No Spider Harmed in the Making of this Book E-Book

Jennifer A. McGowan

• Herausgeber: Arachne Press
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 162

Beschreibung

Stand up for the small and not especially cuddly! Back in September 2019 we were inspired by Lady Hale and distracted by her spider brooch. Then we realised we were coming up to our 8th Anniversary in August 2020. What better way to celebrate than with a book of Spider related stories and poems? Poets and authors from around the world responded in astonishing numbers to our call out for work that celebrates the spider, and in which the spider survives, triumphs, and provides a role model. Our writers have given the nod to Anansi, Robert the Bruce, Miss Muffet, and of course, Arachne herself, as well as discovering whole new worlds of spider influence and metaphor, with many stories dipping into Fantasy and Science Fiction. A joy for any arachnid fancier, and anyone who can't stand small lives being trampled, in prejudice or phobia.

Leseprobe

Contents

Introduction

Cherry Potts

Poems

Moonlight is Web-Coloured

Emma Lee

recluse

Eugene Goldin

Spider Queen

Jennifer Rood

Spider Haiku

Hugh Findlay

Spider

Elizabeth Ditty

Spin

Kate Foley

Conversation, September Garden

Chris Cantu

The Industry of Spiders

Tricia Knoll

The Matter of the Metta Bhavanna

Seth Crook

Courtship

Mark Andrew Heathcote

Gifted

Joanne L.M. Williams

Femmes Fatales

Stella Wulf

If You Kill a Spider, the Rain Will Come

Natalie Rowe

Lady Hale

Jennifer McGowan

Mayday

Daisy Bassen

Ms Muffet Considers her Options

Sarah Lawson

Money Spider

Tracy Davidson

Arachne in Bloom: An Evocation

Federica Santini

Stories

Spiders I Have Known

Martha Nance

Spidergirl

Margaret Crompton

Revenge. One JSTOR Article at a Time

Daniel Olivieri

Even People Who’d Been Accidentally Turned into Giant Murderous Mutant Spiders

A. Katherine Black

Clearing Out the Shed

Phoebe Demeger

Anansi and the Monkey’s Tale

J.A. Hopper

Suspended

CL Wearne

Arachnomancy

Peter T Donahue

Goodbye, Spider

Jackie Taylor

Spider Circus

Patty Tomsky

Stowaway

David Mathews

With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility

Helen Morris

The Aspects of Arax

Maria Kyle

Sicarius

Carolyn Robertson

Barefoot

David Mathews

Interspecies Peace and Love Song

Guy Russell

Across the Dark Void

KT Wagner

Web of Life

Elizabeth Hopkinson

Thanks to our

Arachne Friends

Catriona Jarvis and Maria Kirby

for their support for this book

No Spider Harmed

in the Making of

This Book

This book is dedicated to

Lady Hale, and her spider brooch

(UK Supreme Court, 24th September 2019)

Introduction

Cherry Potts

Eight years ago, when I started Arachne Press, I was searching for a suitable name, and came up with a short-list of five – I wanted something that felt like it had some history, and a strong female statement of intent. I sent that list of five to everyone I knew who had anything to do with publishing – authors, creative writing tutors, librarians, publishers, printers… opinion was fairly evenly divided, but then someone came back saying anything but Arachne, because I hate spiders, and other people who hate spiders won’t buy the books; and I thought Really? Really?? and being of a contrary nature, that made up my mind for me. Arachne was on the list in the first place because we wanted our website to be integral, and because as a writer myself I often use spinning and weaving as a metaphor in my writing and as a metaphor for writing; and because one of my very first published stories was Arachne’s Daughters which is a lecture given by a spider (probably in semaphore) at an archive meeting of the Arachno-Lesbian league, thirteen years after the revolution…

Fast forward seven years and watching the historic judgement of the Supreme Court in rejecting the legality of the prorogation of Parliament, I was entranced by Lady Hale’s spider brooch, and texted my partner, who was outside the court, It’s going to be alright, she’s wearing a spider. A completely illogical response, but as I turned off the TV and went back to my desk I thought, Time for a spider anthology, and Oh! It’s our eighth anniversary next August!

I was not expecting many stories or poems, and was resigned to publishing a slim volume of eight poems and eight stories, and possibly including Arachne’s Daughters, but no! This was the biggest response we’ve ever had to a call-out, despite my strictures to avoid horror, and that no spider should die; except, perhaps, heroically.

So thank you to all those writers who upheld my faith in human nature, and thank you to Lady Hale for inadvertantly giving me the nudge to celebrate spiders properly.

