's perfect.” Jeff opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.

“I'm late,” I told him. “See you at lunch.” The walk to Chemistry was a blur. Tonight would be the night.

I walked to Carson's, my heart thrumming in nervous anticipation. As I passed the endless identical houses of my neighbourhood porch lights buzzed and sprinklers loosened water across lush green grass. When I rang the doorbell, a spider I didn't recognize answered, drunk and unsteady on his legs.

“Hey,” I said. “Is Carson around?” The spider nodded and opened the door wider. I followed him inside. I scanned the room for Arachnara, but didn't see her. Human and spider bodies milled together, their laughter and shouts like waves cresting over the pounding music. I pushed through the crowd, past the line at the beer keg. I spotted a cluster of her friends, spiders preening above their compact mirrors. “Have you seen Arachnara?” They ignored me. I didn't move. Finally, her best friend, Charantara, gestured vaguely at the patio door.

I opened it with a soft whoosh. Aranchnara was out there, her body awash in the yellow glow of the patio lanterns. Her back was to me, her voice angry and low. I stood back. One of her legs pulled back and slapped Carson. She hissed and ran down the steps. I started to follow. Jeff grabbed my arm.

“Don't get involved.” I stared at him. “Oh, c'mon, Brady, you know how it is with those spider chicks.”

“No, Jeff,” I said. I fixed him with a steely gaze. “I don't. I guess I don't see the world that way.”
I shoved him off of me and ran out into the street. “Arachnara!” I shouted. She kept walking. I followed her.

The black asphalt driveways and sighing sycamores guided my way through the growing night. She darted into into the small thicket of trees at the end of the lane, where she sat on a tree stump, her giant abdomen heaving in sobs. I caught up to her. She didn't look up.

“Look, I know you might not want to hear this right now, but that kiss last week...that meant something. Didn't it?” She pulled her head up and looked at me, her eyes as deep and dark as the sky.

What felt like an eternity of silence passed between us. Finally, she nodded, then put her hand in mine.

She led me over to a stack of white, gauzy orbs. I didn't know what waited for us in those writhing silken orbs. But for once, the dark of suburbia felt like the future.

Tiffany Morris is a horror writer from Nova Scotia. She has never written romance before and probably never will again. Find her at

by Eirik Gumeny

“And do you, Ryan, take ...” The priest cocked an eyebrow at the groom, before snapping his bible shut. “Is there something wrong?”

“What?” The young man shook his head. “Sorry. It’s just …”

“What, Ryan?” asked Erin, the bride, clutching his hands nervously.

“Just … Why are there so many spiders in here?” He looked toward the teeming mass of arachnids crawling over the entire right half of the church. He pointed. “There is a giant tarantula sitting on your grandmother’s shoulder.”

“Him?” asked Grandma Ethel, tickling the tarantula beneath his chelicerae. “This’s Cousin Fred. He don’t see so well, so I let ‘im sit up here.”

“Cousin?” asked Ryan.

“I’m half-spider, honey,” explained Erin, furrowing her brow. “On my father’s side. I told you that.”

“I thought you meant, like, astrologically.”

“No, sweetie. Daddy was a wolf spider.”

“It’s true,” added Bev, Erin’s mother, from the front row. “I was out camping one night, had a little too much to drink, a lot too much peyote, and this very attractive spider started crawling up next to me. I started singing songs to him, and, well, nine months later there Erin was.”

“I don’t think that’s how –” began Ryan.

“She’s one in a million, that one,” lilted the mother.

“Well, yeah, but … I don’t understand …”

“He crawled into my vagina, honey,” explained Bev, matter-of-factly. “That’s what I’m trying to say.” She turned to the nest of black widows swarming beside her. “Was I not clear?”

“Shouldn’t you have told me?” asked Ryan, turning back to Erin.

“I did tell you,” she said, stunned. “Plus, I mean, the webs all over the apartment …”

“I thought you were a really prolific knitter.”

“Well, what about that thing you like …”

“What? What thing?” he asked.

“When I pin your wrists against the bed and then I you know while still also playing with your you know …”

“Oh. Oh!”

“That’s how I landed Luke too!” shouted Miranda, Erin’s sister. The church crowd erupted in hoots of laughter.