Poems

Moonlight is Web-Coloured

Emma Lee

(female ladybird spiders weave tunnel webs)

His scarlet back

brightened the night

of a crescent moon,

just visible from my tunnel

in the dry pale earth.

His feet plucked our tune.

Spiderlings shift in their eggs.

I parcel prey.

Hope they understand.

Spiderlings fidget.

I will purge food

as the sun sands

the earth, give them

the best chance I can.

recluse

Eugene Goldin

she distanced from her friends upon learning, from a Gypsy, that in a previous life she had been a brown recluse spider – this information helped her to understand her love of closed, dark places where an innocent soul might wander – unexpectedly – looking for a treat or an adventure – you know those spaces – we all have them – some are known as pride – others – self-stimulation – and that’s where she lived – behind the stairs – in a solitary basement – hiding from direct illumination – like a prayer in an abandoned orphanage – or sunlight’s slant slashed through the drapes of a funeral parlour – under the floor boards – where, if you lose your way – your eyes might meet hers, darkly.

Spider Queen

Jennifer Rood

Spiders sense the signal: October nights

turned cold. It is time for the invasions.

My ten-year-old sentinel guards our realm

tonight. She calls me from sleep, announcing:

There’s a REALLY big spider in my room.

Dreams scatter like dry leaves, and I am up,

ready to confront this foreign queen. Oh,

she is magnificent when I see her!

Hairy, black, and muscular, she is thick,

an eight-legged gorilla, a rare beast,

and beautiful in the regal tulle of

the shimmering silver Barbie ball gown

she has climbed into. I survey the scene.

She has the high ground, a purple pillow

upon which she is poised both for attack

or retreat, but I have the advantage.

I move first, testing her resolve, tapping

the pillow. She is quick and aggressive,

darting forward to meet her foe. But it

is a bluff, and she holds her position,

advancing no farther. I may have to

kill her, I think, but I prefer exile

and banishment. After all, she is a

creature like me. Perhaps this is weakness.

I will never earn her friendship; she will

not sit like Charlotte and weave words into

her webs over my bed. SOME HUMAN or

TERRIFIC will never appear. But she

is SOME SPIDER, RADIANT, and so I

think a bit longer before I decide,

then pick up the pillow, take her outside,

and bid her good luck in that October night.

Spider Haiku

Hugh Findlay

Forgive me spider –

The business of your web

  Shaken by my hand

Spider

Elizabeth Ditty

too many nimble

legs knitting silk and nightmares

spinning gentle deaths

Spin

Kate Foley

is the Dutch word for spider

and spin it does, running out

a miniature steel hawser

mooring small creatures

to its dangerous harbour.

Spin,

as days do and their small

cousins, minutes and seconds that tumble

from a basket of hours.

What if they won’t?

What if they cluster

and clutter, a bundle

of grey hairs, threads

from a net of dreams?

What if they wriggle

and fidget like veins

on the hills of old hands?

‘Bah!’

‘Twist them round your fingers

and wind into the strong red

rope of memory!’

says that strict governess,

Time.

Conversation, September Garden

Chris Cantu

I remember the day you recognised

me – the soft white spider

lodged in the lily’s throat.

You were digging in the earth

but then stopped and leaned

against your shovel – hello.

For a long time we spoke

silently about my body, the way

it perfectly matched the creaminess

of the petals, except my one leg

where it brushed the stamen;

there I was painted pollen-yellow.

I knew you then as one

who speaks a language that swings

like a gate on easy hinges, now my way

now yours.

I was marvellous and you,

you were the one who saw me shining.

The Industry of Spiders

Tricia Knoll

The Industry of Spiders

Vans rolls up blazoned

with graphics touting

eco-friendliness, names like alpha and omega.

We eliminate pests!

(People who write in library books

or fail to scoop dog poop?

Overbearing talk-radio hosts?

People who preach at my front door?)

These vans are about bugs.

Men in green t-shirts flaunt tanks

and wands. (Do women do this job?)

They walk perimeters, spraying cracks.

I’m tempted by good riddance

to carpenter ants and yellow jackets.

The sales representative knocks.

He will let me join my neighbours,

a reduced cost to get the spiders.

‘Where there are spiders,

there are bugs for them to eat.’

Did he get a face full of orb web

on his way here, between the maple and the

rhododendron?

He’s practiced his speech

about chemical safety and pest nests.

His words smack my morning in the garden:

tiny ants scurrying beneath logs I pried apart,

rushing eggs to safety; potato pill bugs

hustling in my compost, shiny dung beetles

I surprised preparing for daffodils.

Everybody has something to do

before winter comes.

I close the door, nicely.

The van and man roll on.