“I guess I never gave it much thought,” said Ryan. Then, whispering, “How, uh, how do you do that?”

Erin opened her mouth Predator-style, her skin sliding backward off her head and revealing eight eyes, a set of glistening fangs and two large, fuzzy palpi.

“Oh damn.” Then: “Are there any other spidery things I should know about?”

“Really just the shooting webs out of my tush. And I can store your sperm in my insides until we’re ready to have kids.”

“I can live with that,” he said, quietly adding, “as long as you keep doing that thing.”
Erin’s skin slid back over her head, blushing brightly.

“I think we just wrote our own vows,” she giggled.

“No. You didn’t,” the priest said gravely. “This is a Catholic church. Your vows were written two thousand years ago.” He opened the Bible again. “Now, if you’re ready, let’s get this over with. There’s a funeral at three.”

Eirik Gumeny was a boxing kangaroo who died, tragically and violently, in the ring in 1923, fighting Teddy Roosevelt and a time-traveling Muhammad Ali. Internet him at or tweeter him at @egumeny.

by Devin Anderson

Rigoberto the recluse waited patiently for the giantess to pass him by. He fantasized about sinking his fangs into pudgy kankle meat, filling flesh with his necrotizing poison. Anger demanded retaliation for the destruction of his mate, and their sack of spiderlings. His entire brood slaughtered in one foul spray of bottled arachnid-death. Fury seethed behind his many eyes.

However instinct was a fickle mistress, and his need for survival outweighed any dreams of revenge. His chitinous loins burned for another mate, another chance at procreation. Every fiber of his tiny body yearned for the shivering release that fertilizing bulging sacks of freshly laid eggs would bring. Rigo was one horny little spider.

He scoured the exterior of the giantess’ abode, first looking for another recluse, then lowering his standards to other less attractive spiders. He crawled, climbed and delved, but he couldn't find one suitable mate. It was maddening, to think that the giantess had wrought such a genocidal holy war against spider kind, and left him to die alone.

Perhaps inside the giantess’ stone nest there were other survivors such as him, alone and afraid, and more importantly, desperate for copulation. Beggars can't be choosers, after all.

Rigo entered through an open window, hugging the shadows within until he was safely hidden beneath the hulking plateau where the giantess slept. He searched the bedroom, then ventured out into the labyrinth of the gargantuan home.

The home was infested with a plethora of insects, all of whom insisted that arachnids had been obliterated long ago. Rigo sampled a few of the more delicious looking prey, slurping as he interrogated their kin. They seemed unperturbed.

He returned to the sleeping giantess’ chamber. Thunderous snoring grated upon his spider soul, that she could slumber so soundly when his very existence dangled from a broken web, awoke a lustful rage within him.

Silently Rigo crept up onto the bed, pausing in caution as the giantess choked on sleep apnea.

“¡Espero que el estrangulador a la muerte en su saliva maloliente, Puta!” He hissed, traversing the valley of her legs.

The foreboding cave at the valley's end belched forth noxious gasses, a grim warning to any foolish enough to dare traverse its putrescence. Rigo entered without hesitation.

Deep within the slimy depths he found it, an egg delicately attached to the bloody uterine walls of his new horrific home. Procreation was inevitable.

D.M. Anderson hides inside his hermitage, leaving occasionally to scavenge for food and toiletries. When he isn’t setting a bad example for his kids, he’s mercilessly beating his head against the keyboard, hoping something interesting spills out onto the screen.

by Stuart Conover

Sarah hated herself.

What was the point in being the perfect genetically engineered species of spider if you were yesterday’s news? Of course, not everything was perfect. The increased brain size meant emotions which had been unheard of in arachnids.

Ever since Doctor Markus was able to get his hands on the 100 Clicker eggs they were all he cared about.

Sarah’s father had abandoned her.

She would show him. One of the Clickers were going through the same experiment that had made her and since she had access to that lab…

Well, accident happen.

Entering was easy. Doing so in a way that cameras wouldn’t detect her wasn’t. However, even at 3 feet long being able to walk on ceilings helped.

Entering the room, Sarah rubbed her pedipalps together in anticipation. All she wanted was to drain the beast dry. The thought of alien blood sounded exotic.

Her fangs salivated at the thought.

She crept into the dimly illuminated room. Her eyes had no problem adapting to darkness.

Unsure where the Clicker was, she slowly worked her way around the ceiling. Looking for her query, she heard it first.

The hairs on her legs picked up the vibrations and she understood why they were called Clickers. Clicking was the only way Sarah could even begin to describe how the sound.

Dropping down, Sarah was at the cage with her prey.

The glass protection was tinted, not allowing her eyes to see in.

Of course they would lock it up.

Just as Sarah had been after her own birth.

The beast would be out of its misery soon enough.

Sarah opened the door and slid through. Before the Clicker a shiver ran through her exoskeleton as she inhaled.

Its smell was… intoxicating.

Shaking, Sarah knew something was wrong. She had to eliminate this threat…

This temptation.

The obsidian armor gleamed even in the low light. Each move was graceful yet with purpose as it came to her.

“Can you understand me?” she asked.

No response.

It just drew closer.

“Do you know that I’ve come to end you?”

Her legs flexed as she readied herself for action as The Clicker stopped.

Staring at it this close she grew lightheaded.

A work of art.

She had to end it, feast on its blood.

To have it.

She pounced and it spun, catching her in midair and throwing her to the ground.

She felt it pressing against her. Suddenly aware that it was actually a him.

Fangs out she pierced the neck as the Clicker pierced her.

Each tightening their hold, legs entwined crushing one another’s thorax’s, crying out in pleasure and in pain.

Each thrust of The Clicker matching her own bringing rolling waves of lust which only increased the tempo of their attacks.

Until neither had the energy or life left to move.

The Clicker lay on her.



Her view faded.

She had been so sure that women were the only ones who ate their mates. 

Stuart Conover is a father, husband, rescue dog owner, horror author, blogger, journalist, horror enthusiast, comic book geek, science fiction junkie, and IT professional from the Chicagoland Area whose work you can find over at With all of that to cram in on a daily basis, it is highly debatable that he ever is able to sleep and rumors have him attached to an IV drip of caffeine to get through most days.

by Ian Willingham 

David flinched. He’d held the arachnid in front of his face and two of its thick black legs had jutted out, stopping just short of his eye balls, causing him to throw his head back reflexively. Fortunately he didn’t drop the thing, or clench a fist, else it may have suffered, he thought, hardy as it appeared. It was a big old thing, nearly completely covering the palm of his hand with a meaty, neatly rounded torso, shaped like a miniature rugby ball. Its yellow eyes were the colour of ripe lemons. David thought he saw it blink - or maybe wink - moments before it slipped quickly through his fingers, dived on a fresh spider thread down, down, down, moving effortlessly down past his abdomen, through the top of his trousers and settling quickly in his underpants. For the briefest moment, the wriggling stopped. David held his breath. Moments later, the creature’s teeth engaged and David let out a cry of pure unadulterated joy.

He’d waited this long for Sophie to join him after the party. A workaholic, she was busy entertaining clients, as per usual. They fantasised about sharing this moment together, but he’d become impatient and also worried for the creature’s wellbeing. It had arrived from China in a simple cardboard box, the opening sellotaped several times over, presumably in a bid to prevent what was inside from escaping. It had spent seven days in transit. As David cut the tape with a pair of kitchen scissors, he felt sure the poor thing might be dead, but had been surprised to find it alive and well and already wearing the lingerie add-on he’d ordered, which no sooner had he caught sight of, than he tore off in a frenzy, tossing it to the bedroom floor, his excitement growing to almost uncontrollable levels.

Now with the thing in his pants, David was at fever pitch. He steadied himself against the wardrobe mirror and took in his full arousal in its reflection. The spider was working its magic, nibbling and caressing, running and weaving. It was just as he’d hoped it would be; pleasure on a level he could never experience with another human being. It was delicate, it was precise. At times it felt like nothing more than tiny pin pricks, but it was more the thought than anything that drove David towards the brink.

He must have been mere milliseconds away from climax when Sophie stepped into the room, killing his arousal. Without acknowledging him, she moved straight for the bed and began to search for something underneath.