The Matter of the Metta Bhavanna

Seth Crook

‘Lie back,

get comfortable,

visualise’,

she tells the class.

And so to the image of myself,

on a foam mat,

socks still on,

to wish myself well.

And then the image of a friend,

turning to me,

telling me how her pigs are.

Wish a friend well.

Then somebody I barely know:

the wife of the grumpy crofter,

Mr Circles-In-His-Tractor.

Wish Mrs thingy well.

May her husband,

one muddy pre-Spring,

run away with his true love,

or at least chug off.

Then the difficult person.

Wish them well,

or at least try.

If you fail, try again.

Imagine them in the rain,

standing at a bus stop

ten pence short of the bus fare,

not yet knowing.

Think: May they thrive.

May their rain stop.

May they enjoy

their long walk home.

Stage Five. The Big Band.

Combine the quartet

with all sentient beings everywhere,

wish every band member well.

Let the chorus swell.

Cultivate a wider love.

Help it ripen.

Be the greater hug.

But I am still on a rug

(under the mat of the metta).

The car alarm outside is a distraction.

‘Accept it’, she says in soft,

but determined voice.

‘Think of it as a difficult person’.

We all wish it well.

May it be free of suffering.

May it know peace.

May nobody have broken in.

But it keeps going.

May it know peace.

It keeps going. It keeps going.

May we know peace.

We’re still on our backs,

Six months ago, nobody checked the ceiling.

Now we’ve all wished a greater happiness

on the spider in the corner.

May it know its webby kind of joy.

May it hammock, contented,

although keen to trap and eat some creature.

We wish the spider well, we wish the creature ill.

No,

we wish the creature well,

we wish the spider ill.

No, we wish them both well...

...and hear another car alarm,

further down the street,

from the other side of the argument,

a grating counterpoint.

‘Difficult people often come in pairs’

she says, in a soft

but still determined voice.

‘Anger breeds anger’.

We wish them both well,

combine them

with all car alarms everywhere,

wish them all well.

Let everything avoid being eaten

at least for a while.

Courtship

Mark Andrew Heathcote

It was all so natural

somehow we forget

you know courtship

like a spider’s web

requires a sacrifice

a degree of patience

but most of all

in a relationship,

shouldn’t we be, well?

Open and receptive

enough to forgive

break all that tension

and willing to start again.

Gifted

Joanne L.M. Williams

I’m crowned the greatest weaver now.

My workroom is the olive tree;

my loom is formed from branch and bough;

my thread the finest you will see.

Eight dextrous legs outmatch two arms

to go about my artistry,

the best of all the countless charms

found in this form she gifted me.

My body, dark and velvety,

the grey-eyed wisdom goddess gave

Arachne not for blasphemy,

but as reward, from death to save.

This shape permits me to be free:

the silk spun with eternal skill

depicts my mortal history.

I’m crowned the greatest weaver. Still.

Femmes Fatales

Stella Wulf

Be fearless, my mother always said,

it takes more than long legs

and fine bones, to get on in life.

She showed me how to draw a line

between courage and bravado,

a slight aimed at my father,

a common or garden sort,

overawed by her audacity.

I watched him eaten up by it.

Insatiable, as children are, I fed on her

scriptures, learned to push boundaries,

abseil the steepest inclines,

bivouac on precipitous planes,

to sling my hammock over the abyss,

with courage, dexterity and finesse.

But for all my prowess, I find

it is lust that captivates a man.

A slip of silk clings to the body,

inflames him, sets his heart racing,

turns him into a quivering jelly.

Such power is intoxicating.

Sometimes, I leave them dangling,

weak creatures that they are,

just to see them squirm.

And when they’re subdued,

I cocoon them in a false

sense of security.

My biggest thrill is to watch them sleep,

to spin my dreams through their hair,

skitter light as air over closed lids,

lashes silky as spiderlings,

to pause on the lip, feel the breath

of air hushing from the moist cave

of an open mouth,

to step fearlessly into the dark.

If You Kill a Spider, the Rain Will Come

Natalie Rowe

After my father died

a spider chose a corner

of our doorway to spin

her autumn web, snaring

the last of the moths

beating against the light.

I began to talk to her

wishing her a good hunt

as I headed to work,

admiring her mummified catch

when I returned at night.

In her silken abbey, the spider

dined without comment

then snipped the lines and let

her quarry’s husks

spiral to the floor.

I admired her patience

and cat-like ways,

but I began to worry

as the days shortened

and wood smoke

infused the night, because

I could not stand to lose

one more living thing.

So I threw houseflies at her web

and watched her scurry

down a radial

to fang a free meal.

And while I had no sympathy

for the hapless blue bottles,

I had a world of it for her,

and I started to think

I could keep her going

through an entire Montreal winter

maybe throwing in

a cockroach or two

attracted by my slob of a neighbour.

But one raw morning

I came out to her empty web,

tattered and waiting for the repairs

that would never come,

and I opened my hand

to set her breakfast free.

Lady Hale

Jennifer A. McGowan

Spider silk is

strong as steel

and tougher than Kevlar.

Sometimes

it is the only thing

holding the world

together

and the only protein

that sustains it.

Mayday

Daisy Bassen

May 6, 2018

The old spider died,

Finally, though we didn’t know

We were waiting for it,

Not the way disloyal courtiers,

Painted eyes cast up to a heaven

Full of saints on the payroll,

Must have prayed, devoutly,

For the end of Louis XI.

This spider was a lady, old school,

Only in print for her funeral.

No one marked the day of her birth.

She was ordinary then, miss-ish

About her burrow. She worked in silk

And mud; Louis, also called Prudent,

Chose treaties, assignations, marriage,

He stole his father’s pet – it doesn’t matter.

They’ll both be logged on Wikipedia,

Succeeded by offspring, half-alive in code.

Ms Muffet Considers her Options

Sarah Lawson

Little Miss Muffet

sat on a tuffet

watching a spider

because all afternoon

she had been thinking

of becoming a biologist.

The little arthropod

was building a net

for flies to trawl themselves into.

The spider, small and leggy,

had made a labour-saving device

to obtain leisure for other pursuits.

If she acquired a surplus of flies

she could establish trade relations

with other spiders.

Wholesale flies for cheaper meals,

then rental webs and franchise deals.

Little Miss Muffet was changing

to economics

and leaning towards the LSE

when her mother

called her in for tea.

Money Spider

Tracy Davidson

a money spider

skitters across my loose change

and notes on haiku

its miniscule legs

trace seventeen syllables

quicker than I do

I could write an ode

about the gossamer threads

he leaves behind him

but words, like cobwebs,

are best served in small doses

and soon disappear

Arachne in Bloom: An Evocation

Federica Santini

If raising your soft, woven head

or stating your worth in silver

calls for revenge, the sudden twang

of senses enhanced, your glossy fingers

twisted on much smoother thread, then

eat up that pain and revel in the novel,

elongated limbs of velvety charcoal,

nimbler than the injured thread you held

as proof of your last restless night.

Bathe in the reflected light of a myriad

new knots, sense the unknown textures

of woven silver twirled along your

elegant joints, feel the smooth gilded

coin of the sun steadying your firm

jaws, your womb prideful, swollen

with life by the hundreds. Rise.

Savour your own new scent of

growing leaves and limbs as permanent

as the roots where you stepped, a virgin.

Sense your prey. Rise. Lift up your

translucent head, the twisted tangle

of hair muted, eyes open to this new

world, steady your step as you walk into

nature reversed and renewed, aslosh with

truth. If punishment comes as a gift,

shame forgone and rules eaten up,

if it’s penance, this smoky velvet of skin,

rise, woman, no more as yourself

but as the truer you/her, as she who was you

before and will be now and always.

This is the place in the blizzard, the

time when you never come back.

Rise, Arachne, in bloom.

Wake to your new thread. Rise.

Stories

Spiders I Have Known

Martha Nance

1

Tiny jumping spider on a red zinnia petal four-eyeing me carefully as I move ever closer with my giant cyclopic camera. He rises and puffs himself up threateningly to a full quarter inch size lookinglookinglookinglooking me in the eye until suddenly he

              drops to some invisible spot on the ground, gone, safe. Photoshoot over.

2

Stickydust cobwebs in the corner of the barn, and, well, maybe even the corners of the guest bedroom and of course those shelves in the garage with stuff on them untouched by humans for at least ten years. I just hope that these aren’t the homes of brown recluse spiders, or black widow spiders (do they make webs? cobwebs? nests?) And by the way, does anyone ever actually see a spider associated with a cobweb? Is there any such thing as a new cobweb, or are they are born old and draping and dusty?

3

Daddy long legs in the cellar, and out in the woods. ‘Are they spiders, or are they just insects? How can you tell?’

‘Think,’ earthly-wise twelve-year-old I say to my nature-deprived, apartment-dwelling cousins – ‘there is a simple answer to that question. Start counting legs, and if you get to eight, which you will, then it must be a…’

‘Spider?’ the older one guesses, after a too-long pause.

‘Yes! And they aren’t even poisonous.’ Off we gallop happily on our nature hunt.

4