He turned from the mirror, ready to explain his charged state, but instead found himself fixated on the bed. Sophie lay flat on her back across it, a cardboard box torn open beside her. David watched as about a hundred arachnids poured out onto her belly and quickly moved to between her legs.

“So,” she began, her voice its usual steady monotone, “I notice you’ve finally seen the light.”

Ian is a 30 something from England and writes for pleasure as well as for pain. His main interest is in playwrighting and he has in the past produced a couple of his own plays for a local theatre company.  Occasionally he dabbles in surreal micro-fiction.

by Kevin Strange 

“You say you're... pregnant, boy?”

 The officer scratched at his pockmarked chin as he looked at the kid.

“Yes, sir.”

The officer sat back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head.

“You come up here in my station with scratches all over your body, covered in cob webs and a big fat belly, hollering 'lock me up! It's almost time! They're coming!' and you expect me to believe you've got babies all up inside you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how'd they get there?”

“You wouldn't believe me.”

The officer clenched his jaw. “Boy, you socked one of my deputies in the mouth then swiped a pistol off another, threatening the whole damn lot of us if we didn't put you in a cell. We would'a been well within our rights to put a bullet right square 'tween your eyes for what you come in here and done. Now you tell me, what're you on got you so worked into a tissy you think you somehow got yourself knocked up?”

“You really wanna know?”

The officer let the legs of his chair slam onto the ground. “Don't you fuck with me, kid. I'll put you in a box with so many big dick, horny, low life degenerates you'll wish I'd put one in your skull time they're through with you!”

“I fucked a spider.”

“What the fuck did you say to me?”

“A big one.”

The officer stared ahead, not saying a word.

The kid continued. “Remember that toxic waste spill last year? Sludge must have got down deep in the Earth. I like to hike the caves on the west side. The dark, cool space calms me down when daddy's on one of his benders and momma's on the dope again.

So I'm down there last night, having myself a wank in the dark—best place to do it, in my opinion—and all of a sudden I feel a warm, thick, heaviness slide over my cock and balls.

I let it move up and down my shaft for a bit, wondering if some gal had followed me down.

Eventually, I busted my nut way up inside the heaviness. That's when curiosity got the best of me and I flicked my lighter, dick still way up in there, squishing around in my own juices.

I guess the toxic waste did something to the plants and animals in the caves cause what I had my dick buried in was the ass end of a spider big as my car!”

The officer stared at the beat up kid, grinding his teeth, tapping his fingers against the table. His patience was running out.

“After I screamed and yanked my dick outta the spider's ass, I tried to make a run for it but I wasn't getting anywhere. Thing was quick as shit, had me up in her claws, spinning me into a web lickity split. Figured I was donzoes at that point. Especially when it turned around and stuck its huge ass into my stomach! That felt like a hot knife cutting into me! I know what them spiders do to their prey. I watch discovery channel. They inject poison into their prey and liquify their insides. Suck up their innards like soup. Well, that didn't happen to me.

I wake up this morning with this feeling inside my head. Not like a voice. Just a feeling. Telling me to walk back to town. Walk to where there's a whole lotta people.”

The officer stood up and dropped his fists on the table with a loud THUNK. “You should'a went down to the pub you wanna tell stories. Lots'a dumb asses down there'll
believe any kind of story you feed em. Coming to my station spoutin' some bullshit story?You bored or something? Lonely?”

“No, officer.” The kid's face contorted with pain. His T-shirt began to roil as something beneath moved around. “I came here cause my babies's gonna need food when they hatch.”

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.

by Leigham Shardlow

I had snuck into the Laboratory as silent as an assassin, ball peen hammer in hand. It's head still smeared with brown blood from a mouse I had caught sometime ago.

The Tank which housed the gilled Spider had been covered with a sheet and I slowly moved it aside to see my victim. Intending to wake it from slumber and see it's tears as I threatened each leg with a good squashing before killing it swiftly. I was stopped from doing so by the astonishing visage of the spider floating in the center of the tank delicately putting on a little pink negligee.

Like a reverse striptease, it put on it's stockings softly one leg at a time. Panties covered it's abdomen tightly, showing off it's curves. Awestruck I dropped the hammer something about the way it caressed itself made my stomach leap. I had not felt this way before, not even when I shaved Mother dearest's nipples for her.

The Spider looked into my prying eyes, it didn't stop or act shocked in fact it winked sultry at me with four of it's eight eyes.

As it lit a cigarette and blew smoke bubbles my trousers grew tighter. I tore the curtain off before leaping in.

Ripping my clothes off I grabbed the spider and kissed it. It resisted at first then i felt it relax before it pushed a pill into my mouth. I swallowed in surprise. It's gills vibrated with excitement as the Spider pulled me onto my knees plunging my head underwater.

I swallowed a mouthful of water but I didn't care about drowning I was filled with an comfortable numbness almost immediately. The Spier awkwardly swam into my trousers and then I felt it's huge erection against my bottom as it tried to enter me.

My hole seemed to tear as it penetrated me with it's strangely shaped love pump. Each thrust should have been more painful but either I was drowning or the pill and numbed me completely as I felt next to nothing but bliss. Finally the spider gushed it's web in me, left my trousers and with a small push it threw me from the tank.

I lay on the floor of the laboratory blood and sticky web leaking from me as the Spider made a phone call.

I blacked out awakening in the back of a van, several tarantulas were taking there turns violating me as the Sea Spider had done so.

Two days later I awoke in a hospital bed, my hole stitched almost closed. The Doctors said I was found naked in the woods. Mother dearest didn't come to see me but the Sea spider did.

It looked sad and remorseful as a scientist wheeled in the tank. I pressed my face against the glass and whispered "You didn't need to force me, I wanted to anyway"

The Sea Spider cried and after a brief talk I got it's phone number. I had never been so happy.

Leigham hopes his parents don't read this story, as he's supposed to have been dead for years and doesn't want to upset them any further.

by Lee A. Forman 

Gregory glanced up from his cards and spied the faces of those around him. Everyone wore a stone expression, each face unreadable. The pot already contained three hundred dollars. He held an ace and a king, not a bad hand to start.

“Greg!” His wife’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “How’s it going out there?”

“Just fine, dear. We’ll be done soon.”

Harold dropped the turn card. Greg struggled to keep a straight face. A three didn’t help.
He sensed the tension in their air, the carved rock faces of his competitors about to crumble. But they held their shape.

Greg placed a bet of five-hundred.

Ben looked to his competitors. “I’m out, guys.”

Charlie saw Greg’s bet but didn’t raise.

Harold looked back and forth between Charlie and Greg, sweat dripping down his cheeks in spite of the air conditioning. “That’s it, I’m out too.” He then put down the river card.

Greg nearly jumped from his seat when he saw the king, but managed to stay calm. He bet a grand.

“You’re fucking with me,” Charlie said.

Greg gave no reply.

“Fine, you bastard. Let’s have a go. I’ll see your thousand. And I’ll raise you…” He spread his money out on the table, then slid the cash into a pile and tossed it into the pot. “A thousand.”

Greg struggled with his decision. What to do? He saw the bet and dropped another grand onto the pile.

“Alright, what do you got?” Charlie asked after throwing down his pair of queens.

Greg flipped his ace.

“That ain’t shit,” Charlie said.

Greg put down his king.

“Son of a bitch!” Charlie slammed his fist on the table.

Greg wrapped his arms around the pot and pulled it to his chest. “Sorry guys!”

“You’re not sorry, you shit!” Charlie removed his hat and crumpled it in his hands.

“You boys okay in there?” Greg’s wife asked from the kitchen.

“Yes, love!” Greg answered. “I cleaned ‘em out tonight!”

“Oh, good for you, dear!” She replied. “Can I come out now?”

“Yes, Martha. The game’s over. They’re all yours.”

The kitchen door swung open and a hairy, black appendage emerged.

“What the fuck is that?” Charlie screamed.

Everyone stood from the table and tried to run for the exit. Greg sat and watched.

Ben made it to the door first, opened it and ran into an enormous silk web. He tried to break free but only managed to entangle himself further.

Greg smiled at his wife who came over and wrapped two of her enormous front legs around him. Her mandibles rubbed against the side of his face.

“It turns me on so much when you win,” she said.

He rubbed her palps. “Then I’m glad I won.”

She released her husband and wrapped Charlie and Harold in silk.

“I’ll save them for later. Let’s go to the bedroom.”

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